"Would you mind telling me what the hell that was about?"

Aether bolted up from the somewhat worn seat, rubbing the plug in the back of her neck, glaring with eyes that seemed more blue in the pale brushed gold of the Ma'at. "Whatcha mean, Typhus?" Christ. Her voice hadn't been that gravelly in the rea- in the Matrix, had it?

"What I mean," Oh, shit. The woman sounded like a panther. A very pissed-off panther. "Is why you decided upon that par-tic-ular course of action in the Agent Training Program."

"I froze up. It can happen to anyone." Oooh. Snappish. ...But shouldn't Ned be reprimanding her? Not her own mental voice...

"Mmmph. I'd counted on you to do more than just stand there with a gun leveled at your head, Aether."

She was really starting to hate that name. "Well, forgive me for being a bit freaked out by a guy that punched a hole straight through my goddamn brick wall!!"

"There's no need to be hostile." Smooth like silk... Or a Jedi mind trick.

"The hell there ain't."

Oh, here we go. Wise momma-bird type act again... "I can understand your frustration, Aether. It's not easy for anyone, the first few months.."

"Well, how many has it been, then? I think six is rather more than 'a few,' don't you?" she snapped, then sighed mightily, pulling her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, some part of her mind registering the contrast of the rough-spun linen of her overly loose shirt-sleeves and the smooth spongy texture of her pants. "Six months, Typhus. And my brain... it's not accepting any of the programs. I can barely get into half the simulators." Her eyes were glazed, focused somewhere inward. Typhus was standing back, arms crossed, a quietly sympathetic presence in her flowing, never-still silks, mocha skin almost glowing in the gilded light.

"I've been on this goddamn ship for six months. And every morning, I still expect to be back ho- back in the Matrix. In my bed. Safe, and warm, and something more than the goddamn maggot-slop here to eat. Somewhere with a few actual friends, and where I could look up at the stars if I drove outside of town a little ways. Somewhere with movies. Somewhere where there's not this constant humming... I liked my life, goddamnit! It was weird, I know, with the motorcycles and the papers and living on my own like I was, and the old dead guy in my head..." Here her voice wavered, and she looked away, running a hand through the hair that was slowly growing back in a rather unexpected loose curl that slid easily around the curve of her ear.

Typhus remained silent. Everyone had these kinds of complaints for a while. But it was a captain's duty to listen. And she still hoped- Morpheus inspired that kind of wild, irrational hope- that this child before her might amount to something. The girl's voice was a wax-paper thin whisper in the semi-dark, and Typhus was glad that it was just her and Aether doing this tonight.

"I miss him, you know... He was... My father, practically. Hell. He was my father. And my best friend. He gave me support, and knocked me on my ass when I needed it... He... He loved me. Unconditionally. And... He respected me. As a person."

She wasn't even aware that she was speaking, Typhus thought. Until the girl turned her head toward the older woman, unshed tears and venom in her eyes. "So excuse me if I'm a little fucking bitter about being torn away from all of that."

With that, the girl slid out of the chair and stalked off to her bunker. A quiet, solid click resounded

through the ship. Not a slam. A click. Even in this, her seething rage, she had... control.

Typhus leaned back, eventually plunking into a chair.

Control. She had control... Here, yes, but not in the programs. She'd not dared to take the girl outside yet. It was far too dangerous, and at this delicate stage... Anything, anything at all, could swing the precarious balance from one direction to the other. She knew the girl hadn't been sleeping very much, and the delirium had a way of coming back at inopportune moments. Typhus couldn't help but wonder if there was some substance to Aether's delusion that T. E. Lawrence had been living in her head... No. The matter at hand, Typhus... Any one event, no matter how small or large, could be the thing that solidified the girl's resolve- or shatter it completely. Taking her into the Matrix now would be the most risky, thoughtless, and utterly foolish stunt she'd ever pulled...

"Fuck it."

THONK! THONK! THONK!

"I'm comin', I'm comin, keep ya damn shirt on..." Thread swung open the hatch to her bunker, rubbing at her eyes, flinching at the intrusive light that glared behind the outline of her captain.

"Whaddya want at this ungawdly hour, Ty?"

"Take us to broadcast depth, Thread."

"Huh? Now? Why?"

Typhus turned with a whisper of silk. "Aether's going to see the Oracle. Today."

Blink. Blink. Oh.

Oh!

"Awwww, shiiiit...."

The sluggish hum of the ships engines swallowed the hollow thump of Aether's boot connecting with the bottom of her cot. She snarled a curse as she flopped down on the too-thin palette, fingers clenched in the whisps of her stubbly hair.

"How could I have been so stupid?"

The silence in response was unbearable.

But that's really what it boiled down to. Sheer animal stupidity. She slumped back, stretching out, arm flung over her eyes, and tried to remember precisely where she'd screwed up so royally in the Agent Training Program…


Her fingers were clammy to the bone, and hanging onto the cold, slick metal of the fire escape wasn't helping them any. It was the type of day that cried out for chicken soup, hot chocolate, and some good Joseph Campbell by a fire. She should have been steaming underneath the heavy wool coat, but somehow the chill crept in the nigh-impenetrable layers of fabric.

She couldn't stay on the fire escape long, she knew that…

But.

But…

She risked unclenching one of her hands, ankles straining to compensate for the reduction in support, and looked at her palm. Something wasn't right here. Her hands were cold, yes, damp, certainly, but she couldn't shake the feeling that-

Rust.

There should have been flakes of rust on her hands.

She gripped the ladder of the fire escape again, limbs beginning to tremble. A minute trickle of water was sneaking down her spine, siphoned by a thin strand of joyously long hair that had slipped out of her ponytail and underneath her collar.

There was something that just wasn't right here… It was a bit too ordered, a bit too stereotypical. She hazarded a glance downward, took a breath, and tried not to think too hard…

She leapt, coat tails flying upward, flecks of rain sliding off her obligatory sleek sunglasses, her body slicing through the air like a dropped Ginsu knife.

To her considerable shock and amazement, she landed in a perfect crouch, coat pooling around her like something straight out of a Batman comic book. Hurh. Dark Knight, her ass… She rose to her feet, mercurial, casting an idle, cocky glance over her shoulder, down the alleyway…

The Desert Eagle barrel against her forehead made the cloying chill of the day seem like a balmy tropical retreat. It was a dry cold, like liquid nitrogen. Sharp and stale, like death…

She looked past the barrel, to the face of the Agent holding the gun.

Smith.

…Was it? She couldn't see through the sunglasses. She couldn't see the shape of his eyes, as she had before. The dark of his glasses was too solid. It was as if she was looking at a plaster bust, opaque, and perhaps, oversimplified.

She held her ground.


…Looking back, she'd been right.

But how could she have known?
The silence in her head wailed like a banshee. There was no answer. No comfort. No teasing. Nothing. Hollow. …Like the Construct.

The hatch of her bunker creaking open interrupted her reverie. She looked up, displacing her sparse, straggly hair.

"Mmm?"

"Wake up, kid. You're goin' in."




"Okay, den, Typhus, mon. De Nebby gon' go wid us."

"Wond'rous. Shakespeare's ready. Strap in."

Aether was already in the chair, tense as a rubber-band-ball. The rest of the crew looked nervous, like they were going into battle. Or something. Was being back in the Matrix that different once you were 'unplugged?' She couldn't believe that, somehow.

Yeah, she was nervous. She'd have to be brain-dead not to be. Her pulse was raging like it wanted to burst from her veins. The restraints were too tight, electric chair tight. And the tangle of wires and beeping monitors almost seemed to writhe, like they should be squirming in a ghastly representation of some Elder God that had haunted Lovecraft's nightmares.

"You ready, kid?"

Aether twisted in the restraints, straining her neck to look at Thread. "As I'll ever be. An' don't call me 'kid.'"

The silhouette of Shakespeare's head blocked out the harsh glare of the overhead lights. Bony fingers ran through her hair in a gesture of reassurance. She absently wished it was more effective…

And then it was cold steel fangs in her cerebellum, venomed with mechanical oil and numbing neurotoxin, and then, and then, and then…


Blazing green brands, deep velvet black. The first sweet surge of the code through her consciousness washed away the stale, sterile gold and seductively hazy lines of the ship. These were hard, ordered, real. She couldn't read them, but the meaning seemed so very close, dancing just beyond her fingertips. If she could only break free, she could have it, the Rosetta Stone to these symbols… it was something ancient reborn, reformed, reincarnated in a sleeker and more vital form. Hieroglyphs… But who were the gods to first inscribe them--?

A warehouse. The wind clattered the rafters like old, dry bones. Stained, cracked concrete beneath her obsidian boots, below clinging black pants that swallowed the light, below a shifting, silver-spangled tank top. She checked her coat. It moved- and gleamed- like mercury, when the light hit it right. The light was a sweet, faded red, a bing cherry stain on gran'ma's brittle, red velvet chair. Her sunglasses were a shining leaded gray, fitted like they grew out of her skull.

"Bitchin'!"

"Shakespeare thought you might like that, Aether..." Oh, joy. Typhus was looking pleased... Aether hated it when Typhus looked pleased.

"Hey, I thought the Neb's crew was comin' with us."

"They're on stand-by. Yah know. Jus' in case we need back-up," Thread drawled, flipping a silver dreadlock from her face. "We ready ta get this thing started, capt'n?"

The slow, predatory grin Typhus gave sent shivers down Aether's spine. "But of course..." A small, black cylinder manifested in her ebony-wood fingers. "And this time, we won't be unprepared."

Ariel took a half-step forward, eyes focused behind red-tinted sunglasses. "Yo, Typhus, mon, is dat wot I t'ink it be?"

A swirl of silk curled by the doorjamb as Typhus turned to face Ariel, smiling very, very slightly. "Yes. Yes, it is. Now let's move. We've not much time."