CHAPTER TEN
LEAVE IT BEHIND, PART 2
Matrix was seated on the cold bed in his cell, leaning heavily against the wall. His breathing was shallow but rhythmic, indicating that he had found some snatch of rest. His left eye moved back and forth under the eyelid, stuck was he in some dream from the past. The cybernetic implant in his right eye also spun constantly. A soft red light shone from under the eyelid, casting an eerie glow on the hard stone floor.
He was never free of the icy female voice that tugged at his processor, making his entire body hurt and leaving him breathless with fear and anger. He didn't even know who was haunting him, but he suspected it to be a sprite or binome he had deleted sometime in his past, back to make him feel sorry for the deed.
But I do feel sorry, he thought sadly. User, I do.
Some time ago, the nagging voice had begun to chant a childhood rhyme he could somehow recall from his hours as a young sprite in the Twin City. She continued with the same stanza, repeating it over and over in an eerie singsong; by now, Matrix was ready to take her words to core. He had even considered, in his tired, feverish mind, somehow blasting that voice out of his head — he didn't care how, he just wanted her out — or even putting himself out of his misery.
Nobody likes you
Everybody hates you
Why don't you use your Gun?
The cyber-eye made a whirring sound as it swiveled back and forth in his socket. Somewhere in the back of Matrix's mind he registered a slight ache by rotating the implant so much, but at the moment there was nothing he could do.
That's what you shot Bob with
Hit `im in the stomach
Now he's gonna die and you should die too
"NO!" Matrix screamed in the still night air, startling the guards who patrolled the cell block by flinging himself from his cot. He looked almost to crash through the bars, but he halted and clutched his temples, shaking his head from side to side in desperation. It was wrong; this, this . . . thing inside his head wasn't supposed to know about the ambush. Matrix couldn't remember ever deleting or hurting a woman, but her voice was so painfully familiar that it must have been someone from his past.
You're almost right, Enzo. She was here again — Matrix whipped his head around, but he could see no one — somewhere. After his initial fright, he remembered what the voice had just said; she had called him "Enzo," as if she knew him well enough to be on speaking terms, and it pissed him off. The added anger sent strange warmth through his body, combating the frigid grip of the woman's voice and giving him more strength.
He cautiously raised his head and surveyed the small cell, but of course no one was there; this was all in his mind. "Who are you?" Matrix asked the air.
I don't think you're allowed to know that.
Matrix ignored her reply; he hadn't expected much, anyway. "What did I do to you?" he asked. "How do I know you?"
Well, well, well. Very intriguing questions you have there, with more of an answer than you think. Matrix really could have done without the cryptic nature of this voice, but he gritted his teeth and listened. I'm an enemy, let us say; then you know that you've done things to me, and I to you. As for how I know you . . . Matrix could have sworn she chuckled. I know you so far back you would be astounded. I've watched you, boy, since you were a tiny runt. Those were the good old seconds, weren't they?
"There are a lot of things in this Net that I don't like," he told the empty room, "and one of them is guessing games."
Oh, come now. It's not as if you've fought an entire squad of viruses in the last minute. I thought I'd be easier to recognize.
"Daemon!" Matrix gasped, hardly daring to believe it himself. Yet, it made perfect, sickening sense that Daemon had had him under her control all along.
Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner, Daemon mocked, the laugh clear in her voice. I'm surprised it took you this long to figure it out.
Matrix struggled to swallow, but his throat was painfully dry. "How long?" he rasped, dreading her answer.
Like I said, I've known you longer than you've known me. Matrix still couldn't figure out what she had to say, though he strained his processor to understand. I think our first real meeting in Mainframe came with a certain Game. It was several nanos later that the memory finally returned to Matrix, and he sat up straight with a soft cry of disbelief.
. . . Something struck him in the arm, and Matrix whirled around with a cry. His eyes narrowed as he saw the small shape of a drone, tiptoeing along on its spindly legs. The drone was holding a small gun that it leveled at him. Matrix shot at the drone, but it dodged the shot and skittered away
Matrix suddenly remembered the thing that had struck him. He picked at his arm and finally pulled out a small object, which he flung away. Matrix rubbed his arm vigorously, feeling a stinging feeling that was slowly fading, not noticing the slight glow of green veins that lasted for only a nanosecond. . . .
"That long?" he whispered, his shoulders slumping heavily. "I — I remembered, but I never thought —"
That's the thing, Daemon hissed. You never think. Matrix's body gave an involuntary shudder; those were the exact words she had said to him the night of the ambush, and there was no doubt now that she was the one who had controlled him the entire time.
That's right, Enzo, Daemon told him, her voice as hard and cold as stone. I own you, and you'll do whatever I order you to.
"N — no," Matrix gasped; he was strangely exhausted, and he struggled to think straight. But they both knew he couldn't fight her; she was just too strong.
And yet, something inside him still screamed for justice. Even if his horribly wretched life couldn't be saved, Daemon had to be stopped before she exacted her terrible power on those he loved.
"I — I'll tell Dot, or Bob," Matrix threatened the air. "I'll tell somebody — anybody — that it's your fault I'm like this."
Oh, really? Daemon asked; she sounded amused. And what would you be able to say, exactly? That "the virus made you do it"? She laughed, the very sound causing Matrix's skin to crawl.
Struggling to ignore her slowly tightening power, Matrix turned wild eyes on the two guards who had paused in front of his cell. "They'll believe me!" he cried. "They have to."
The first guard traded an anxious glance with the other. Both tightened their grips on their weapons.
Matrix slid to his knees, his hands curled around the thick iron bars that separated him from the guards. "You've gotta believe me," he pleaded with them. "She's inside my head, inside my body. She made me shoot him. It wasn't me." His voice rose. "Tell Dot it wasn't me. Tell `DrAIa I love her and I would never hurt her!" When the guards said nothing and began to slowly back away, Matrix rattled the bars and yelled, "Please! Don't go! You're my only hope. Don't go!"
The second guard, a novice compared to the older guard he was paired with, looked nervously at the other. The older CPU, a veteran of wars and hardened by his core-breaking experiences, shook his head minutely. "It's a trick," he murmured to his companion. "He's trying to psyche us out by acting random. Believe me, it's been done before."
"I'm not random!" Matrix sobbed. "Why don't you believe me? I didn't want to do it, but she made me. They all made me do it!"
"Like I said," the older guard assured his younger counterpart, "it's all an act."
Rage surged through Matrix's body suddenly, and he made as if to tear the bars apart. The older CPU leapt forward in a flash and stabbed Matrix's arm with a stun rod. Matrix hissed and yanked his arms back, then fled to a corner of his cell and whimpered under his breath. His anger was fading, to be replaced by a hysterical feeling of helplessness.
You did a remarkable job in convincing those guards of your innocence, Daemon commented dryly. And look — you're barely fighting anymore. It's only a matter of time until I get the pleasure of infecting you fully.
And she began her singsong rhyme again.
Gloria had ecstatically given Mouse a tour of the meager shelter; then she had been called away to plan another ambush that would take place in a few seconds. She had reluctantly left Mouse, but the hacker was sort of glad for the solitude. She needed time to think; that was the understatement of the hour, actually. She wasn't sure if she could handle all of these good things happening, all at once. First, Ray was uninfected – then her family, who she had thought deleted, had lived for all these hours. It seemed too good to be true, and yet it all was true.
Mouse had seen the war rooms and the dormitories where the rebels slept, but her visit had been cut off at the medical center. She remembered that Tulin, one of the rebels who had been sprayed by the snake at Lucia Calamar's mansion, was getting his hand treated; the doctor had also managed to staunch the flow of blood from the wound in Rapi's neck. Out of the corner of her eye Mouse saw Dean duck into the rebels' infirmary. She silently followed him inside to the makeshift beds where the injured lay.
Rapi was curled up in a corner in a bundle of blankets. Her clothes had been torn and stained with data while fighting Daemon's Guardians, but the rebels had accumulated extra clothes over the last few minutes. From those they had cobbled a loose outfit for Rapi. Now she slept peacefully, with a thick bandage covering the back of her neck.
Dean reached out his hand and stroked Rapi's hair with a gentleness that seemed as alien as his practiced commandeering of earlier.
Dean turned abruptly and came face-to-face with Mouse. His eyes widened in momentary surprise, then he smiled. "Oh, hey, Sis."
"Hi, Dean," Mouse answered. "Ah was wonderin' if Ah could talk ta ya?"
"Sure." With a last look at Rapi's prone form, Dean and Mouse ducked under the tent's flap.
As they walked past groups of rebels, Mouse asked, "First — how do ya feel about Rapi?"
Dean's cheeks darkened slightly, and he glanced down with a small grin on his face. "I . . . may have feelings for Rapi. She's been with us for a few hours now, and — and we share the same goal, so we've been able to work closely for some time."
Mouse couldn't help but grin. "Somebody's got a crush," she teased in a singsong; Dean narrowed his eyes, which only made her smile widen. Mouse hooked her hands in her belt and leaned against the wall. "Ah've actually missed this, ya know," she commented.
Dean grinned good-naturedly. "What, busting my chops?"
"That's what you've got a sister for," Mouse retorted, lightly slugging him in the shoulder. She suddenly grimaced, and her arm dropped limply to her side; she glanced away before she caught the fleeting grief that stole over Dean's features. "Ah'm . . . Ah'm sorry," she muttered. "Ah didn't mean –"
He sighed and took a similar position on the wall next to her. "It's all right." They both knew it wasn't.
Mouse mirrored his sigh. "Ah knew it was all too good to be true. We're all together again, `cept for Paige." It hadn't been just Mouse who had been separated from her parents and siblings; her little sister, eleven hours younger than she and Dean's twin but beloved to her nonetheless, had been caught by Guardians when their system was attacked. Not only grief but horrible guilt had plagued Mouse for hours after; she still heard the little 0.4-hour-old's screams at night.
Mouse opened a compartment on her belt and withdrew a black-and-gray icon. "Ah found this after Paige — after — when Ah was getting out of the system," she said quietly, and offered it to Dean. "Ah know it was horrible to lose her, but Ah thought you would've wanted this. . . ."
The look on Dean's face spoke volumes of how his twin's deletion had devastated him. He took the icon from Mouse without a word, but he clasped her hand gratefully. He turned the icon over in his hands, staring thoughtfully at it.
"She would have been beautiful," Mouse said gently.
Dean tried to imagine his sister 1.9 like him, but he saw no distinct image in his mind's eye, just a million different pictures of a beautiful young woman with striking red hair, the sprite herself never clear. He attempted to smile and answered, "Yeah. She would have."
The two stood in awkward silence, staring at one another. Countless horrible hours separated them; so much pain and change had warped them from innocent young children to grim, battle-hardened adults.
As stunned as Mouse had been by seeing Dean, the young man felt as if his image of his older sister had been blurred and reshaped itself into someone he had never met before. All he could remember, in his terrified mind's eye, was a slender, fallen girl with dark red hair as his father, panting, whisked him away from a burning home and a ravaged system.
Dean hesitantly reached up his hand and touched Mouse's fiery hair. "You've been through so much," he whispered, almost in awe.
Mouse looked at him, almost an adult, and she felt an overwhelming sadness. "So have you," she answered softly. She cautiously grasped Dean's hand and squeezed reassuringly, an unusual gesture that seemed to console them both.
Eventually, they let go. Another silence followed, but this one was warmer, relaxed, and brightened by smiles.
Dean's mouth twitched slightly in amusement, and he let out a good-natured sigh to break the quiet stillness. "I'm supposed to check up on Tulin -- he hurt his hand, you know," he said apologetically.
Mouse nodded. "Ah understand." Dean started for the doorway, but he stopped short as a sudden idea occurred to him. He turned back and haltingly spoke: "D'you think we could, you know . . . er, talk some more later?"
"That'd be nice," Mouse said, then winced at her own blandness. "Ah mean . . . Ah would like that."
Dean flashed her a grin. "Me too." He slipped through the doorway and was gone.
Strong arms slipped around Mouse's waist and drew her tightly against a hard chest. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled when she saw Ray's face. "Hey, honey," she greeted him. "Whatcha been doin'?"
Ray kissed her cheek and was content to hold her close to him for the passing of several moments. "Your mother patched me up very well," he answered. "Lady made sure all my scrapes and bruises were cleaned and taken care of. Glad to see you've been reconciling with your little bro."
Mouse shrugged. "It's not so much reconciling as catching up. It's been awhile since Ah've seen my family."
"Fourteen hours, huh?" Ray asked. When Mouse glanced back at him, he mimicked her shrug. "I've heard a bit about your family history; funny you've neglected to let me in on any of this --"
"Ray." Her voice was weary. "Believe me, it's not a happy story to tell. Ah lost hours of my life, hours Ah wish Ah could have back. . . . All because of those damned Guardians." Her voice drifted off, and Mouse shut her eyes as stinging memories scored new, red-hot slashes over the scars of her past.
Again Ray saw Mouse staring at the Guardian Academy with pain and unmistakable grief. Slowly, the pieces began to come together for him.
"Seems like everyone we meet here you somehow know or are connected with," he commented. "First Ethan, now Dean and the others —" His expression turned thoughtful. "Mouse, I don't know much about you before you came to Mainframe — in fact, I know almost nothing about you. Did you live here, in the Supercomputer?"
"Mah past is what it is: the past," Mouse answered firmly. "Ah'm here now, and Ah don't wanna relive it if Ah don't have to."
Ray nodded, gave her a peck on the cheek, and removed his arms from her waist; he took her answer as "yes."
"Ray." Her voice was stronger. Mouse grabbed his hand and allowed him to pull her into a tight hug. She turned her face up to him for a kiss. She needed his comfort -- his love -- more than she ever had, and for once she wasn't afraid to admit it.
Dot obsessively checked on Bob, several times a second when she could. She hated torturing herself with watching his pale, still form lying on a white bed, but it was worse to not know if anything — even the slightest detail — had changed.
Unfortunately for Dot, life wasn't easy these seconds and she didn't have all the time in the Net to watch Bob's unchanging vital signs. She was forced to sit through meetings with sprites who were pulling their acts together after the ambush, not to mention speak with CPUs and her Mainframe companions, but she still took advantage of every opportunity to sneak into Bob's room and sit by his side. When she took his hand once, she was shocked to feel how hot it was. Her gaze immediately flicked to his vital signs. Nothing had changed, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. Although he hadn't gotten any worse, the fever she had noticed from the previous second was still present. Tiny beads of sweat stood out on his pale blue skin, and his temperature was as high as that of the Core in Mainframe.
Her visit was cut short by an apologetic message from Countess Avina, and Dot reluctantly stood up and stretched before leaving the hospital room. Before closing the door, she looked back at Bob's still face and whispered, "I love you."
Dot suffered through another series of meetings in which Azrael's wealthy leaders already were planning the reconstruction of the destroyed Principle Office. When the meeting was finally over, she politely excused herself and rushed to the hospital's second floor.
Waiting for the lift, Dot saw two sprites walking by. She paid them no notice, until she recognized AndrAIa's long, teal hair. Dot did a double-take and realized that it was the Game sprite, walking hand-in-hand with Kode. This was the second time Dot had seen the ocher-skinned man walking with AndrAIa, one arm slung casually over her shoulders, and it gave Dot an odd feeling. Dot wasn't exactly sure if she should trust Kode with the emotionally fragile Game sprite; Matrix hadn't seemed to like Kode at all, and Matrix was AndrAIa's lover.
"Hey, lady, you're blocking the way," a man snapped, startling Dot out of her thoughts. A small crowd of sprites and binomes were trying to get on to the lift, and Dot was standing in front of the doors.
She murmured an apology and threaded her way past two large binomes, and the crowd filed past her on to the lift. Dot let it go and hurried after the retreating figures of AndrAIa and Kode, who were approaching the doors of the hospital. Dot halted and quickly thought over the situation. She had to go see Bob — she would delete if she didn't check up on him — but again she wasn't about to leave AndrAIa alone with Kode.
Luck was with her, because Dot spotted a man with the Azraelian coat of arms clearly emblazoned on his uniform. "Hi, I'm Dot Matrix, Command.com of Mainframe," she introduced herself. "Would you please watch those two sprites, and tell me if anything happens to the woman?" Though a little perplexed by the odd request, the guard nodded and went to do as she had asked. Feeling relieved, Dot hurried back to take the lift to the second floor.
When she reached Bob's room, she was met with a sight from her nightmares. A doctor and three nurses surrounded Bob inside, calling to one another about the patient's condition. His vital signs had lowered even further, and Dot's core-com hammered in the same rhythm as the dull beeping that emitted from the machine beside Bob's bed.
She forcibly jolted herself out of her numbed stupor and hurried to the doorway. As she tried to push her way inside, however, nurses gently but firmly shoved her back outside. Dot was trapped on the other side of the glass, unable to be near Bob as Dr. Qwerty bent over something on Bob's stomach. Dot gnawed on her lower lip until it bled; her mind immediately jumped to the worst possible situation, and suddenly it became hard for her to breathe.
Finally, the activity in the hospital room subsided, and Dr. Qwerty moved away from Bob to wash his hands in a nearby sink. Dot cautiously approached the doorway, and this time no one stopped her from walking inside. "Doctor," she began softly, "what's wrong?"
Dr. Qwerty's head snapped up abruptly; then his eyes softened upon seeing Dot's pale, drawn face. "I'm sorry if we frightened you there, Miss Matrix," he apologized as he pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. "The wound started festering, you see, and my nurses and I had to fix it immediately. We couldn't afford any interruptions or hysterics, if you'll mind my saying."
Dot wasn't insulted, only grateful that she hadn't lost Bob for good. "The wound — festered?" she repeated slowly, unsure of what he meant.
Dr. Qwerty nodded. "The gunshot wound reopened and must have gotten infected by something in the air. That's why Bob has been experiencing a fever. I'm sorry, Miss Matrix, but I hadn't gotten time to check on Bob all second until just now, what with all the other patients my colleagues and I have had to attend to."
"I understand," Dot automatically answered, sitting down heavily in a chair.
"As it is," Dr. Qwerty continued, "there are hundreds of patients in this hospital with varying injuries, some as serious or more deadly than Bob's. I'm needed to perform surgeries or treatments on most of these patients, and each second my work gets harder, not easier. I'm trying my best to check up on Bob daily, but things are getting more complicated, as you might know." Dot nodded mechanically. "So I've assigned a younger doctor as my assistant or stand-in if there's an emergency and I can't get there in time. His name is Dr. Leonor, and I'll introduce you to him when he has time. He's also been hard at work. There's not a single doctor or nurse who hasn't seen deletion take the life of a sprite. It's a sad thing." The doctor's eyes darkened, and somewhere deep inside Dot she felt sadness for him.
Silence stretched between them for almost a full millisecond, as Dot stared at Bob, noting how sallow his skin looked. Her eyes were drawn to the oozing wound on his stomach, and tears leaked from her eyelids. She sniffled, and the tears fell from her eyes to splash on the bedspread. Dot curled her arms around her elbows and struggled to compose herself. After a few moments, she opened her eyes and looked again at Dr. Qwerty. "Thank you, Doctor," she said quietly, "for taking care of Bob. Would it be all right for me to stay with him now?"
Dr. Qwerty's smile was full of grim understanding. "Of course, Miss Matrix."
Tears shimmered in AndrAIa's large, aquamarine eyes. "It's so horrible," she whispered hoarsely, unconsciously tightening her grip on Kode's hand.
The orange sprite, gleeful to act the part of the sympathetic lover, gave her a reassuring squeeze. He couldn't dredge up a bit of care for the sprites and binomes who had been deleted in the recent ambush on Azrael, but for AndrAIa he let out a mournful-sounding sigh and murmured, "I know."
AndrAIa stared at the decimated Principle Office without really seeing it. Fires still raged over the blackened roof, but they were being taken care of by firefighters. Swarms of CPUs — looking like tiny beetles from the hill on which the two observers stood — had gathered around the eastern section of the P.O. That entire point had caved in on itself, and CPUs still worked, several seconds later, to uncover bodies or simply faded icons from the rubble.
Darkness flitted across her eyes, but only for a brief moment. "I remember . . ." she began haltingly. "In the Games, there were so many systems like this, ravaged so horribly. But there was one . . . back when we were so little . . ." Her voice trailed off, and AndrAIa shook her head. "I can't remember anything else. Can you, Kode?"
"Hrm," was his reply. Though he'd given AndrAIa the basic story that they had been Game-hopping since they were little sprites, when they had lost a terrible fighting Game, he had been unable to give her any specific details other than the hour he had known her, when they were 1.7.
"There's just so much darkness," AndrAIa continued, "and pain. So many people were deleted." She shut her eyes firmly, but a huge shiver jolted her slender frame.
An idea had been forming in Kode's mind, and now he had found the perfect moment to launch it in a seemingly casual way. He hugged AndrAIa warmly and waited until whatever had plagued her processor passed. When she reopened her eyes, he placed a hand under her chin and tilted her head up so that their eyes met. "How about I take you away from all this?" he offered softly, carefully watching her face for her reaction. Confusion and indecision clouded her beautiful features, but Kode refused to let her look away.
"We can leave this system," he assured her. "We're not needed very much — and honestly, baby, you need a nice, relaxing place to get some well-earned rest. You've been through a maelstrom, you know."
A small smile played across her lips. "You're right," AndrAIa said softly. "I — I would like that." Pleased that his plan was working out so well, Kode couldn't resist grinning in triumph. A flash of color over his shoulder caused him to immediately whip his head around. Again, AndrAIa's forehead creased in a worried frown. "But what about Dot?"
Another glance over his shoulder confirmed his thoughts; he was being followed. "I'll go VidWindow her right now," Kode told her. "You stay right here, and I'll be back in a few milliseconds." AndrAIa nodded dutifully — she didn't think to do anything otherwise — and seated herself on the grassy hill as Kode jogged several paces downhill. The Game sprite drew her knees up to her chest and rested her head on her arms. Again, that itching feeling in her processor tried to alert her to a faint recollection floating at the edges of her memory.
AndrAIa watched the clean-up of the destroyed Principle Office in introspective silence. Her memories were a dark, blurry mess to her, but she knew, deep in her core, that the sight of this desecration touched her deeper, as if she had experienced the same pain and desolation first-hand. She shut her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She held it for the passing of several moments, then slowly exhaled as she opened her eyes and gazed again at Azrael's Principle Office with a new level of understanding.
Two milliseconds passed, and Kode climbed the grassy hill again. "Let's go, honey," he said, but AndrAIa seemed not to hear him.
"I remember now," the Game sprite slowly said, her eyes still focused on the Principle Office. "It was the fourth system we found after — that Game we lost, and it was destroyed. You and I were truly afraid then, when we realized that we would be seeing systems like that for what seemed like the rest of our lives. The system was called Slovdict."
Internally, Kode screamed in rage. If AndrAIa were already regaining some of her memories, it couldn't be long before it all came back to her, and then he would be one deleted sprite. But he'd have to speed up his plans before that time came, that was all. Kode plastered a false smile on his face and reached out a hand to AndrAIa. She took his hand and pulled herself to her feet.
"Dot completely understands that we need to go," Kode told her. "She said to tell you goodbye for her. Now, we have to be going soon." But AndrAIa lingered for another several nanoseconds, and with each nano Kode's patience frayed a little more. He just wanted to get out of Azrael and tour the Net with AndrAIa as his sprite — as his lover, eventually.
"Come, let's get out of here." Content with having a last look at Azrael's ruined Principle Office, AndrAIa nodded and allowed Kode to drag her away.
Down the grassy hill and behind a huge statue of one of Azrael's past rulers, Kode had gone to send a message to Dot, but there was no sign of a VidWindow being opened. There was only a guard with the bright colors of Azrael printed on his uniform. He lay on his back in the dirt, and three huge gashes, from razor-sharp claws, were slashed across his chest.
What with Bob's surgery and the slow reconstruction of Azrael, Dot hadn't been able to see Matrix for a few seconds. She was sort of glad for the excuse not to visit her incriminated brother; she knew that it physically ailed her to see again the pain in his eyes that she had witnessed when he had first been condemned.
If it were possible, he looked ten times worse. His eyes were sunken, and dark circles were visible under them. His skin was decidedly gray, and when he first turned his head to acknowledge the arrival of Dot and several Azraelian guards, there was a faint greenish light at his temples that made Dot's core-com almost stop.
"What in the Web happened to you?" Dot gasped.
Matrix's answer was one word, spoken in a flat voice bereft of emotion: "Daemon."
"Oh, User," Dot breathed, reaching up one hand to cover her mouth. She regarded Matrix with shimmering, fear-wide eyes for several silent moments, unsure of what to say or do. She should have known that Daemon would start infecting whatever Mainframers and Azraelians she could, but the unexpected blow stung fiercely.
"I —" she began when her voice was strong enough, but Matrix waved a hand before she could even think of what else to say. Dot tried again, though. "How long?"
Matrix shrugged; his eyes were on the far wall, and his good eye occasionally twitched. "Since —" The lax posture in his body suddenly turned rigid, and he gasped as if he had lost all control of his vocal cords. His lips moved, but no sound emerged, save for small, wheezing coughs. Finally, he shut his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, and the heaving of his chest slowed. Dot wanted so badly to rush into the cell and comfort him, but she remembered why there were solid iron bars separating them, and she sadly dismissed the helpless thought.
In the silence that followed, Dot's core hammered with deafening volume. Matrix expelled a sigh that made her jump, even though it was merely a breath of air, and reopened his eyes. Dot found that his gaze on her made her uncomfortable, and she glanced away.
"How's Bob?" Matrix asked softly, and Dot could hear real regret and sadness in his voice.
Dot sighed mournfully and gripped the iron bars for support. "He hasn't awakened yet. The doctors are getting worried."
Matrix bit his lip, feeling a powerful wave of grief and sickening guilt engulf him again. It felt as if he were drowning in these waves, and eventually they would erase him entirely. Daemon's voice appeared again in his mind, and he groaned under his breath, wishing she would just leave him alone. She began her unfortunately true taunts, and Matrix felt his face grow hot with fury.
"It wasn't me," he whispered, as Daemon chanted, You shot Bob, your closest friend. "It wasn't me," he continued to protest, but nothing silenced her. "It wasn't me, it wasn't me — you bitch, why won't you believe that it wasn't me!" he finished in a roar, flinging himself up from the ground and screaming until his throat was raw. Dot leapt back, and immediately Azraelian guards surrounded her, their weapons drawn.
But Matrix had forgotten them all. At first, Dot had thought he was talking to her, but now she realized the horrible truth. He was slowly going random, and Daemon was egging him on all the time. There was no way he could be properly defended for his crime.
"Come on, ma'am," one of the CPUs murmured. "He's a lost case."
It was time to check up on Bob, Dot realized. She turned away from Matrix, feeling like a coward as she did so. But she couldn't bear to see him like this. He was falling apart before her eyes.
"It's a shame," one of the other CPUs, an older, grizzled binome, commented as he shook his head. "If he's not tried for voluntary attack, he's sure to be condemned as a nutcase."
The large iron door swung shut, the clang of metal on stone jolting Matrix out of his trance. There was no one with him now; he was alone, like he'd always been. He sniffled suddenly, like a little child on the verge of tears. The moisture in his good eye was quickly replaced with a weary hardness, however, and he whispered, "She's going to destroy us all."
Kode led AndrAIa by the hand through the Principle Office, dodging guards as he wove between rooms until he reached his destination: the hangars. "This way," he told the Game sprite, tugging her toward the small cargo ship Dot had taken to Azrael.
"I flew this ship here," Kode lied easily and within five nanoseconds had the hatch open. AndrAIa stepped inside and seated herself in the copilot's chair. Kode climbed up behind her and pressed a button mounted in the wall. The hatch slid closed behind him with a smooth whir. He didn't even spare a glance behind him. After all, he was never going to see this system or these people again.
With every passing second, it got harder and harder to rely on hope. Finally, Matrix spent the endless microseconds lying in his cell like a listless blob, staring at the far wall unblinkingly. For the first few seconds, as Daemon's control had seized his body in a paralyzing grip, his mind had still worked feverishly to concoct a plan of escape. Now even his thoughts were turning sluggish, and the weariness that had taken over his body so short a time ago had sunk its claws into his processor.
During his twelve hours in the Games, he'd been through too many escapes to count, some spectacular, others blind, foolhardy getaways touched by luck. This jail, however, was nothing like the moldy, crumbling cells he'd learned how to break out of. It was of a much more modern design, and the guards that patrolled every second and downtime weren't easily distracted from their posts.
Now, if he'd had a nice, huge weapon, things would be pleasantly different. Not for the first time, he was sorry that he didn't carry any weapons besides Gun. The thing was, he'd always relied on his one firearm to blast his way out of tough situations. He'd never had to use another type of weapon to protect himself. Then again, he'd never expected to be trapped like this.
Matrix sighed, the sound echoing against the stone walls of his cell. What a basic bits-for-brains he was, to not even have the slightest plan for escape. He'd scrutinized every corner of the cell with his cybernetic eye, searching out every detail in the stone blocks for some tiny hope of finding a way out of this prison.
Matrix laughed without a shred of mirth. He had to hand it to Daemon – she was a master of breaking. This was worse than any torture she could have devised for him. Helpless as the Infection ate at his body and mind with agonizing slowness, he could do nothing to fight it.
No, his mind feebly responded, though it was a mere whisper in the thunderstorm of Daemon's voice in his mind. No, no, no, no, nononononono, he repeated, concentrating as hard as he could, and it was this one tiny act of strength that kept him alive.
The cell door opened with a hiss and whir of mechanics, and four binome guards stepped into the cell. Three hung back while one took several steps forward, his one eye tracking Matrix cautiously. "Enzo Matrix, we will be taking you to the Azraelian courts for your sentence," he announced.
No . . . no . . . no . . . no . . . Matrix swallowed thickly, his bright eyes focused on the binome. The Azraelian guards may have been better trained and more disciplined than the Mainframe CPUs (as Matrix had learned in his seconds in jail), but he was still larger than all four of them put together, and he was acting on the kind of desperation that fueled men who knew they had no hope left except for what stood directly in front of them. In the blink of an eye he had his plan mapped out, clear as crystal.
Matrix sprang to his feet and barreled into the four binomes, shoving them aside and knocking some unconscious in his force. He didn't spare a nano to lock them in his cell; he raced through the cell block as fast as his legs would carry him, adrenaline induced by panic pumping through his veins. He took a sharp turn to the right and darted down another passageway that led to the main part of the Principle Office. His body ached, so unused was he to this exertion after seconds of lying around; his vision was green and blurry at the edges; his ears were filled with the deafening roar of thousands of alarms blaring through every section of the six-pointed P.O.
His mind struggled to process another step of his spur-of-the-moment plan. Which section should he run to? Two sections of the P.O. had been destroyed – the rulers were located in the middle – the docking bays were . . . were . . .
He hurried through the darkest passageways he could find, aware of the footsteps of CPUs behind him, increasing in their sound and strength with every nanosecond. Finally, he burst through a doorway into the docking bay, where the greatest blessing of all awaited him: countless ships of all shapes and sizes. If ever I've had reason to be thankful to the User, this is it. He sprinted toward one ship in particular, an inconspicous vehicle – dark gray, nothing real fancy – that probably belonged to a visitor to the system.
A sharp tug sent him reeling backward, and Matrix glared at the Protector who had suddenly materialized at his side.
"Do you want them to lock us up again?" Matrix demanded angrily. Without waiting for an answer, he ran back to the ship, muttering under his breath about how to open it.
"Lock you up, you mean," Rasta Mon retorted, but Matrix wasn't listening; he continued to murmur to himself. Rasta Mon groaned. "Great, now my Protected's going random."
CPUs appeared in the doorway, shouting orders to stand down, their weapons at the ready. When the two sprites – the binomes were scratching their heads as to how the escaped prisoner had gained a red-skinned companion – refused to comply, one guard shot a file-lock straight at them. It bounced off Rasta Mon's arm, but he wasn't encased in a blue-green box, as a normal sprite would be.
He shook his arm several times and sighed. "Great, now it's gone to sleep," he groaned, then ducked as another shot whizzed over his head. Having recovered from their shock, the CPUs sent more file-locks at the two sprites.
Matrix grabbed Rasta Mon and shoved him against the hatch of the ship. "Open it," he growled, tugging one of the Protector's arms and slamming it against the ship for emphasis.
Rasta Mon wriggled out of his grip, placing the hand of his good arm on the ship and concentrating; for once, he didn't have a cheeky comment, Matrix was pleased to note. A burst of white energy spread from his palm to the ship, and two nanos later, the hatch slowly ground upward. Before it had opened fully, Matrix ducked into the ship, tugging Rasta Mon behind him. The CPUs hurried forward, continuing to shoot file-locks. Rasta Mon avoided one blue-green shot by twisting to the side, then he was roughly yanked into the ship as Matrix slapped a button to shut the hatch.
"Now I see why you're in such a hurry," Rasta Mon quipped, but his humor was lost on Matrix. The renegade slapped some controls, and the ship's engines slowly powered up. He took a hold of the throttle and tilted it toward him.
CPUs scattered as the ship rose and wobbled toward the exit. They trailed behind it, shooting more file-locks at the hull, but the shots bounced off. With a burst of heat from the engines, Matrix shot through the exit and up into the air.
Guards were leaping into CPU vehicles, but already the stolen ship was growing smaller and smaller as it neared the borders of the system. Soon it was only a dark speck, and then it passed through the bubble separating Azrael from the Web, and it was gone.
Matrix had escaped the jail, but things were far from all right. He had simply gone away from one hell and straight into another.