The
H e c a t e C y c l e
Disclaimer: Fan Fiction Inspired by the film The Matrix by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999). The Ghost in the Machine and The Hecate Cycle © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002)
Credits: Opening lyrics from Good Riddance (Green Day, Nimrod)
Rating:
± R for Mild Violence and Language.
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Chapter 2
Entropy Enshrined
So take the photographs,
and still frames in your mind.
Hang it on a shelf of heath and good time.
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial.
For what it's worth,
It was worth all the while.
Sunday 13 August. 2045 hrs.
The corrugated steel door swung in the evening breeze banging a death knell against the side of the hollow building. A violated padlock lay on its side in the depression in front of the door, a portent of the disorder within. Warily, Peter Argus climbed out of the security truck. He took note of the gaping door and snatched his two-way radio off the passenger seat. The tired cliché 'better safe than sorry' possessed a special poignancy for a father of three who made $9.50 an hour.
Uneven gravel crunched beneath his feet and he almost stepped over the padlock. Instinctively, his hand dropped to the motley collection of keys hanging from his canvas belt. The padlock was intact with its flimsy aluminum key forgotten in the locking mechanism. He switched on his flashlight and crossed the threshold. A warm anxiety twisted itself around him.
Burnt Buttery Pop. The smell of the scorched plastic and upholstery reminded Argus of all his misadventures with microwaveable popcorn. He loathed that smell. He also loathed what lurked in the hanger. He could feel it—hubris, ignorance and death encased in aluminum and flung back to the earth in flames.
The twisted corpse of the DC-10 gave him nightmares and did little to alleviate his intense aviophobia. Argus was content to keep both feet firmly on the ground and leave the flying to those with wings, even if it meant spending his life trapped behind an eight-foot fence. Steeling his nerves with thoughts of the meatloaf sandwich his wife packed on Sunday evenings, he pressed into the dusty maze.
As it swept from side to side, the flashlight's beam roused the shadows. Inspired by the shadows and encouraged by his own fears, Argus decided to make a brisk circle of the building before snapping the padlock back on the door and leaving the unhappy spirits to their haunting. The meandering light landed in the empty space representing the first class section of Capital Airlines Flight 858. The light wavered in his trembling hands. "Dear God," the security guard breathed and stumbled backwards. He flung the flashlight to the ground and hid himself in the innocence of the darkness. Argus had good eyes and tonight he wished with all his heart that he had been born blind.
* * *
It was a red restaurant with a green name. Neither the menu nor décor appeared to have changed since 1953. The payphone accepted dimes and a Lucky Strike cigarette machine dominated the oak paneled lobby. A poor Zagat rating raised no alarm for the proprietor, as the possibility of a serious food critic brooding over the salad dressings in one of the oversized booths was miniscule. Conversely, the thought of a health inspector brooding over the salad dressings caused considerable distress. The Emerald Lounge had its strong points: the dim lighting compensated for the wilty lettuce, the patterned carpet did not show stains and most people had forgotten about the waitress found hanging from the hooks in the meat locker. Simply put, it was an anachronistic place for anachronistic people.
Three men in gray flannel suits sat behind lukewarm coffees. In their midst, a narrow figure drew an elaborate map on the back of a take-out menu. His green City Telephone uniform grew darker due to his uncontrollable sweating. The map passed silently amongst the men in suits and was handed back to its artist accompanied by three identical frowns. The waitress returned periodically ignoring the sunglasses, the earpieces and the automatic weapons conspicuous under the well-tailored suits.
Dean Martin and stainless steel scraping against commercial grade crockery provided the score for the telephone man's Faustian arrangement. The map underwent a few modifications and the narrow figure smiled triumphantly when it was not passed back for any more. Quinton Sealing thanked them for the coffee and accepted a white envelope from the youngest looking of three. A spring surfaced in his step as he walked away. Idyllically, he waved to the hostess, dropped a dollar in a jar for a children's charity and left the Emerald Lounge for the last time. No one would ever quite understand why he decided to put a bullet through his head four hours later during an infomercial.
"You think she would have sat somewhere else." Brown directed his attention to a loud woman in a blue dress with a hat that belonged on a carthorse.
Smith looked up briefly from Sealing's sketch of illegal telephone connections and splices. "That would be the logical thing to do."
"Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when we lie to deceive."
"Who lies with any other purpose? You sound as rational as that female appears to be," Jones snorted and took a cautious sip of the cold coffee.
Brown shrugged, "It's just a saying—a maxim of sorts."
"I will make a note of it."
"Her name is Elizabeth Henderson. She is forty two years old, a housewife and lives six blocks from here." The woman slid to the edge of the booth and made a show of letting her companion help her to her feet. With an inebriated dearth of grace, she smoothed her short dress and tugged at her pantyhose. Smith removed his dark glasses and bided his time for effect. He cleared his throat. "See you next week, Mrs. Henderson." A devilish grin seared his lips. The woman blanched and herded her confused quarry towards the exit.
"That was sadistic." Brown watched approvingly as she stole one last nervous glance at them. "She will now think her husband has hired us to follow her." Mechanically, he raised his hand to his earpiece and his seriousness resurfaced.
"Undoubtedly, when she returns next week, I will have to continue this pathetic charade." Smith followed Jones across the red bench and scooped his green portfolio off the table.
* * *
"I was beginning to ask myself if this fucking night could get any worse and more Feds show up." Detective Murray shimmied under the crime scene tape. Wordlessly, Smith flashed his credentials and dismissed the detective's antagonism. The detective continued, "I don't give a shit tonight, boys. If you want this mess it's all yours. I don't know about you, but it's too damn hot out here to deal with a body in bits and a not a piece of fucking evidence to be found." He threw up his hands. "God, I wanted a nice quiet evening and I get this shit dropped in my lap."
Heavy-duty emergency floodlights exorcised the shadows and the flash of a camera chased away the remaining uninvited spirits. The sanctity of the FAA investigation had been thoroughly desecrated. Smith barely noticed the fragments of the DC-10 as he stepped over them and the detective pushed by a pair of uniformed officers sitting on the edge of a fuselage fragment.
Another soul had unwillingly joined the ghosts of First Class.
"What you see is what you get." He gestured to the naked body painstakingly cleaved at the joints and spread out in a sinister parody of the dismembered DC-10. "Male prostitute, Asian, about fifteen or sixteen years we're guessing. No id. Black nail polish and a few piercings, but the jewelry has been removed," Murray paused and pointed to the floor two feet from the top joint of the victim's right middle finger. "The butcher really seemed to like this." A tattooed section of flesh had been meticulously flayed from the small of the back and placed on the dusty cement floor where the window for seat 6C should have been. "Can't say much about him, except this is the cleanest fucking scene I've ever come across and I've been working in this hellhole for fifteen years. Shit, I'm going to be stuck here all night waiting to get the go ahead to put this mess in the meat wagon," he sighed, but his self-pity was wasted on Smith.
"No outward signs of drug abuse, but the guys from the coroner's office will probably find something. These kids all do it for drug money. The best we can do is state the obvious: this was a thrill kill and definitely not amateur work," he exhaled, as though articulating the unspeakable had relieved him of a physical burden. "You boys can have all the fun of coming up with those pesky details." He jerked his thumb towards the two photographers. "Oh, and your profiler showed up about ten minutes ago. She's a piece of work."
Smith's jaw tightened.
"Agent Thoreau." The name fell from his lips like a curse. "There is no reason for you to be here."
She ignored him while she removed the film from the camera and deposited it in her satchel. "Charmed to see you, Agent Smith. I guess I now have two stiffs to deal with."
"This is out of your jurisdiction."
"No, this is my jurisdiction." She handed the camera back to the evidence photographer.
"I believe, Agent Thoreau, psychology ends when the body gets cold."
"Good point, but he's a Void, Smith," she lowered her voice and put her hands on her hips. "Voids are my jurisdiction—dead or alive."
"Very well, I leave you to your investigation." Smith turned on his heel.
"You're not out of this one."
"I do not deal with Voids—that's your jurisdiction."
"It may not be that simple. You know Voids aren't easy to kill. This," she gestured towards the body, "is like the fly killing the spider. His intended victim chopped him to bits."
"Then your suspect is most likely another Void," he smirked. "The ball is in your court, Agent Thoreau."
"Not entirely. There are three possibilities. It could be another Void, but they're typically too clannish to be this violent towards one another and they prefer to settle their differences privately. Or it could be a Subversive disconnected from the system. Subversives and Voids usually don't get along—happens when you have two different takes on the meaning of life." She took a deep hollow breath, "If it's a Subversive, and there's a strong possibility that it is, you and I share jurisdiction."
"That's only two possibilities, Agent Thoreau."
"It could also be an agent."
"That is absurd, even for you."
"Is it? There's an inch of dust in here and not one print that cannot be traced to the security guard or the first responders. The body is clean—there's not a drop of blood out of place. And it wouldn't be a first—"
"A matter of manipulation of which a number of individuals are capable. One dead Void, Thoreau, and I am not going to turn this world upside down. There are far more important things—"
"As long as there is a possibility that it was a Subversive or an agent you are involved. Subversion is an Enforcement issue. The closest I get to Subversives are Voids who have strayed down the primrose path." A loaded smile snaked across her lips. "Looks like we're in this one together."
He was not programmed to be annoyed, but he had evolved considerably over the years and turned annoyance into a highly cultivated art. If human, he would have had blood pressure high enough to impress the most discerning of cardiologists and a Type A personality to give the most stalwart of therapists fits. For twenty minutes, he lorded over the detectives and absorbed as much information has he felt necessary. Finally, he reached a breaking point with the floodlights, the dust and Thoreau's voice, so he decided to step outside and reorganize his thoughts. The doorway was perilously narrow and as he stormed out he nearly collided with Jones.
"What were you doing outside?"
"I was reviewing evidence with the forensics team and giving them permission to clear the scene." The taller agent brushed by and disappeared into the hanger.
Away from the confusion, Smith leaned up against the black government sedan and began reviewing procedural protocols for dual division investigations. Given the choice, he would rather be trapped in a broom closet with a nearsighted sentinel or clean up biofluids on a pod farm than work with Agent Thoreau or, for what it was worth, any other spook. He did not like them, which further added to his irritation as he was programmed to be indifferent. He was not supposed to care, but such errors happened whenever one was exposed to a spook. They were infected and contagious. Their disease was both chronic and ultimately lethal. They were imperfect.
He ground his teeth and folded his arms. Realizing how apparent—how human—his irritation was, he corrected his composure and rested his hands against the car behind him.
"Damnit," Smith cursed the dust and spun around. His irritation vanished. In the thin white layer of dust someone had made distinctive printed letters. The letters merged into words and the words into a phrase.
Exitus acta probatEffortlessly he accessed the Latin translation. "The end justifies the means."
* * *
Tired hands pulled the door open, eyes met and a sigh escaped her lips. Cloth soled shoes padded back across the avocado colored shag carpeting and she watched him sit down. The poorly croqueted afghan slipped off the faux leather sofa.
"You seem worried." He sat on the edge of the cushion. His eyes focused on the fused cluster of hard candies in the amber colored dish. Delicate hands clenched an old fedora.
"Oh? I'm just tired."
"You don't have to be."
"Yes, I do. I'm old." She picked the afghan off the floor.
"Again, Diana, you don't have to be."
"Are you just here to offer me apples and eternal youth or is there some other purpose to your visit?"
"I came to see the girl. I've heard a lot about her."
"You may not see her."
"I offer no ill will. I just want to speak with her."
"I know what you offer and you can't speak to her." The dogs barked. "She's not home."
Several long minutes passed.
He rose to his feet and replaced his hat. "I am not the enemy, Diana."
"Nor are you an ally, Alsace."
