Prisoner of War
Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix, the Matrix owns me.
Summary: When we last left Agent Smith he was staring down the dual barrels of a 12-gauge shotgun. To his astonishment the man holding gun apparently is an acquaintance of his willing captive, Esmeralda. Smith wants answers and he wants them fast! With danger looming, Smith is still three hours away from his fortress. He has no time or patience for rebel duplicity.
But, this stranger in his midst is about to drop a bombshell that could help Smith to overthrow the Architect. Will Smith take the rebel at his word, or will he rid himself of this nuisance once and for all? If you want to find out, you will have to read on. And while you're here, please don't forget to review!
Author's Note: Once again, thank you my lovely and loyal readers. You know who are! This chapter is written in second person format from Esmeralda's POV.
Chapter Seven
The Enemy of My Enemy…
"…Cypher?" you ask, scarcely trusting what your eyes are seeing. Here is Smith, a powerful program, being held at bay by one of your closest friends, a mere human. A red-pill if you will. It is an astonishing and unbelievable sight to behold.
And by the way Smith is reacting to that shotgun, you'd think Cypher whipped out some Kryptonite on his machine ass, you muse. The rogue agent hasn't moved a muscle.
"Esmeralda, get back in the car!" Smith abruptly snarls viciously, obviously infuriated at you for having left the protective sanctuary of the Honda. Undeterred, you continue to move closer towards the men.
Suddenly you stop in your tracks when your fellow rebel addresses you, "Isis, is that you kid?" The expression on his face is a mixture of relief and concern.
Nodding slowly, you reply, "Yeah, Cyph', it's me."
"God, are you a sight for sore eyes!" he exclaims happily. But when he notices the wound dressing wrapped securely around your head, Cypher's friendly smile turns into a fierce scowl. Pushing the length of his shotgun into Smith's gut, he growls at your captor, "What did you do to her, huh, you piece of shit? If you've hurt her so help me…"
"I did nothing of the kind, human! Now kindly remove your weapon from my midsection, or I will gladly do it for you," Smith hisses menacingly, his glacial blue stare never leaving Cypher's face.
Fearing the worst, you move faster than you thought possible, managing to wedge your body in front of Smith's. "No, Cypher, please! You don't understand, he didn't hurt me, he saved me!" you plead anxiously.
"Saved you?" Cypher scoffs skeptically as he lowers his armament slightly. "C'mon Isis, you expect me to buy that a machine actually spared your life?"
Cypher's words resonate with the truth, a truth that you've been railing against for days. There is no denying that you yourself have been living in a state of suspended disbelief since this whole ugly affair started. How can you possibly begin to explain what has happened, when your own consciousness can barely comprehend it all?
The inner turmoil of your conflicting feelings rages within you, compounded by your sudden awareness of Smith's rigid body behind yours. The curve of your back is now perfectly aligned to his muscular torso as you feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. His breathing is controlled, steady and a complete contrast to the tension you sense in him. Smith is wound up tighter than a top, a ticking time bomb that is about to go off at slightest provocation.
This state of affairs is a powder keg, and if you don't think of something to say, it will quickly spiral out of control.
Somehow, to your utter astonishment the right words begin to surge forth. "Listen, Cyph'. I know what this looks like, but I swear to you, Smith has not hurt me. He helped me!"
Looking into your compatriot's eyes, you can see that his skepticism is unrelenting, so you desperately try to appeal to his logic, "Look do you think that I'd actually be standing here talking to you right now if he wanted me dead?
Still, your fellow rebel remains impassive; unconvinced by your impassioned speech. So you try again. "Think about it Cypher, this is an agent program, the most deadly of sentient beings in fact! You and I have both fought against his likeness in the training construct, and lost miserably! If he wanted to kill you or me for that matter, we would have worm food ages ago!"
Seconds creep into endless minutes of painful silence as you agonizingly wait for Cypher to digest what you've just told him. Holding your breath, your hazel eyes zone in on his face, trying to read what is behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Finally, after what has seemed like eons of time, the shotgun is carefully lowered, but it is not out of sight.
Exhaling a sigh of relief, you whisper your gratitude, "Gracias, Cypher."
"You're welcome, kid. Now would you mind explaining what you're doing here with him?" inquires your friend as he jerks his thumb in Smith's direction.
Then without warning, the stoic Agent Smith springs to life as he comes around from behind you. With unnatural speed, he manages to grab Cypher by his throat with one hand, while the other wrenches the shotgun away from the male rebel. You watch helplessly as Smith slams Cypher's body against the brightly lit plastic surface of soda dispensing machine. A sickening feeling starts to churn away in your stomach.
This scenario is all too familiar, a ghastly reminder of the one that resulted in the death of your shipmates.
Oh God, it's happening again!
"Smith, no!" you shriek as you move closer to him.
Without looking back, the sentient program snaps at you, "Esmeralda, stay back! This is between Mr. Reagan and me!"
Out of fear for your friend's life, you proceed forward, unhindered. "Smith, please don't do this!" Cypher is struggling to get away, but it is to no avail, the agent is much too powerful. The squeaking sounds Cypher's boots are producing as the heels rub against the surface of the soda pop machine is deafening. He is wheezing gasping for simulated oxygen as Smith slowly squeezes the life out of him.
Not knowing what else to do, you fast approach the towering agent and begin to pummel his broad back with your tiny fists. "Stop it, Smith! You're killing him, you're killing him!"
Never loosening the grip on Cypher's neck, Smith's head whips around to look at you, "He's dangerous, Esmeralda! Do you actually believe that he materialized here, at this precise place and time by coincidence? He was on the same road with us last night, following us!"
Your eyes become wide with surprise, your flying fists freezing in midair. Looking at your friend, you ask shakily, "I-Is this true, Raphael?"
Upon hearing his true name spoken, Cypher's shielded gaze sharply turns in your direction. In a frantic attempt to answer you in the affirmative, he begins to bob his head up and down, losing his eye protection in the process.
Confusion and anger start to take root in your mind again. Flurries of questions whirl violently in your head, causing it to ache unmercifully. Struggling against the pain, you close your eyes. However, the throbbing is so bad, you feel as if your skull is about to split wide open.
Gritting your teeth, you manage to ask, "Why?"
When Cypher fails to respond, Smith peels his body off the red and white exterior of the refrigerated beverage dispenser, only to slam it even harder against the machine. You notice Raphael wincing with great discomfort, as he continues to fight for every breath.
"You heard the lady, Mr. Reagan. Why are you here?" Smith asks with malicious intent. His eyes have narrowed into twin cobalt silvers, full of suspicion and loathing.
Finally, Cypher manages to gasp, "M-Morpheus, it was Morpheus that sent me!"
Smith's face twists into an unrecognizable grimace at the very mention of your former lover's name. You immediately take in the clearly identifiable flash of jealously flicking dangerously behind the blue of his eyes.
"Morpheus," Agent Smith repeats. Spitting out the name of his greatest enemy like an odious curse. Once again you are forced to watch Smith effectively smash Cypher's body into the soda machine, this time cracking the plastic veneer.
Giving full credence to the importance of the information Cypher might possess, you say rather quickly, "Smith, stop! We need to know why Cypher was sent. Morpheus wouldn't send one of his top operatives unless there is a good reason! And I for one would like to know what that reason is!"
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After few moments of careful deliberation, to your great relief Smith relents, relaxing his hold on Cypher's throat. But before the revolutionary could enjoy his newfound freedom, the rugged would-be exile deftly draws out his sidearm. Then with a piston-like motion, his left hand stabs forward, roughly pinning Raphael's already tender shoulder against the shattered synthetic shell of the soda machine.
Shoving the business end of the Desert Eagle against Cypher's temple, Smith hisses between clenched teeth. "Mr. Reagan. So we finally meet. I've read your file, most impressive. You were a program writer for Microsoft, if I remember correctly. You even headed up the team that would later revolutionize the use of the home computer for all time by developing Windows 95. But three years before it was launched, you had inexplicably disappeared, isn't that right?"
"Look let's just get to the point, if you're going to shoot, do it already!" Cypher spat back defiantly.
Smith responds with a smile so predatory in nature, it sends frigid bolts of trepidation up and down your spine.
"In due time, Mr. Reagan, in due time, but first you are going to tell me what I want to know!"
To make his point, the agent pushes the tip of his gun even deeper into the soft vulnerable flesh of the rebel's head. Your eyes can't help but see Raphael flinch from the pain that Smith's instrument of death is causing him to feel.
Sucking in a breath between his tightly clenched teeth, the gulp of air is finally expelled in the form of a desperate plea. "All right, all right, I'll talk! Just get him off of me, will ya' Isis?"
Willing yourself to remain calm within a tempest of great distress, you somehow find the strength to draw near the avenging agent. Ever so gently you lay your hand on Smith's shoulder. Immediately, you are taken aback by the tension in his muscles. The agent stands firm, rigid and inflexible, his entire body the epitome of severity. Still, you press on, you have to. Only you can diffuse the tinderbox that contains Smith's killer instincts.
"Smith," you start off carefully. He remains immobile, an unflappable computer program, unmoved by human sentiment.
There's good in him, Isis, you know this, you've seen it!
"Smith," you say again, this time with more conviction.
At long last he responds with cavernous rumble. "What is it, Esmeralda?"
Keeping your voice steady and calm you inform him, "We need to know what's going on. If you kill him now, then we'll never know what we are up against."
Again you observe Agent Smith mulling over the significance what you've just said. After a few tension filled moments he turns his head to face you. "Very well, we shall do it your way," then twisting his intense azure gaze onto Cypher's frightened expression, he punctuates his avowal with, "for now."
The agent suddenly releases the very visibly shaken rebel from his vise-like grip. You watch as the Matrix's gravity pulls Cypher down until he lands on the solid concrete below with a resounding thump.
Crouching down to his level, your eyes seek Cypher's as your hand is placed gently on his bald head in a gesture of friendship and concern. "Are you alright, Cyph'?"
He assures you of his wellbeing with a quick little nod.
Desperate for answers, you immediately bombard your compatriot with a series of questions. "Why are you here, Cypher? Why did Morpheus send you? And why were you following us last night?"
Raising his hands up in a gesticulation of surrender, Cypher resigns himself to respond. "Okay, okay, you win! I was sent on a goodwill mission, as an emissary to negotiate for your safe return to Zion!"
"In exchange for what?" Smith suddenly spits out from behind you.
Cypher now addresses your alleged captor as he lifts his eyes to look at him. "The Zion Council knows all about your little rift between you and the System. They also know it will only be a matter of time before agents catch up to you. All we want is Isis, what you machines do to one another is not our concern. However, I've been authorized to offer something that could turn the tide in your favor…"
Suddenly feeling a chill creeping up the back of your neck, you sense Agent Smith moving closer to you.
"What are you talking about, rebel scum? And be quick with your answer, your pathetic little life depends on it!" barks the rouge agent.
"The codes to the Matrix's mainframe, that's our offer," Cypher abruptly blurts out.
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Wide eyed, you can't believe what you've just heard. "Cyph' what in the hell are you saying? How you can the Council have access to something like that?"
"She is right Mr. Reagan, how can Zion know the codes to the Matrix mainframe? Even I do not know them all. What you are offering is as impossible as it is improbable. You are a liar, Mr. Reagan."
Without turning around, you somehow know that Smith has redrawn his weapon and is now aiming it at Cypher.
"You've presented us nothing we can use, Mr. Reagan. Regrettably for you, it is time to say goodbye." Smith says coldly.
The unmistakable resonance of a Desert Eagle's hammer being pulled back invades your auditory senses, filling you with dread.
Your heart feels as if it's about to rupture inside your chest, as the cardiac muscle beats with erratic percussion. The throbbing in your head returns with a vengeance, the pain unbearable, as warm tears start to trickle down your face.
Cypher is going to die, and you are powerless to stop it. You slowly look over your right shoulder and your suspicions are confirmed. There is Smith, with weapon drawn and a taut finger on the trigger, ready to shoot. But, when he sees your face, his hate-filled expression transforms into one of shameful lament, as he quickly averts his eyes away from you.
There is still hope! He feels guilt and regret. My God, that's absolutely extraordinary for a machine, you think to yourself. You are completely amazed by the rapid emotional evolution that Smith has undergone in the few short hours you've been in his custody.
"No, wait! Please wait," Cypher begs. "Okay, you're right, I lied, but only because I was told to by Morpheus! He was taking a huge gamble and I told him so! He somehow got it into that thick chrome dome of his that your need to destroy the Source outweighed your hatred for Zion. So he concocted this harebrained scheme!"
"And why should I believe you, human?" Smith asks skeptically.
"Look, I know that you shouldn't, but I care about the kid, here," Cypher explains as he points a finger in your direction. "She's like a sister to me, man. When she was first unplugged I had taken her under my wing, showed her the ropes, you know? Then she got reassigned to the Luxor. The Council thought it best, 'said something about 'conflict of interest' and all that bullshit. It may interest you to know that I didn't exactly agree with Morpheus' plan. I only signed up for this dog and pony show to make sure Isis was okay."
Smirking with the level of arrogance that is uniquely Smith's, the former agent now crouches down beside you. Your peripheral vision sees him lower his weapon for the second time.
Peering into Cypher's wary face, Agent Smith carefully chooses his words as he drawls out, "Well, Mr. Reagan. It appears that I'm not the only one having a 'rift' with those in authority. Tell me, when did the real world begin to disillusion you?"
Now it was Cypher's turn to get angry. His thin lips pulled back in a defiant sneer as rage burned in his dark eyes. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"
Smith's smirk spread across his full lips, broadening into an almost demonic grin. "Oh really Raphael, or do your friends call you Ralphie? Well, Ralphie, you may have been able to mask your regret at having chosen the red pill from your crewmates, but I can smell the stink of treachery on you."
Confused, you are prompted to ask, "Smith? Cypher? What's going on here?"
"Don't listen to him, Isis!" your friend says nervously. "He's just trying rattle your chains, bamboozle you."
"It's Mr. Reagan that is being deceitful here, Esmeralda, not I. He's not what he appears to be, isn't that right Ralphie?" Smith says the latter with a mocking jeering tone.
Frustration forces you to rise to your feet. It takes every ounce of fortitude you posses to remain where you are. Instinct is telling you to just get the hell out of here, to try to make a run for Cypher's bike and gun it to the closest exit you can find. But then that nagging little feeling starts up again, the one that has kept you at Smith's side in spite of everything you know to be right and wrong. The feeling that you'll certainly burn in Hades for, if there is such a place.
Yes, the chilling certainty that you've earned your place amongst the damned tightens itself around you, like a hangman's noose. No matter what you do, no matter where you go, you can't escape the terrible truth that has condemned you: you're in love with a cold, unfeeling and ruthless executioner that would not give a second thought to sending Cypher to oblivion, and yet you love him. Why? What redeeming quality could Smith posses? What could you possibly see in him that would illicit or warrant such sentiment, such a depth of feeling from you? Sadly, you conclude that you must be utterly desperate, and completely out of your mind.
And then, just like clockwork, the little voice in your head chimes in:
There is good in him, Esmeralda. He can't help what he is, but he is changing. You can feel it, can't you?
You soon realize that you can't indulge in self-analysis right now, and explore your inner feelings. More importantly, the nonsensical twaddle going on between the two men has infuriated you. Shaking your head to dispel the mental interference, you shout, "I have had enough of this pissing contest! If you guys want to douse each other with testosterone, then do it on your own fucking time! Now out with it Cypher, are you the cavalry sent to save the day?"
With a wry little smile, he responds, "Nope, sorry kid. I'm only here to negotiate terms, nothing more. But since your boyfriend here saw through Morpheus' little ruse, I'm all out of bargaining chips."
The word "boyfriend" doesn't set well with you, not at all, nor does the perceptive little tone in Cypher's voice. He knows something, your thoughts ring out alarmingly. But just a quickly, your mind dismisses the notion. How could he possibly know anything, he hasn't been monitoring what's happened to us. Only your operator, Anubis, can do that…
And then it hits you: Anubis! Of course! He must have sent Zion a secret transmission along with a distress signal before Smith had a chance to send his sentinels to guard the ship. As result, the members of the council were informed of the full details of your captivity. Great! Just great, you mentally moan, mortified at the thought of your superiors, especially Councilor West, taking a gander at your near naked form just before you tried to blow your brains out.
With a nervous little laugh, you scoff, "Boyfriend? No, Smith is not my boyfriend!" The words tumbled out of your mouth without a thought, lacking any consideration of the impact they might make. When you see Smith, who is still crouching below you, his body stiffens just a bit.
Almost immediately, you wish you could take back what you've just said. But it's too late, the damage has been done. You want to believe that his stoic expression is normal, quintessentially Smith, But you know better, don't you? You've seen what lies beneath the cold visage and the passionate hunger in his riveting gaze. Impossible at it is to believe; amazingly you somehow know that he is hurt by your hasty declaration of his non-status in your life. Regret starts to seep into your consciousness, slowly swirling itself into a sickly malaise.
Crap, you don't know when to keep your big trap shut, huh Isis?
"Anyway we're getting off track here. So if you're not here to take me back, who will be coming for me?" you ask hurriedly, secretly hoping that your inquiry can redirect the focus away from your obvious blunder. But when Smith turns his pain-filled eyes your way, the fervent intensity reflected in the cobalt depths stabs at your heart.
You've hurt him deeply, there's no doubt it.
But just when you feel the overwhelming compulsion to offer up some half-assed apology, he saves you the trouble by retreating behind a wall of inhuman detachment.
"Morpheus, of course, "the voice emanating from Smith is scarcely recognizable. The mechanical tone has immobilized you, tearing at the fabric of your soul. The agent that still dwells within him is now front and center. Gone is any hint of the sensitivity or kindness he so willingly exhibited for your benefit.
Slowly, you watch Smith ascend until he stands at his full 6' 4" height, the cobalt blue of his penetrating stare never waivers, not even for an instant. Towering over you, his rigid stance, deadpan expression and resolute silence proclaim without words who and what he is. He is an A.I., a machine, through and through.
As your mind tries to reconcile two halves of Smith's persona, you hear him gruffly address Cypher, "Get up human."
The male rebel immediately obeys. Once Cypher is on his feet, Smith speaks once more, "I've decided to let you live, Mr. Reagan."
A rush of relief quickly spreads across your compatriot's face. However it is short-lived as Smith squashes all hope for a reprieve. "However, your second lease on life comes with a price, I'm afraid."
"Wait a second! Hold the phone! Whaddya mean by 'price'?" Suspicion causes Cypher's dark eyes to narrow. "Look man, I told you everything I know, I told you everything the Council knows! I ain't got nothing else!" he declares, completely indignant.
"On the contrary, Ralphie, I believe that you are in a perfect position to obtain the intelligence required. As a both a resident of Zion and crew member on Morpheus' ship, you can keep tabs on the goings on in your world, keeping me abreast of the Council's plans. You can be my inside man" Smith drawls on with a slight smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
Cypher's eyebrows shoot up to the upper folds of his forehead in surprise. "What are you saying, agent? Do you want me to spy for you? Is that it?"
"Your words, human, not mine. But since you put it so delicately, the answer is yes." When the rouge agent notices that you've become wide-eyed and your mouth is agape, he addresses you. "Come now, Miss Campos, I'm not asking Mr. Reagan anything that he hasn't willingly done before. Isn't that right, Ralphie?"
Casting a nervous little glance your way, Cypher quickly tries to dispel what Smith has just revealed. "Isis, he's lying. It's bullshit, all bullshit! He's an agent for Christ's sake! Who are going to believe him or me?"
Angered, Smith roars, "Mr. Reagan, you are trying my patience! If you continue with your denials, I will be forced to rescind my leniency towards you!" His every word stings like acid, burning a searing hole deep into your psyche that allows the seeds of doubt to be firmly planted.
Could it be true? Could Cypher actually be a spy, a turncoat, a good-for-nothing traitor? The very idea of it seems ludicrous, impossible to even contemplate. But didn't falling in love with an artificially intelligent being seem just as preposterous to you a few days ago?
Mystification takes a hold of you and won't let go. Contradictory, warring emotions and loyalties scratch and claw their way to the surface. You want to kick and scream to high heaven, but you find that you are unable to utter a sound, or budge a centimeter. This is the worst feeling in the world, the excruciating lingering sensation of waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop.
Slowly you turn your gaze to watch the twitchy little man carefully. You try to read his body language for a sign of the deceitfulness that Smith has just accused him of. It is now quite apparent that Cypher is actually cringing under the verbal lashings from Smith's sharp tongue. He's practically squirming like a worm on a hook. You can't help but notice the huge beads of perspiration that have appeared on the roundness of his shaven head. Now the droplets of sweat are slowly trickling down the sides of his face.
Finally, after not being able to withstand the quiet a moment longer, you find your voice. "Raphael, say something, anything! Is Smith telling the truth? Are you a spy?"
After a few more moments of silence, he answers. "Yes and no."
Bewildered, you fire back with, "What the fuck?"
Spreading his arms out in an apologetic gesture, the man that you have trusted and loved as a brother approaches you. "Isis, honey, I'm sorry you had to find out this way. Believe me this was not the way this whole thing was suppose to go down!"
Unconvinced, your eyes glare at him with fiery brilliance. "Tell me Cyph'! What wasn't supposed to go down?" you hiss at him, every word laced with mistrust and newborn hate.
Hastily, he manages to lay a hand on your shoulder, but just as quickly you brush it off. Your eyes challenge him to continue with his tale. With a heavy sigh, he complies with your non-verbal request.
"Smith is partially right. I am a spy, of sorts. But don't get the wrong idea. I'm not working with the metal heads like your friend here wants you to believe. I was approached by Councilor West himself about a year ago. He wanted me to go under cover, actually pose a disgruntled red-pill that would be willing to sell out Zion in exchange for re-insertion into the Matrix."
"Why? Why would a Council member solicit you to do this?" you ask in a dry, crackling voice that you hardly distinguish as your own.
"There were rumors of the existence of a seditious faction within Zion, a small group of dissenters secretly working with the machines right under our noses. At first, the Council chose to ignore the problem, dismissing it as hearsay and conjecture. But as more and more of our closely guarded secrets continued to seep out to both the established power structure and exiled community in the Matrix, it was time to formulate a plan to plug up the leaks by any means necessary."
Cypher pauses for a moment, and looks at you. Deducing that he might be waiting for a reaction from either you or Smith, he takes your slight nod as an indication to carry on with his outrageous account of insurgents in Zion and cloak and dagger missions within the Matrix.
"Councilor West didn't want a full blown panic on his hands so he only told those closest to him what was going on. An investigation was quietly conducted by Commander Loc and the Councilor's adopted son, the late, great Ramses, captain of the Luxor."
That last bit of information has slightly taken you aback, but you try your best not show your surprise. "Go on, Cypher. I'm all ears," you say encouragingly. You are curious to find out what your deceased superior's involvement was in all of this.
"Anyway, it was Ramses that discovered that the dissidents not only existed, but they were great in number, organized and planning to hand Zion over to the machines on a silver platter. The group, who call themselves Veritas Suprema, is mostly comprised of pissed off former coppertops that wish they had taken the blue pill. The way they see it, they were unplugged under false pretenses. If they had been told of the true conditions of life in the real world, they would have chosen to stay in the Matrix. Go figure.
The leader of this little Boy Scout troop is some guy named Janus. Problem is no one outside the splinter group has ever seen his face, and time was running out to stop him. So Commander Loc suggested that an operative be found to successfully infiltrate the group without raising suspicions. The spy had to an unplugged human, someone that by outward appearances, didn't buy into the whole prophecy of the One. Perhaps even brought up on charges for insubordination at one time and given disciplinary action by a superior officer. Someone that didn't fit the mold and appeared to be resentful of his so-called freedom. When they recruited me for this little enterprise, they got exactly who they were looking for, my dear Isis, someone that could pass Janus' smell test."
You notice that Smith has said absolutely nothing during Cypher's dissertation. He has been listening intently, taking it all in and processing the information.
Perhaps he is cross-referencing the data with his own files to see if Cypher's story checks out, you quietly think to yourself.
"So for the better part of a year I've been an active member of this dissident group, gaining their trust by giving them bits of information they could then offer up to the machines in hopes of one day being reinserted into the system. I'm still trying to meet the head honcho himself, but I'd probably have better luck getting an audience with the Pope than a meeting with the mysterious Janus.
Morpheus, the poor dope, has no idea of my double life nor do the others that serve on the Neb. Of course this has all been sanctioned by Councilor West and the data I've turned over to the traitors is not detrimental to Zion in anyway. All the while, I've been privy to the inner workings of the faction and have kept Commander Loc informed of their latest strategies. So far we've been able to stay a few steps ahead of Janus, and at times even thwarting his some of his plans. But it will only be a matter of time before he discovers that there's a spy in his midst."
"I've heard enough, Mr. Reagan! Nothing you have told us today holds a grain of truth! I have searched my extensive files for any reference to Veritas Suprema or its leader, Janus. As you might have expected, I've found nothing! Although, it may interest you to know that I did come across your file. It was quite fascinating, and rather illuminating, if you ask me. The file's contents in fact reveal that you have double crossed quite a number of your own people for your own personal gain. I wonder what would happen to you if your fellow Zionists knew of your deception," Smith announces smugly.
Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Cypher raises an eyebrow then smiles. His New Yorker cockiness returns to him in full force. "File, schmile. I don't give a shit what it says. You machines have fabricated and orchestrated human beings' lives for more than a century, buddy boy! So who knows how many lies are in that so-called official file of yours?"
Smith grimaces as you notice that Cypher's little tirade has somehow struck a nerve with him.
His confidence, made painfully obvious to you, Cypher basks in the knowledge that he has regained the upper hand. His cocky smile broadens even further.
Then he delivers his one-two punch, his coupe de grâce. "It doesn't surprise me one bit that you've been kept in the dark about all this, Smith, not one bit. You see pal, this thing is way beyond you or any of your agents. This is huge and goes all the way to the top."
Pausing for dramatic affect, he waits, letting the tension build to a fever pitch. Then, at long last Cypher pulls the rug right from under Smith with his next statement. "It seems that Janus is in tight with some dude you machines call the Architect. And from what I understand, he's the big cheese when it comes to the Matrix."
If Smith had any blood running in his veins, it would have drained away from his face by now. Judging from the pallid color of his complexion, it appeared as if that's exactly what has happened. Then he utters one word that completely floors you.
"Father."
"What did you say?" you dare to ask, afraid of the reply you might receive.
"The Architect is my father; he is also the one that has ordered my deletion and your death, Esmeralda" he answers evenly.
You are at a loss for words; nothing could express the utter despair of this moment. Death it seems is waiting in the wings, ready to envelope you in its dark, numbing embrace.
"Damn, where I come from we usually give our kids a spanking or a time-out. But to actually order a hit on your own son, that is totally fucked up! Sucks to be you, huh Smith?" Cypher says insultingly.
"Shut up Cypher! You have done nothing but try to pull this mind job on me! Did you actually expect me to believe that there's a rebellion within the rebellion? Humans willing to sellout their own kind for the creature comforts of a false reality? You're full of shit and to think that I trusted you!" you lash out, as you fight to keep the tears from falling from your eyes.
"Hey kid, I didn't mean to upset you – I really only came here to see if you were all right. I want to help, I really do."
You turn your back on him, refusing to dignify his outlandish story with a response. Who do you trust, who do you believe? Smith, Cypher? Even Councilor West is suspect now. And what of Ramses, could there have been more to his death than meets the eye? Was he perhaps sold out to the machines by Veritas Suprema? Did they found out that your captain had been on to them? And what about Smith's involvement, does he know more than he's letting on?
You just don't know anymore, and in your anguish you allow the tears to flow down your cheeks.
Smith's voice abruptly shatters the uneasy stillness, as he speaks for you. "Mr. Reagan you have five minutes to mount your motorcycle and leave these premises before I open fire upon you. But before you go, know this: I don't care about your duplicitous activities, or your convoluted chronicles of half-truths and tall tales. Unless you can provide me with valuable intelligence, something I can use against my enemies, I will kill you where you stand and not think twice about it. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"
"You have, Smith. You know, we actually do have something in common. We both want the same things, to be rid of the Matrix and establish a new world order. Maybe we can help each other, you know, a little quid pro quo? What's a little exchange of information between friends? Remember Smith, there's some truth to the old adage: the enemy of my enemy is my friend."
Smith chooses to ignore Cypher's last declaration. Instead, he firmly reminds him of the passage of time. "My inner chronometer says you have about three minutes and counting, Mr. Reagan. You'd better get a move on. My trigger finger is getting itchy."
You refuse to turn around, but you can certainly hear the retreating reverberation of Cypher's footfalls on the concrete, then the thunderous resonance of his motorcycle's engine roaring to life. Subsequently, the noise of squealing tires echo in the air as the smell of burnt rubber invades your nostrils. The sounds of Cypher's hasty retreat get fainter and fainter until all at once they are gone, evaporating into nothingness.
For what seems to be a very long time you find yourself rooted to the spot that you are standing on, saying nothing. It is Smith that breaks the silence. "We still have to fuel our vehicle if we wish to continue on our journey."
Slowly, you nod, acknowledging him. Yet you refuse to utter a single word. And once you find yourselves back on the road for the remainder of the voyage, you say nothing, nothing at all.
End Chapter Seven