The Last Exile: Chapter 22
Will The Real IRS D-Base Trinity, please stand up?
"Neo, please... I've... I've never done this before."
The One took her in his iron embrace, giant sinews of two great arms enveloping her completely. "I'll be gentle," he promised, trapping her lips with inevitable finality. His body - a specimen of masculine perfection - was hard and soft, demanding and gentle, exotic and yet familiar, as if she had been making love to him her entire life. Trinity took him in with limpid blue eyes, sparkling like sapphire and flame. She caught her breath, and trembled as he touched her, the raging testament of his arousal pressing against her thigh. It was fear and excitement that drove the tempo of her heart forward, that educed ablutionary tears, which fell from her alabaster cheeks to his chest in drops of liquid, everlasting Love.
Zion, circa 2219.
The proceeding fiction will be familiar to any reader who has conducted a search through the online literature for documentation on my parent's early history. This anonymously-written romance (perhaps the author is ashamed, or afraid of being sued) is only one of hundreds which circulate digitally, or in hard-cover, or, for those who cannot read, in audio format. I came across this specific example of horrendous invention while helping a… "friend" of mine move. He claims an ex-girlfriend left it at his place. For his sake, I can only pray that this is true.
What is it about my parents that inspires such shameless speculation? Surely, there are more attractive, younger, childless couples in the public eye who would appreciate the attention. The sociologist (not to mention the traumatized teenager) in me screamed for answers. So, yesterday evening, I threw the subject out to the dinner table for general discussion, making the tactless assumption that my parents were aware of this phenomenon. Indeed, only one was.
"What book?" my mother demanded. "What are you talking about?"
At this point my father grimaced at me as if to say, nice going. But the message was received a little too late, because I already had the novel in my hand, and she was already reaching for it.
"The Passion of The One ," she read incredulously from the cover, and then fanned through the four hundred and fifty-two pages, jaw dropping as if in wonder that a book with this title could be so long. "You've read this?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. As I was saying to Rorie, an ex-girlfriend left it at my place..." Knight trailed off when he realized that the question had been addressed to my father. He cleared his throat and made an awkward attempt at a stretch and a yawn. "It's later than I thought. And I have homework, so..."
But my mother wasn't listening, having opened the tome at a random page and begun reading, "Specimen of masculine perfection...! Raging testament of his arousal…!" Her eyes darted all over the page until she seemingly found something even more offensive. "I had never done this before?"
"I can see this is a family matter, so I'll just-"
"Knight, shut up."
"Yessir."
Mom slapped the book shut with a livid whack. "I wasn't a virgin! Why does everybody think that?"
"I don't."
"Knight-"
"Sorry. I meant, I don't think about it at all. And a man's dreams are his own damn business."
My mother sighed tiredly, as if to ask us all why we continued to answer the door when Knight came by. Nobody offered a reply, because she was always the one letting him in. My father, who felt obliged to react somehow, clutched his dinner knife tightly and glowered.
"Look," Knight said in his most reasonable tone, "all I'm saying is, Trin is hot. Si hot 'n spicy qu'elle me fait souffrir. And, as far as one guy can notice the looks of another guy, Neo is pretty decent as well. If you'll permit the observation, sir."
"I'm sure I would not."
"Rorie is the one who brought the book to the table," he reminded us all of my culpability before taking a liberal sip of wine. "I told her not to. But here it is, so we might as well say what we think. Most people in this city, including you, sir, credit Trin with your… shall we say, Oneness?"
"I think I'm getting indigestion."
"So we'll say Oneness. And the Oneness killed the sentinels and deleted the agents and started the truce that saved the city and preserved all Zion's ungrateful souls and the even more ungrateful souls of their children. That is to say, us."
Knight looked at me as if to ask for support, as if it ever matters what I think once he's started on one of his speeches. What could I say to appease him?
"Amen," is what I said. He gave me a strange look and continued.
"So, in essence, it was your love affair that saved the world as we know it. And with your both being so attractive, can you really be surprised there is a novel? I'm surprised there isn't a movie. Hell, I'm surprised there aren't three movies. The Matrix Trilogy: it's a fortune waiting to be had."
"This is pornographic slander," my mother fired back. "It has no basis in reality, not that it's anyone's business how accurate it is in the first place. It isn't anyone's right to speculate. Especially about my virginity, for God's sake. I was twenty-seven! What is there to speculate about?"
"Trin." My father frowned. "We get the point."
Knight shrugged, a universal gesture that anyone would take to mean, what are you going to do? "The people love you. The people love you loving each other. Let the ones who are so pitifully unsatisfied with their own sex lives live vicariously through false accounts of yours."
"Like your girlfriend, apparently," my father deadpanned, and I choked on my food. Mom had to get up for some water, poorly disguising her amusement as a cough.
"Well, it's certainly an interesting cultural phenomenon," I offered, thinking that I could very well be the most mature person at the table. "I did a basic search, and one online archive boasts approximately 500 stories featuring the two of you as central characters. One tenth of those are rated for adult readers only. Mostly written by a cult of young female writers who call themselves fangirls. Apparently, they think Dad is... well…" I searched for the right words.
"A specimen of masculine perfection," Knight quoted, and winked at my father. "Way to go, sir."
"You shouldn't be reading it," Dad said disapprovingly, and then thought to himself for a few moments before asking, "What website?"
"Thinking of making a contribution, dear?" Mom asked.
"Well, it isn't as if I have a lack of source material."
And didn't that hang awkwardly for a few seconds. Until Knight whispered to me, "They should enjoy it while they can. Only a few years left before they're too old to entice the public's unquenchable thirst for smut. Your Dad's forehead is getting bigger and bigger. Soon, there'll be nothing at all."
I hit him, but he kept on, as Knight is wont to do (irritating leech!). "They'll be on to you next, you know," he said. "You're next in line. Pity on you and your lover, should you ever loosen up enough to have one."
"And pity on all your wretched girlfriends, who will be reading all about it."
And we both laughed at that.
And we both laughed at that.
Rorie types out her latest journal entry as she curls up on her bed, laptop propped by a pile of pillows. Lately, her research notes and diary have become a single entity, the result of which is an unpublishable mess of few facts and much suppressed personal conflict. Rather than a real writer, she sounds like a brat prattling on about the stupidity of her parents (and at the rate they're going, she'll have a trilogy by the week's end). And somehow, the tiresome Knight has snaked his way into every recent addition.
And we both laughed at that.
Perhaps she is inclined to record the happy camaraderie because it may very well be the last decent words they ever say to each other. And so be it. Let this be his final chapter!
She opens a new file, and writes freely and with malice,
Knight's communal sacrifice was swift work and over by eleven. An army of angry ex-girlfriends (strong in number and spite) hung him from the low bicep of a willow tree and teased him to death with whispered promises of love in unruly positions. The blood ran from his head and down to his groin in such a rush as to induce instant cardiac arrest. He died a painful death by erection, and the state of the corpse left little to the imagination, and even less to be envied.
She smiles cruelly. Never mind she has never seen a willow tree. The fairy-tale suits him perfectly. Let Knight die as he lived, in a fantasy world of sex, glee and dark humor. Everything is a joke to him. Her projects are a joke to him. Love is a joke to him. Correction, girls are a joke to him. Surely, his romantic escapades (much gossiped about, and frowned upon, in her circles) cannot be called love. And never mind, because she has made the decision not to concern herself with it anymore. Tonight was the last straw.
"Leepsteeck?" Knight exclaimed, adopting an exaggerated French accent that he likes to think sounds exactly like the Merovingian. He nudged her in the ribs. "What craziness are you talking about, woman? There is no… leepsteek!"
But Rorie was not amused. Yes, she lost her temper. Who wouldn't? Occasionally, she sits in that chair he was in. She didn't want to have to worry about catching anything from it…. from the latest lover who would be in and out of his life within a week, and then, God knows, on to the next soldier. Rorie said as much, and how dare Knight accuse her of flying off the handle? She doesn't fly. And he is too much to handle. Like a child, with capricious, childish appetites.
And then, how dare he lose his temper with her. He should have been begging for her discretion. After all, if her mother knew about this-
"I don't think Evey deserves to be judged so harshly."
"I meant, Mom wouldn't appreciate your using her ship as a harem."
"Not Trinity. I'm talking about you."
"Me? I wasn't-"
"For your information, I've been seeing Evey for two months now. And I'd thank you very much to speak about her with more respect. You know, if anyone ever talked about you like that, Aurora, I don't have to tell you I wouldn't stand for it."
"Well, nobody will ever speak about me like that, because I conduct myself with some class."
That is as far into the argument as she can remember without feeling nauseous. He overreacted, to be sure. And she tried to apologize. Well, she was going to try until he called her a condescending snob who put her nose in where it didn't belong. He knew she would do this, Knight exclaimed! Why does she think he didn't tell her about Evey in the first place?
Rorie was speechless. In fact, this was the point that stung the most. She'd never heard him so much as say her name before then.
Because, Knight said into her dumb silence, I knew you'd look down on her, just as youve looked down on all the others. The way you look down on me.
Look down on him? It was like he'd immersed her heart in a beaker of ice water. What could she say to that? Apparently nothing, because she spun on her heel and left the dock in tears. Tears!
Rorie feels like crying again. She pulls her legs up to her chest and hugs herself, letting her chin rest on one knee. She waits to hear the sound of the phone, if only so she can ignore it, or better… hang up on him. Make him crawl to the door and wait on the stoop all night, begging forgiveness. But somehow, Rorie knows that this will not happen.
She is certain that Knight isn't suffering as she is. He isn't hurt. He isn't lonely. She imagines he is somewhere, off with Evey. She imagines Evey helping him forget all about it. They're sipping cocktails in some club, feeding each other dinner, laughing, kissing, making everyone around them sick. Miss Right (Now) will brush his goofy curls out of his eyes and gush about how adorable they are, and he'll pretend that she is the first girl to tell him that.
"Mom!" Rorie shouts out suddenly, hearing her voice sounding like a kid who has had a bad dream. She groans at herself and throws the covers aside. She finds her mother at her desk, gaping wide-eyed at the computer's screen. "Mom!"
Trinity jumps, and quickly hides what she is reading. "Yes?"
"Do you know Knight's girlfriend - apparently, he's been seeing her for months. Did you know about this?"
Trinity seems confused, or guilty, and takes a few moments to answer. "Evelyn, right?"
"Oh, is that her real name? He calls her Evey."
"She's a student of mine. I asked Knight tutor her, and apparently, they really hit it off. Knight has been going on and on…" Trinity leans back from her desk and smiles. "It's cute, actually. He asked me if he could have a little anniversary party on the Neb with her tonight. Apparently, she's always wanted to see the bridge. Who was I to say no?"
"The captain of said ship."
"Hum?"
"You asked who you were to say no. You were precisely the person to say no."
"I like this one," Trinity says. "No piercings. No police record. That I know of. Small steps, is what I told him. Small steps."
Rorie rolls her eyes and folds her arms. Trinity raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"What, what?" Rorie echoes. "What nothing. I have to go."
Trinity watches her daughter rush from the room with mild concern, eclipsed promptly with a simmer of self-satisfaction. Both kids out of the house. And damned if she'll feel guilty for being pleased. Is it too much to ask that once in awhile, she could have a little privacy? She hopes they'll be out all night. Well, at the very least, Knight is a sure thing. He may be a goof, but that ship is damn romantic. Even he can't strike out. Not on the Neb.
Trying not to think about anything that will spoil her mood, Trinity surreptitiously lifts the screen of her laptop. Back to… whatever it was she was doing. Conducting research? Satiating curiosity? Plotting revenge? Having a little fun?
In truth, she doesn't know whether to be mortified or aroused by what she finds on the smutty online archive that calls itself Neo's Hard Drive. If anything, she should whip up a virus to email to every author here. At the very least, she should post a strongly-worded review. But the site has banned anonymous comments. She needs to 'sign up.' No, she needs to hack the shit out of this place. But all in good time. First things first.
User name?
Well, that's easy enough.
TRINITY.
Sorry, that username is already taken. Please try again.
Figures. She should have anticipated that. Best to think of something a little less on-the-nose.
User name?
THE TRINITY.
Sorry, that username is already taken. You may want to try the following available variations:
THE TRINITY2367851
THE TRINITY2367852
THE TRINITY2367853
THE TRINITY2367854 …
Trinity growls. Damned if she'll take a number for her own name.
User name?
THE MOTHERFUCKIN' IRS D-BASE TRINITY, GODDAMNIT!
Sorry, that username has too many characters.
She sighs, and thinks she must be losing her edge if she isn't cunning enough to register for a monthly 'TriNeo' newsletter. She lifts her fingers from the keyboard and considers a pseudonym that will afford more anonymity. Something nobody will recognize. Something nobody knows. Suddenly, she types out the first name that enters her mind, though she can't imagine where it comes from. She hasn't thought of this name in years. Her mother's name.
SYDNEY ANDREWS.
Login Successful. Welcome, SYDNEY ANDREWS. You are now a fangirl!
Now that's a sentence she never thought she'd read – her mother, a PhD in particle physics, is a fangirl. Somewhere in the Matrix, a digital corpse just turned in a digital grave. But nevermind. She has infiltrated the cult. She is one of them. She is has joined the golconda of fangirls… and one fanboy … a strange lad who seems to fancy himself her fictional son (creepy notion, but he's got a catchy name). Trinity momentarily suspects Knight, but really, really hopes she is wrong.
Hey, SYDNEY ANDREWS, ready to search the archive of Neo's HARD DRIVE? (Warning! Contents are hot!)
Trinity grimaces and goes to work, narrowing the parameters of her search:
Genre: ROMANCE.
Rated: M.
Character 1: TRINITY.
Character 2:
She hesitates when a long drop-down menu appears. There are other choices for Character 2? She looks over the list, and finds herself coughing on her herbal tea.
Char2: All
Morpheus
Agent Smith
The Keymaker
Persephone ...
It is certainly a tempting premise for a good game of would you rather. Indeed after pausing to think about it, Trinity is surprised to discover that, if she had to choose, Persephone would easily be at the top of her list.
Fascinating.
Character 2: NEO.
50 results load onto the screen. She checks behind her, and calls out her husband's name, satisfied that he must be sleeping when she receives no reply. So she leans back in her seat, and settles in for a very interesting evening, beginning with result (and victim) number one…
Edit, by elementalplatinum. "TriNeo. A little role play, and Neo testing out his new skills. Rating for smut and bad suits."
Bad suits? Trinity thinks of Tom's suits. In truth, she found them a little sexy, in a twerpy sort of way. Obviously, this person doesn't know them at all…
Dear Rorie,
I write this letter, hoping, at least, that you are still 'dear.' I'm afraid you may no longer think so. For my part, I regret the whole messy thing. I can't imagine what came over us! Perhaps it's this awful heat wave… that's a bit of humor, of course, that will probably make you crosser. Behold my tattered white flag - I seem using it so often these days.
At least, we should talk?
- Knight.
As he sits in the operator's chair, Knight knows that he will not send it. He is still too angry with her to send it. His heart is tied in a knot, his evening is ruined, probably his mood for the next few days. It's a monumental mess, and completely unnecessary. At lest, the crying was unnecessary. For God's sake, he probably won't even be able to sleep, knowing he made her cry. And it was like the tears came out of nowhere. A torrent of aqueous death-spears, each one maliciously aimed straight at his heart!
Where had things gone so horribly wrong? He used to enjoy it when Rorie picked his girlfriends apart – she used to do it with a good-natured charm that was becoming of a cheeky younger sister. Her possessiveness of him was cute and made him feel loved. But not tonight. Tonight, it all played out differently, like a nightmarish alter ego of their usual banter.
She was downright vicious. There was no humorous undertone to her comments, no self-mocking pretence of haughty noblesse – Rorie was condescending, and wickedly so.
Now that he thinks about it, almost everything about her is different. The way she stands is different, the way she looks is different. She greets him at the door with an airy formality now, her shoulders set back, chin up higher. She wears designer pumps, even though she can't walk properly in the silly things. Is it all a device to put distance between them? To elevate herself in height as well as social station? Well, she is still short. And he isn't impressed by her not-quite-so-incidental remarks about several young men (and one or two older ones) who have asked for places on her dance-card. So if you're interested, Knight, she said with a flip of that long, raven hair (newly curled at the tips and fragranced with something unwholesomely bewitching), you'd better reserve me for last dance.
But he is always her last dance at Temple gatherings. For God's sake, he was her first dance at a Temple gathering. He snuck her out one night when she was too young to be there and blew his friends off to be her body-guard-slash-lookout. Now she wants him to reserve her? When he could be dancing with one of the topless bi-curious women who are known to liberally extend invitations to their even-more-liberal after parties?
Or he could be dancing with Evey - perhaps this is the key. Maybe it is as simple as this. He and Rorie are growing apart, and it's the natural order of things that he should be spending more time with his girlfriend, anyway. Given the right amount of effort, he could even fall in love with her. Evey is a loveable person. In a year's time, he could marry her and be blissfully happy. He is not averse to settling down, providing it's with someone attractive enough. It'll be a huge wedding in the Temple, and his vows will be so heartfelt that it will bring a tear to the Judge's eye. Trinity will give a moving toast at the reception – oh, how she'll miss him around the house! What a lucky young lady to have won the heart of her almost-son! And then Mr. Fickle will buy a cozy little cave in the suberbs and have some kids.
That'll show Rorie. He'll have a life, a real life, and she'll still be a virgin, dousing her hair with perfume and taking inventory of her dance card, turning her nose up at every hapless male who falls under her spell. Poor bastards will be rushing her to the hospital every time she trips in those stupid shoes, and will still have to be satisfied with a kiss goodnight.
Knight snatches up the phone and punches a phone number, quickly, before he can change his mind. It rings and rings. He is about to hang up when the receiver seems to topple over and clamor in someone's hand.
"Yes, hello? Hello?"
"Trin?" She doesn't sound like herself. A little breathless, and more than usually impatient. "You okay? It's not a bad moment?"
"Well, actually..." she trails off and clears her throat. "What is it? Rorie isn't here."
He lets out a breath, relieved. "No, I wanted to talk to you."
"Yes?" Silence. "I thought you were on a date."
"I was... we called it an early night. I had... work to do." He looks wearily at the screens in front of him. "You know my girlfriend, right?"
"Jesus in heaven help me with these two. Yes, I know your girlfriend. What? What is it?"
"You... you like her, right?"
"Does it matter?"
He isn't sure why, but it does. "Please just... be honest. You don't think I'm making a mistake? If I'm, you know, serious about her?"
"I think your mistake was in choosing to ask me this question." But Trinity isn't being unkind. She never is, with him. Her tone softens as she says, "She's a very nice girl, Knight. Yes, I like her. She's making you happy?"
"Yeah. Yeah, she is."
"But not right now."
"Hum?"
"You called it an early night? It isn't even nine o'clock."
"I just had some things to get done. Well, I thought I did. Now, I guess it doesn't matter anymore. Anyway, I'll see her tomorrow."
"So, what's the problem? What has you so desperate you'll ask for my advice?"
"I just…" He twists the phone cord around his finger a few times and paces as far as the slack will allow, and back again. He feels foolish but then lets it out, "How do you… you know, know… if she's the one?"
There is a long pause. "You mean if the Oracle hasn't told you?"
"Actually, I did ask her. She told me to ask you."
Trinity chuckles, and Knight doesn't bother telling her that he isn't joking. "In that case…" she says, "I'll tell you what the Oracle told me. The one you love, she said, will be the one."
"That's not very helpful, Trin."
"You wouldn't think so, but it's gotten me this far."
"I was hoping for something a little less abstract. If you could use a little… magie noir to tell me my future?"
She doesn't answer right away. He asks if she's still there. "Yes, yes, just give me a second to dust off the… the fucking family crystal ball," she snaps, and he grins. "Now let me take a look… let me see. Yes, here we go. I see you, hanging up the phone and leaving me in peace. I see you, realizing how stupid you've been tonight, and asking the girl of your dreams if she'd like to join you for whatever is left of this magical evening. I see you and her having a wonderful time and being very careful not to leave a mess on my ship. Is that specific enough for you, cadet?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good." She sighs, and lowers her voice, "Have a good time. And don't forget to use coasters for the candles."
"I'll use protection. Coasters, I mean. For the candles." He uses their code, and hopes that it is just him who thinks that it's code. Knowing Trinity, she could very well be talking about candle wax.
"I hope so. Be careful."
"Always."
"Alright. So... I can go now? Interrogation over? Take a cookie and get out?"
"Yeah." He smiles and toys with an idea before deciding: "Thanks, Mom."
She swears at him in French, and then says something about an element of the periodic table, but her Quebeccer is so garbled even he can't make it out. She switches into English to make her point, " ... and if I find out it's you, so help me I'll send you to have your head examined..."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Just... don't leave a mess," she hisses. "Or you'll be swabbing the deck with your toothbrush and mopping up with your hair – I don't care how gorgeous your girlfriend thinks it is!"