Matrix Cycle 8: IV

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20±2 days before Reload

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The weather had turned blustery, and the sun hung pallid upon a gunmetal gray sky, shivering among the clouds. Dry grass and fallen leaves crunched beneath the Frenchman's shoes as he walked through the deserted little park, an occasional loose candy wrapper or torn chip bag mix among them. This was a part of town that he, as a rule, did not frequent. The little pocket Browning lay snug against his shirt, as yet invisible, its single special bullet—silver bullet, the not entirely apt phrase crossed his mind—already loaded. The metallic pressure of the firearm made his forehead winkle with discomfort: it had been ages since he'd carried one of these things. But it could not be helped. He could never make a threat and not see it through.

The Oracle was already sitting on the bench, wrapped in a long woolen coat. She lifted her eyes as he arrived, her usual affectation of sweet harmlessness in place.

"Madame," greeted the Merovingian with a slight bow. "I trust that you have been well?"

"Perfectly well, thank you, my dear." She beamed at him, and patted the space on the bench next to herself, as if she really considered him dear. "Although I'm worried that the same cannot be said of yourself, Mérovée. You look a bit anxious, if you don't mind an old woman's observation."

"Why, I feel like I'm expected to insert some sort of mother-in-law joke here." He shrugged, and did not sit down beside her. A rapid scan of their surroundings assured him that they were indeed alone; that bodyguard of hers had kept away as promised. Not that it would have made a difference. "But we can dispense with such pleasantries. You are aware of the root of my...anxiety, if you wish to call it that."

"Ah." She evinced no surprise. "You mentioned something about the reload over the phone, if I recall?"

"What can I say?" He spread his hands, self-deprecating. "Unlike godly beings such as yourself, we mere exiles must fight to survive certain imminent event. Especially as some of those godly beings have decided to play dangerous games that place the entire Matrix at stake."

"You are no stranger to dangerous games yourself," said the Oracle dismissively, sidestepping his opening salvo. "As for reloads, you've been through plenty of those, and always unscathed, too. Frankly, I am rather amazed that you would be so troubled."

"Please don't condescend to me by pretending that I am blind." Briefly, he wondered if the sanctimonious crone ever grew tired of her own transparent psychological tricks. "Unlike all the previous reloads, this time something else is out there. There is no point in circumlocutions, not with me."

"Oh?" Her expression switched to quizzical. It looked like she was determined to make him say it out aloud. Fine.

"An agent's powers, mutated, coupled with a primal drive toward absolute destruction," stated the Merovingian. "A combination rather more potent than usual, wouldn't you say?"

The Oracle gauged him for several seconds. A passing beam of wan sunlight filtered down from the ashen sky, briefly illuminating her face.

"Well, Ex-agent Smith does present a complicating factor currently, yes," she admitted.

"A complicating factor indeed." Only a hint of mockery crept into the way he repeated her choice of phrasing. "One that is about to go exponential and overwhelm the entire Matrix if unchecked before too late. Yet you, madame, have decided to sit back and watch it take place, apparently unconcerned. Why?"

"Won't you take a seat?" Again, she waved a casual hand at the bench's unoccupied half. "I hope you haven't been overworking yourself again, my dear—"

"Thank you. With your permission, I'll remain where I am," snapped the Merovingian, standing rooted to the same spot before her. "You foresaw the abilities and the darkness that would grow inside that agent program, and did nothing. What do you wish to gain by allowing Smith to endanger the world?"

"You seem to have concluded that it is a matter of what I allow or not," said the Oracle.

"Your own demeanor shows me that no other scenario is possible. You imagine that you can use the monster as a weapon. What price do you intend to extract, and from whom? Is it the Architect?"

At this, the seeress finally straightened. A fleeting fire glinted in the depths of her aged eyes.

"It's not like you to be so afraid of a mere agent," she observed. "You've always consider the likes of Smith far beneath your station, haven't you?"

"Pardon my bluntness, madame." It was his turn to ignore the provocation. Two measured strides forward, so that his own shadow hung over her. "Smith's replications are powered by pure insanity, a vast and implacable hatred of life itself. This hatred can no longer be restrained by outside forces. What happens when you lose control of the creature, as you inevitably will? What happens when the virus overwhelms every last human mind in the construct? Will you wait until it is too late, and let eight billion people die?"

"My dear, I hardly guessed that you would feel such tender concerns—"

"Stop this. Do not strangle the world simply to satisfy some arrogant overestimation of your own wisdom."

The other program was watching him keenly now, nonchalant no longer. She must have noted, at a glance, that his stance was too rigid, shoulders too tense, eyes too bright. Too much damned truth and therefore weakness.

"The reason you have invited me to this meeting today," she said very quietly, "is to demand that I help you to stop Smith."

"This is my goal. Yes."

"I do not believe you, Mérovée."

"Oh?" A half-hearted sneer. "Why not?"

"You are not capable of holding such principles."

"I will endeavor to persuade you otherwise, then," returned the Merovingian. In its hiding spot, the Browning sat cool and ready, as harsh as the frosty breeze. "I went over some of my arguments during our earlier telephone conversation. I can summarize them again, if you wish."

"There is no need." The Oracle offered him a rueful shake of the head. "You've been perfectly clear over the phone. It is fascinating to me, I confess, that you were able to discover the termination code for my shell. May I ask how?"

"You have your secrets, madame; do allow me mine."

The old woman sighed.

"As much as I would like to give you aid, I have no secret control over Smith, nor any magic formula that would reverse his present course. You will simply have to trust me when I say this."

"A tall order, wouldn't you say?" A pressure was starting to build around his forehead. Deliberately, he turned aside and paced a few steps across the strip of yellowed grass before the bench, pivoting back toward her only when he'd again compelled himself to a facsimile of calm. "Given the way you have always done your best to foster the impression of your own omniscience."

"Oh, come on, you flatter me." She had the gall to chuckle, her intonation almost fond. "Please. I have done nothing to counter Smith's evolution, because there is nothing to be done. Now that his madness has burst to the surface, it must run its course. And it will: I can assure you of that much."

"Do you suppose that I will take you at your word?"

"Take my word or not as you will." She leaned back, relaxed once more. "I am sorry, my dear. Have you been running after those mystical visions of yours again? You really do look exhausted."

He found it in himself to smirk.

"I am merely doing my part," he said. The tightness against his temples had expanded rather fiercely; he pushed it out of mind with an effort. "Deposed and lost as I am, I still do not have what it takes to abrogate all my responsibilities. I'm not among those who have no qualms gambling with countless lives." A well-calculated beat. "Including the lives of their own children."

In a swift movement scarcely credible with her elderly shell, the Oracle rose to her feet. The Frenchman held his ground, glad to see that he had at last pushed her into revealing a flash of her true self. Among the tree branches in the distance, the breeze had strengthened into moaning gusts, and the day was starting to darken. The clouds must be piling up overhead.

"Is that why you're keeping a certain young woman imprisoned?" she asked, still mild. The Merovingian allowed himself only an instant of startlement.

"Young woman?" he snorted. "Imprisoned? You could refrain from imagining me capable of such a blatant lack of chivalry, surely."

The other's mouth quirked into one of her trademarked supercilious grins.

"Please," she said, "no need for denials. It's not a matter of my imagination."

It took a fraction of a second before he managed to run over all the possibilities. The Oracle might have learned about Aleph through the Architect and his blonde little spy, which meant that she knew nothing definite, only inferences and probabilities. The only other conceivable source of information would be—

"What do you intend to do with her?" she asked, taking advantage of the momentary knife-twist inside his guts.

The Merovingian returned the glare, concentrating on the strain that was finally audible in her tone. Of course. The decision to keep Persephone updated about his actions regarding Aleph had been his own, imperative to his worst-case contingency plans. Thus, he should have been prepared for all the consequences. It was beneath him to be injured by a woman's betrayal like some idiotic schoolboy.

"What do you intend to do with the Matrix?" he flung right back. "What do you intend to do when it fails before the virus, taking each and every human battery down with it?"

The Oracle's mouth was pursed into a taut line. The wind surged, rattling the field of dried-up leaves about their feet. After either a few seconds or an eternity, she let out a deep breath.

"You will attempt to use Aleph against Smith." Her statement held no trace of doubt. "She is not your only avenue of attack, however. You are nothing if not thorough."

"Now you flatter me." The Merovingian inclined his head. "Come to think of it, this brings us to another matter I was hoping to discuss."

"Right. The notebook," said the Oracle, straightforward for once. "Why, I hardly remember that I ever owned it."

"I am sure you remember very well the last time we discussed it, madame, long in the past as it was."

"It was when I found out you'd stolen it from me, right?" She no longer bothered to keep the irony subtle. "Though I still don't quite comprehend why, my dear. It was just an old blank notebook. There wasn't a single word in it."

"No, there was not." The Merovingian disregarded this jab, too, for now. The last time the notebook had been mentioned between them, the queenly program, not yet named the Oracle, had confronted him in the middle of an apocalypse. And Persephone, the purest of maidens, had stood at the exact halfway spot between them, heartbroken yet determined, about to sacrifice everything for him. "None that was visible, to be more precise. And you will tell me how to change this fact."

"I do not know how to make words appear on the pages of that ridiculous notebook, Mérovée." The old woman's answer was flat, and colder than the portents of the coming rainstorm. "It is as blank to my vision as it is to yours."

"Oh, how disappointing." He still sounded careless enough. though the edge of his jaw twitched. "It's too bad that I think you are lying, isn't it, madame?"

"And you think there is something in the notebook that will help you gain power, control what will happen when the reload comes, is this it? Is this why you are threatening me?"

The Merovingian held himself silent for a while, gaze locked with hers.

"I need to harness what lives in the notebook," he said slowly, "and what lives in the bones of the Matrix. For I feel it, something buried deep in there that has awakened, ready to come into existence. Ready to be loosened. I need its magic against Smith."

Another interminable beat. The Oracle frowned. If he had not known better, he would have thought that she looked astonished.

"Why?" she asked.

"To save the damned world against the demon! The one that you have decided to use—"

"As I have already told you, whatever will happen, it does not depend on my decisions," cut in the Oracle. "Smith has chosen. All I can choose, myself, is to keep faith."

"Oh, faith." The sarcasm in his laugh was far below his usual standards. Too genuine. "Hardly credible, for you have never been one to depend on something so irrational. Pray tell, where exactly are you placing your so-called faith? What is your real plan?"

They stood facing one another on the patch of dying lawn, both motionless, both focused. Above them, the clouds were lowering, and a scent of dampness thickened among the fading light.

"I will answer one of your questions," said the Oracle. "I am placing my faith in Neo. This is my plan."

"How do you suppose that human fool would change anything?" His tone was perceptibly veering upward, but he was no longer in the mood for modulating it back into suavity. "He will go to the Source and choose, as is the One's purpose. Has he shown even a flicker of insight? A shred of evidence that he is any less blind than the rest of them? How is he going to destroy Smith?"

"Whatever insight Neo has gained or failed to gain, it is not your place to say. The One has never been your concern."

"The One is a mere tool. If you trust Neo, then you are blind."

"I can only say this again: you will have to trust me, my dear. The Matrix will survive."

The Merovingian let out another guffaw. At least it sounded a bit more like himself.

"Well, I happen to know someone who has begun to trust you again, after a rather long while," he said. "She does not know the risk in which you are placing her."

The Oracle inhaled sharply. Good.

"You are acting as if you actually care about what happens to the lives of all the batteries in the Matrix, Mérovée." He did not recall ever having heard such an edge to her voice. Good.

"I have never pretended to be a better man than I am."

"What you care about are your own power and advantages. Oh, yes, you have your human books, your esoteric catch-phrases, your so-called intellectual ambitions. But in the end, they are still about nothing but your need to rule the world. Power is the only thing you have ever loved."

With this parting shot she turned aside, evidently having decided that the audience was over. With deliberate steps, she began to walk down the park path, away from him. Well, it was not as if he had never lost control of himself before, thought the Merovingian. The sensation was not so difficult as he recalled; it might even be similar to that beautiful illusion they called freedom. He lifted his right arm, and the Browning materialized in his hand, cocked and aimed. He could feel the bullet all the way inside the gun, its steely core of termination code.

"Turn around," he ordered. "I have never shot anyone in the back before, and I don't intend to start now."

She obliged, meeting his stare once more. Her expression had already reverted to its usual serene benevolence. The first raindrops fell, pattering onto the pavement between them, sparse as of yet.

"Tell me the virus's secret weakness," he demanded. "Tell me how to defeat Smith."

"You have plenty ideas of your own about how to defeat Smith, I'm sure." The Oracle tilted her head, indicating the gun pointed at her chest. "This won't do what you think it'll do to me, you know."

"Tell me how to read that notebook, and how to use it."

"Because my real being, what I am, is not restricted to this shell of mine," she continued as if not having heard him. "The source of my power is not restricted to any programmed body or mind, or even to the purpose once designed for me by others. A bit of termination code will not suffice to destroy me."

"I will be content if this gets you out of the way for a while." The Browning's barrel jerked a few centimeters upward. "Let's see if it keeps you from carrying out your schemes during the reload, at least."

Resignation and false kindness filled the ancient goddess's eyes.

"There are many things you will not ever understand," she said, "and I am one of them. If you were not so wrapped up in yourself, you would have already figured this out after so many years. It is time to see things as they are, my dear."

"Understanding you is unnecessary to my goals."

"You are always interested in understanding power, Mérovée. But the power I hold will forever be beyond your comprehension. And it is because of what you are."

"In other words, you advise me to meekly submit to fate. Is that it?"

"Acceptance is your only path to wisdom, and thus peace," she replied, not backing down.

"Oh, now you accuse me of seeking wisdom and peace—"

"Have no fear, I would not dream of imputing such ideas to you." Her brows crinkled. "But these things are always necessary, whether you seek them or not."

"I will just have to take my chances, then."

"That goes without saying. We will all have to take our chances, in the end."

"Including your own daughter, I suppose?"

"Ah, yes." The Oracle nodded. "You have found out that Kore, generous-hearted girl that she is, has reconciled with me. We have been talking again these last few months."

"She's my wife, of course I've fucking found out! You've been poisoning her mind against me—"

"Poisoning her mind? That is hardly necessary anymore, don't you think?" Despite the words, there was no hint of anger in the Oracle's reply, only sadness. "But in fact, I have done nothing of the kind. After everything, she still refuses to speak a single word against you, believe it or not. She refuses to speak about you at all."

"I would advise you not to test my resolve." His voice shaded into a savage snarl. "Please do not imagine that I will not—"

"I know you too well to make such an error, Mérovée. Your pride will never allow you to live with yourself if you backed down from a threat. Go right ahead, if it makes you feel better."

"I am trying to protect her from your folly, you callous, self-righteous hag!"

A light glimmered deep in the old woman's eyes, one that he would never understand, as she so astutely pointed out. The rain was coming down in earnest now, dropping translucent curtains between them, closing in like the walls of reality.

"Perhaps you ought to take a step back from yourself, my dear child," she said very gently. "You've been pursuing your magic—your idea of it—too single-mindedly, for far too long, and always in the wrong way. It's hurting you."

"Kindly mind your own business, madame." The Merovingian's finger tightened on the trigger. "Your false concern will not work on me."

"For one must be wary of such secret forces. They are never quite what one believes them to be."

"I beg you, do not presume—" he squeezed out between gritted teeth, "—to manipulate me like one of your Zionite idiots—"

"There is a reason why your dream has never been within your grasp, Mérovée. You will regret it, I fear, if one day you ever learn the true nature of what you search for—"

He pulled the trigger.

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20±2 days before Reload

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Nightmares had plagued her for a week. They had been but short bits and pieces at first, a few seconds at a time, always of the city in rain. Sometimes, it was a slow, anemic drizzle, mingled with the whirl of yellow and brown leaves. Sometimes it was a downpour like swords in the night. Soon, the fragments lengthened. She would be running through the streets, not a single human or program in sight, and every window dead in every building and tower. Why was she running? Where was she going? The answers were only an inch beyond the reach of her consciousness. Infinite falling water to all directions, chill sinking through her clothes and her skin into her bones. An endless feeling of dread would follow and coil around her heart, until she thrashed and fought to open her eyes. But even after she awoke the rain would not stop. Eventually, Persephone decided to quit sleeping for a while, but the rain just kept falling during her waking hours. It was always tinted with a glittery halo of green, the familiar true hue of code.

The last time she had exchanged more than a few words with Mérovée had been four days ago. They had fought: she no longer recalled about what. Aleph, probably. The few times they passed each other in the chateau's hallways since then, there would be an exchange of perfunctory phrases, an incline of the head on his part, half from long habit, half mocking. Otherwise her husband was either locked inside his study, or was 'away on business' according to the men. Predictably, they refused to answer when she brought herself to interrogate them regarding his whereabouts. She would not have done it—would not have cared enough—if it were not for the indefinable premonition coursing through her like shards of ice, the sudden shudders that she could not suppress. The secret her husband kept from her, this time, was far greater than some mere girl or criminal scheme or mysterious manuscript that must be kept from all other eyes.

Persephone glanced up, dragging herself out of shadowy thoughts. Out in the valley, the October clouds had thickened, piles of heavy gray rags drooping above the chateau. Crossing the room, she pushed open the French doors and stepped onto the balcony. The temperature was dropping again.

It began to rain.

The first drop struck her face, as hard as a pebble, and at that very instant Persephone remember why she had been running in her recurring dreams. It was because she had been frantically trying to reach her mother. She had known, with sickening certainty, that something was wrong.

It took her a few seconds to dash back indoors and fumble for her phone. The Oracle's number rang, and kept ringing, five, six, ten times, unanswered. She hung up and dialed again. Another five, six, ten times. Her mother never missed phone calls. Not from her.

Persephone did not hesitate. She ran again.

The rain swelled as she drove across the city. The tires of her car squeaked a little as she braked to a halt at the front door of the drab apartment block. She took the stairs two at a time, not noticing the soaked state of her hair and clothes. No one answered when she knocked at the apartment door, no sound of footsteps within. Behind her, the stairwell was empty; only dust swirled under the single musty fluorescent panel, between the peeling whitewashed walls. Drawing a deep breath, she laid a hand on the door knob. It turned.

"Maman?"

Inside the apartment, the only thing she could hear was the hammering of her own heart. Outside the windows, the day was already nearly as dark as night; she had to switch on a lamp in the living room. Nothing was out of place: the old sagging sofa with its colorful cushions, the neat rows of books and magazines on the bookshelves.

"Maman!"

Over in the kitchen, the light was on. A plain white envelope lay on the table. Her name, the one she'd been created with, and nothing else. Ripping open the seal, Persephone pulled out a single piece of paper, folded twice. She recognized her mother's flowing handwriting immediately.

My beloved daughter,

Due to certain unforeseen circumstances, I must leave for some time. I am sorry that I cannot tell you the length of my absence. We will not have the chance to speak again before the upcoming reload...

The knot inside her stomach clenched until she almost doubled over. She leaned a hand against the table, gripping its edge for support. Swiftly skimming the lines, she saw no reference to the fate that must have already befallen her mother, but she knew. She already knew.

I cannot begin to tell you how much I treasure every word, every touch from you, these last few months. I cannot begin to tell you how thankful I am, each day...

Her fingers were clutching the letter almost convulsively. This would not do. Forcibly, Persephone took a moment to concentrate on her hand, making it relax against the fragile sheet.

Perilous times are upon us, and I must ask for your steadfastness and courage. I ask that you place your faith in Neo, and give him all possible aid. Whatever choices he will make along the way, the strength of his heart is truly great, as you will soon discover yourself...

Tears would not do, either, not right now. She could not let selfish weakness overtake her right now.

I must also ask that you remember what we have discussed about Smith. No matter what he has been, and will yet become, there is still someone who is harboring him within her own soul: you have learned much of her from you husband, and seen her with your own insight. Remember that he has never yet submitted to the brutal fate imposed upon him. You have always possessed compassion...

Think. Hold on. She squeezed her eyes shut for a while, then opened them again to read onward.

I ask that you hold onto hope. You will come into your own.

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Notes: As strongly implied in the movies, the Merovingian obtained the termination code for the Oracle's shell from Rama-Kandra and Kamala in exchange for Sati's passage into the Matrix. The Oracle knew about this beforehand, however.

We will definitely catch up again with Smith and Aleph in the next chapter.