Chapter 6: Zugzwang

“You’ve said it yourselves. All of you. We don’t know whether anything we think we know about the past is true. How can you have so much faith in a . . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word.

“A prophecy?” Hermes finished my sentence, then leaned forward. “Our faith isn’t blind. We aren’t proposing to treat this ‘Cleo’ any different than other adults we have brought out. If she can prove that she has some ability within the Matrix – or outside it, for all we know – that we haven’t encountered yet, then we’ll rely on it. Not before.”

It was two days since we had returned to the Belisarius from our disastrous trip to visit Jo. No, I thought. Not ‘Jo.’ ‘Cassandra.’ Better not to think of her as someone I know. Because, sure as hell, I DON’T! The Sentinels had not found us in our hidden location, and as we cautiously brought our electronic systems back online, we had discovered no sign of their presence nearby.

We’d remained in place, extending our probe network, monitoring the Matrix from a solid tap, and pausing to remember, and bid farewell, to our fallen comrade. Britt was cremated in the ship’s incinerator; death during a mission was, sadly, a sufficiently regular occurrence that the capability was included on all ships.

Now, however, it was time to decide what to do with the information Jo had given us, and everyone who wasn’t actively on duty was gathered in the mess to discuss it. Dakota (Cockpit) and Kai (Matrix monitoring station) were listening in over the intercom.

Our entire organization was sufficiently military that Hermes could have simply told us what to do – but he wouldn’t order someone to go on a mission against their better judgment without a compelling reason. And clearly, he had his own doubts about what “Cassandra” had proposed.

I heard what Hermes said, but I thought he was deceiving himself. “How can you say you won’t treat her differently, when you already are? You’re the one who told Cassandra that we don’t attempt to bring people out unless they try to make contact on their own.”

Zephyr responded before Hermes could. “That’s for their protection, not ours. The risk factor to us, to this crew, is no different than it is on any extraction.”

“Except that the first step on this hare-brained mission already cost us Britt!”

“It has,” he replied evenly enough, though the redness in his face suggested he was suppressing his own temper. “But Britt and I both had close calls with Agents on the mission that extracted you. It’s part of the job, Noelle.”

Abhaya broke in, his New York accent cutting like a ripsaw. “Look. You want to fight? We want to fight too. Maybe this ‘prophecy’ is totally fugazy. A fake. We don’t know Jack, and what we think we know may be complete bullshit. I get that. But real talk here. We do know we can’t stand up to the machines right now. If we walk away from this thing, we’ll just keep losing. If there’s even a chance Cleo can find a way to start tearing down the cage, I’m all in.”

Blake was nodding as Abhaya spoke. “A bad chance is better’n no chance, girl, and right now, ‘no chance’ is where we’re sitting.”

Hermes was watching me carefully. “I won’t order you to go back in for this. We can have you on Matrix monitoring while we’re inside.”

I shook my head angrily. “I’m not trying to protect myself, dammit! I’m trying to protect all of you. All of us. Zephyr, don’t you remember what Britt told me, just after our first simulator battle?”

Zephyr shook his head.

“‘Fantasize all you want . . . but go down that road too far, and you just get good people killed!’”

Dakota’s smokey contralto came over the intercom. “Noelle. Britt was a friend of mine, too. Her death was stupid. Senseless. I don’t want that to be the end of her story.”

Kai keyed her mic. “I want to avenge my friends. Not just Britt – I want to avenge everyone – all the people I’ve lost. I want to fight, and I want to do it with some hope – any hope – that we might win. If Cassandra says this ‘Cleo’ can help us fight, I want to try.”

I closed my eyes. They were insane. They were willing to hare off on a wild-goose chase, guided by an old woman’s assurances about a ‘prophecy’ that might never have been made in the first place. It was like Britt’s death had infected the entire crew with a kind of group madness, and I couldn’t get them to see that this ‘hope’ was chimerical.

But all of that was water under the bridge. They were going to take this mission, crazy though it was. The only thing I could do was try to limit the damage.

I opened my eyes again and gave Hermes a resigned look. “Everyone is determined to go, so we’ll go. But Cassandra is right; our best chance for success is if I do the insertion. Cleo at least knows me, and she’s more likely to listen to me than anyone else. And we’ll minimize the downside risk if I go alone.”

Hermes’ expression didn't change, but his eyes seemed warmer. “There’s no need for that – and it’s not feasible anyway. We need at least four people inside to do an extraction safely. It’s not just a matter of swallowing a red pill. We monitor the person’s life signs and trace back their location in the real world when they’re ejected from their pod.”

“I understand,” I answered. “But this is different from your normal case. We can’t expect Cleo to meet me for a drink and swallow your red pill on the spot. I’ve got to feel her out first. If she’s interested, we can set up a meeting that includes more people.”

“I hate to say it, but that makes sense, boss,” Blake said.

Zephyr shook his head. “We don’t send people in alone.”

“But this time you should,” I said gently. “We already know the first part of this mission was blown. The rest may be too. Sending in more people just means there are more people to lose if everything lands in the crapper.”

“You need someone watching your back!” Zephyr looked incensed, which I found somewhat touching.

“Zephyr . . . really. It’s okay. I’m a big girl. You can monitor from the ship, just like we did when Hermes was stuck inside.”

Hermes, who had observed our byplay silently, intervened. “Normally I’d agree with you, Zephyr. But Noelle’s argument is logical. She is obviously the right person for the initial contact. Anyone else would just be there to guard her.”

“She needs someone to guard her! We can’t just hang her out on her own — she has almost no real experience.”

“I’ve actually had pretty extensive experience, even before I met all of you.” I thought of my ‘adventures’ in Africa, Australia and Asia, back in the days before I took the pill that Hermes offered. And afterward . . .

“As far as Agents are concerned, I have less experience than you, but ‘guarding’ against them doesn’t work and you know it. If an Agent shows up, my ‘guard’ would be doing exactly the same thing I would – running.”

Zephyr – bless him! – wanted to protest, but he couldn’t think of a compelling argument.

Hermes nodded sharply. “All right. Noelle, I want you to find out everything you can about Cleo’s alter ego. Where he lives, where he works, family, associates, whatever. When you have some notion of where he can be approached, get the info to Abhaya and Blake, and they’ll work up some sims for us to go through.”

I nodded and rose. “Right, boss.” Avoiding Zephyr’s eyes, I left to relieve Kai at the Matrix monitoring station so I could do my research.

~o~O~o~
Six hours later, I turned the monitoring station over to Dakota and went to grab some sleep, having transmitted the first fruits of my research to Blake and Abhaya so that they could prepare some sim exercises.

Zephyr was waiting by the door to my cabin. “Can I talk to you?”

I nodded, spun the wheel lock and gestured for him to enter. “Official or unofficial?” I asked as I followed him in.

He shrugged. “It’s about the mission, but . . . it’s unofficial. I’m worried about you, Noelle.”

“I appreciate that. Really, I do. But if this thing’s a trap, I don’t want it to spring on more of us than it needs to.”

He nodded, looking no happier. “I understand the logic. It just . . . it doesn’t change how I feel. You don’t think we should be doing this at all, and you’re the one who’s taking all the risk.”

I shook my head, smiling, then stepped in close, lightly circling his neck with my arms. “That’s not what’s bothering you and you know it. The XO understands the logic, but having me go into the lion’s den while you stay on the ship offends your delicate male sensibilities.” I gave him a teasing kiss. “I think that’s very sweet.”

He looked exasperated. “Sweet!!! You’re risking your life!” But he couldn’t help himself. He pulled me in tight, just as I’d hoped he would, crushing me in a hard embrace and kissing me with fierce urgency.

My hands slid down to his back as I returned his kisses with equal heat. His muscles were hard, but knotted with a mix of excitement and worry. I pressed my body into his even more fervently. God, I have needed this so much!

His voice was harsh with passion. “I want you, Noelle!!!”

“Then take me! Take me now!”

He needed no further invitation. Barely restraining his eagerness, he grabbed the bottom of my tunic, raised it and pulled it off in a single, fluid motion. His finger traced the delicate strap of my new bra, then stroked the exposed and satiny skin of my breast.

I shivered, then undid the drawstring that held up my homespun pants, letting them fall to the deck. I freed my feet and then went to work on him, stripping both tunic and pants. His shorts followed . . . .

It was like my dream, at last. I was on my back in bed with a handsome man between my smooth legs, loving me, satisfying my aching desire, bringing me to heights of pleasure I had never experienced in my crazy life in the Matrix, where I had a body that told me one thing and a mind, heart and soul that told me something else. Zephyr’s face didn’t match the dream, of course, but this was real. I was all woman, he was all man, and we were matched – completely – in both our desire and our need.

It wasn’t tender or sweet. We were both too eager and needed it too much. There might be time for that later . . . Or there might not be. We couldn’t know, so we fought to squeeze every last ounce of pleasure from the moment that we had. When I felt him explode, deep inside me, I detonated as well, screaming my release as he clutched me in a desperate embrace.

He bent down and kissed me slowly, thoroughly, then extracted himself, rolled to his side, and spooned into my boneless body.

I lay there, my physical need sated, feeling the warmth of his body against my back, the assurance of his arms wrapped around me. But something deep inside refused the peace and human comfort of that tender moment. Instead, my mind spun and twisted, unfocused, seeking . . . .

He nibbled on my ear. “Penny for your thoughts?”

I stroked his arm. Unable to make sense of the chaos in my head, I temporized. “You might be overpaying.”

“I’m an idiot about money. Always have been. Something you should probably know about me.”

In the AI simulation where we’d both been born and raised, inability to handle money was considered such a terrible thing as to be almost a moral failing. And yet . . . . “All those people, so worried about money and all it’ll do for them . . . . but ‘rich’ or ‘poor,’ they’re all swimming in amniotic fluid in seven by three plastic pods.”

He sighed. “Yeah. It’d make a good joke, if it weren’t so freaking horrible.”

Silence returned, but my brain kept spinning, increasingly frenetic and uncontrolled, like a gerbil on a wheel. “Zephyr,” I said finally, clutching his arm as I tried to rein in my racing thoughts and find the source of what was causing me such unexpected distress. “What’s Zion like?”

He moved behind me, shifting position. Probably trying to figure out where I was going. “It’s, ah . . . utilitarian, I guess.”

“Are there parks? Concerts? Do people go out to dinner? Have parties?”

He was silent, thinking. Finally, he said, “It’s a fortress, Noelle. There isn’t any sunlight. There aren’t parks, because space is pretty premium. People do have some time for leisure, and we try to preserve something of normalcy. But . . . it’s not New York. It’s not even Fresno.”

It was my turn to be silent, though I pulled his arms around me even tighter. “Will it always be like this?” I whispered. “Are our lives just one crisis after another . . . brief moments of vigilant inactivity, followed by running, fighting, running some more . . . until the day our number comes up we get killed?”

He hugged me more closely than before, trying to give comfort with his body that his words couldn’t match.

My voice was soft, and I couldn’t hide the darkness of my thoughts. “In the wars I learned about in school – the World Wars, Korea, Vietnam – things got intense. People suffered beyond imagining. Millions died. But they ended. The wars ended, and people got back to building normal lives that weren’t all about life and death and resistance. Hermes . . . Dear God, Zephyr! Hermes has been fighting for forty years!”

He stroked my cheek, feeling the dampness of my tears. “It’s why we all want to find the One. Sure, we want to kick the machines’ asses. We want to avenge our friends. But more than all of that, we want to just be regular people again.”

“Regular people . . . . Will we even remember how to be like that? God! What have those terrible machines done to us!”

He fell asleep holding me, but exhausted as I was, sleep wouldn't come for a long while. The wave of sadness that had crashed over me hit again and again, pulling me under, dragging me down, down . . . .

I wept for the world that was lost, for the lives that we were forced to lead . . . for the memories of normalcy that invaded my brain. Windsurfing on a perfect summer afternoon . . . Flying a kite in Golden Gate Park with my dad when I was eight . . . eating sushi with Gavin as the sunset reflected off the white tiles of the Sydney Opera House . . . a pancake breakfast . . . finding an abandoned artillery emplacement on Mount Tamalpais . . . .

Memories that weren’t even real.

~o~O~o~
When I went to the mess to meet with Abhaya, Blake and Hermes the following morning, I was able to function again. My existential despair over life in the real world was something I couldn’t resolve, so I put it in a box. Meanwhile, I felt much better physically — less tense than I had felt since we lost Britt. My body had been screaming for sexual release, but I had been ignoring it. Or perhaps, just misunderstanding the signals.

If Hermes saw any of that in my face, he gave no sign. “Alright, Noelle. What have you learned?”

“I searched the deadname that Jo – that ‘Cassandra’ – provided. There’s actually a fair bit of information, and I found a few articles in the Times of London that included a photo. The quality isn’t great, so I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty that Anthony St. Claire is the transgender woman I know as Cleo. But I think so.”

Hermes nodded. “Good enough.”

“Right,” I continued. “This St. Claire is a mover and shaker at Flemings, an old investment house in the City of London. He lives in Knightsbridge, appears to be unmarried and has no children. However, he has a live-in staff at his residence – both a cook and a housekeeper.”

“So . . . what’s your thinking?” Hermes asked. “Do you plan to call him? Approach him at work? At home?”

“I don’t think so. We were always careful at the hacienda not to ask about personal details. If people offered them, that was fine, though it was understood that the information would stay behind Jo’s walls. Anyhow, Cleo never did. Share, that is. So if I suddenly drop in on her, or even make a phone call, it’ll trip all her defenses. She’ll feel like Jo’s betrayed her confidences.”

“Which she has,” Blake observed. At Hermes’ sharp look, he added, “Just sayin’, you know. We wouldn’t have the name, except for Cassandra.”

“Exactly,” I said. “But it looks like our friend has a habit, most nights, of stopping by the Old Doctor Butler’s Head Pub before heading home. I thought maybe I could just happen to be there. It’s an unlikely coincidence, but it’s at least possible. And if she’s alone, I expect she’d be willing to chat with me.”

“Sounds pretty thin,” Hermes observed. “And it's a long way from a ‘chat’ to where we need her to be.”

I shrugged. “I’m open to suggestions, but barring a kidnapping, or slipping her a Mickey, this strikes me as the best option.”

That elicited a grunt from the captain. “Not a chance. I’ll bend rules if I’ve got a good reason too — it goes with the command. But no way I’m unplugging someone without real consent.” Turning his gaze on Blake and Abhaya he asked, “You have a sim ready?”

Abhaya nodded. “It’s rough, but yeah. It’ll do.”

“And you found an insertion and extraction point?”

It was Blake’s turn to nod. “Oh, yeah! It’s a big, beautiful, busy area. I’ve got a couple good locations within two blocks of the pub, with easy backups further out if she needs them.”

“Show me,” Hermes ordered.

We went into the operations area. Hermes, Abhaya and I got in the chairs and left Blake – the natural-born son of Zion – to get us all plugged in and act as control. In a few minutes, the three of us were in the sim, standing in a book-lined office that was only illuminated by the lights coming from the outside window. It appeared to be night.

Hermes said, “Okay, let’s just do a walk-through first. Show us the area.”

“Right,” said Abhaya. “Blake, no traffic or people.” In his Matrix persona, Abhaya presented as a petite Punjabi woman in a conservatively tailored, calf-length saffron dress with capped sleeves that exposed smooth and slender arms. Somehow, this presentation, coupled with his pleasantly warm soprano voice, made his pure New York accent seem even more incongruous. “Let’s bounce.”

The office was connected directly to a hallway. The brass plaque by the door said, “Sidney Westen, Barrister.”

“Lawyers have a bad habit of working late,” Hermes cautioned.

Abhaya smiled. “Not when they’re kickin’ back in Majorca.”

“For?”

“Two weeks. Starting the day before yesterday.”

Hermes gave a noncommittal snort. “Alright. Proceed.”

“Okay. Out the door, you go down this hallway twenty feet, then take a right at this fork.” Abhaya provided commentary as we walked. “Door to the stairwell is only twenty-five feet further.”

We walked down the hall and he opened the door labeled “stairs.” “Two flights down, and the exit is in an outside courtyard, not a lobby.”

“Three flights,” I corrected. We started descending.

“No,” Abhaya argued. “We’re on the third floor.”

“Trust me,” I said, remembering prior trips to the U.K.

When we came to the door marked “Ist Floor,” Abhaya pushed it open as Hermes and I kept going down the stairs. “I don’t get it,” he said a moment later, taking the rear.

Without looking back, I said, “They call the ground floor the ground floor; the floor up from that is the first floor.”

“No wonder we had a revolution,” he groused.

The courtyard at the bottom was just a space between a few buildings. Big pavers flanked by essentially generic urban architecture – concrete, brick and glass that went up six or seven floors.

“Nice place for an ambush,” Hermes observed.

“There is a lobby exit, but I think this one’s less obtrusive,” Abhaya replied.

“Lead on,” Hermes said.

We exited the courtyard and turned right. The sign said “Telegraph Street,” but it was basically a narrow strip of concrete pavers between two “sidewalks” that were simply differently colored pavers set at the same level and arranged in a distinct pattern.

“This’ll take us to the pub,” Abhaya said. “Two blocks, straight shot.”

We walked up the street – or moderately car-friendly pedestrian walkway, depending on your point of view – and crossed something that could easily carry vehicular traffic in both directions. It seemed eerie without any cars or people, like we had wandered onto the set of a post-apocalyptic Stephen King novel. Why not? I’m LIVING in a post-apocalyptic Stephen King novel!

“Moorgate,” Abhaya said shortly. “Keep going straight; the street at the other end of this alley is Coleman.”

The extension of “Telegraph Street” was called “Great Bell Alley,” but seemed to be about the same width as the “street.” We walked past the large windows of several deserted restaurants as we made our way up the alley until it deadended at Coleman Street. The building we were facing, cold and modern in concrete and glass, was breached by a covered walkway through which the sign for the pub was clearly visible. We crossed the deserted street, went through the walkway and found the door.

Inside, the main impression was of very dark wood — mahogany, I thought. The centerpiece of the place, naturally, was a long, curving bar with a gleaming brass rail. It was a substantial room, especially for this part of the City, where rents were eye-wateringly high. The space permitted both booths and chairs with red leather seats. In the daytime it would be well-lit by the large windows that looked out on the square where we’d entered, but in the evening the artificial lighting was subdued.

We walked around, checking sightlines. The goal would be to wait somewhere I could see as much as possible – and be seen as little as possible. One booth, ideal from that perspective, had to be ruled out because it was too far from any exit.

“This one here’s your best bet,” Abhaya said after inspecting a booth that had seats against the wall, good views of the door and the bar, and a good exit very close. “But if you can’t get it, you're probably better off at the end of the bar.”

Finally, Hermes decided that he’d seen enough. “Blake,” he said to our sim controller, “add in a normal complement of people. And traffic on the streets.”

Suddenly, the simulated pub was packed with people and the noise level shot up.

The three of us made our way through the virtual crowd and sat at the booth Abhaya had singled out. The sound of random conversations was loud, but I was glad that we didn’t have to shout to make ourselves heard. It would definitely be possible to have a private conversation with Cleo here.

“All right,” Hermes said. “Let’s see how well this site works if your mission goes south. Abhaya and I are going to exit the sim; I’ve got some things I want him to add. Then we’re going to have an Agent show up, and you’re going to try to make your escape.”

I nodded, but said, “Blake, before you throw the Agent at me, I want a download of everything you have on these buildings – schematics, whatever – as well as the locations of our alternative extraction sites.”

“Ah, you’re gonna go and take all the fun out of it,” Abhaya joked. Then he clapped me on the shoulder, laughed and said, “Good luck, Jim!” And just like that, he and Hermes were deleted from the sim.

I watched the bustle for a moment, waiting for the hyperfocus that would come with Blake’s download. When it arrived, a few moments later, I found the data set was detailed and appeared to be reasonably current. Good.

I was tense, even though this was just a simulation. It felt real, and it was practice for something that was real enough that I could get killed if I screwed it up. And I knew that a simulated Agent would be showing up. I needed to be primed for action when it did.

Just thinking about Agents was making me sweat. Making me remember the crack of a pistol shot . . . the shock on Britt’s face . . . the body spinning, falling . . . the pattern of her blood as it sprayed against the walls of Jo’s gatehouse . . . .

Sitting and waiting was not helping. I got up and made my way through the crowd at the bar. Might as well enjoy what I can. A pleasantly plump young woman in a white shirt and black skirt was dealing with the patrons at my end of the bar. “What’ll you have, Luv?”

That’ll be Abhaya’s doing — such a fine touch with characters, I thought. “Pint of the Bluebird, please,” I replied, trying to get into the right frame of mind.

She took my money, then went to start my pour.

I watched as the rich, brown liquid filled the glass, practically tasting the memory. It’d been a while since I had really good beer.

She returned and placed the drink in front of me. “Here you are, then.”

“Cheers,” I said, raising the glass in a salute. I continued the motion smoothly, discharging the liquid straight into her face – a face that was rapidly starting to change. Before the Agent finished the transformation, I shoved her head, causing her to stumble back.

“Oi!!!” shouted the “patrons” near me. One or two made a grab, but I wasn’t having any of that. I spun away from the bar and sped to the nearest door. Well before the Agent could have regained his feet, I was out and heading towards the covered walkway.

Three steps into the covered area, the Agent appeared in front of me, blocking my escape to Coleman Street completely. I dove through a shop door that fronted the walkway just as the Agent’s first shot rang out. London has strict gun prohibitions, but Agents write their own rules.

I would need to do the same.

In my mind, I pulled up the schematic of the building that Blake had sent me. I leapt over a cheese display and charged down a narrow hallway, turned right, and was back in the courtyard by the pub. The Agent was behind me, gaining ground with every step . . . .

Three doors down, and I charged through another door just as the Agent emerged from the cheese shop. Up an internal staircase. One flight . . . two . . . three . . . . My heart was pounding and my breath was ragged.

I reminded myself that I wasn’t here, that my muscles weren’t actually moving, and that the body I appeared to possess was a complete illusion. I am not breathing. This is not air.

The Agent’s steps were pounding on the stairs below me as I emerged onto a rooftop terrace. I sprinted toward the edge. This is all illusion. It is NOT real!!!! Believe, damnit!

I jumped, planted my right foot on the knee wall, and launched myself out over Coleman Street towards the building on the other side, thinking, This had better work!!!

It did.

As soon as I hit the roof of the building opposite, I started running in an irregular pattern, knowing I was exposed. Sure enough, a shot rang out behind me, chipping the concrete inches from my shoulder. I kept running, heading towards the other side of the building.

I would need to make another leap . . . but Moorgate was wider than Coleman. Significantly wider. I told myself it didn’t matter. It’s an illusion! I can do it!!!

I quailed at the edge of the roof. It’s too far! But another shot from behind convinced me, and I jumped. Again I flew into the night . . . but this time, the arc of my leap was nowhere near flat enough. My eyes were level with the roof I was aiming for . . . and then I couldn’t see it. Suddenly, I was plunging toward the pavement, towards the cars that were tooling along without any thought that it was about to start raining men.

Consumed with panic, I screwed my eyes shut and braced for impact. But instead of unforgiving asphalt, I landed on what felt like the world’s largest goose-down pillow. All sound ceased.

“Bang,” Abhaya said, somewhere above me.

I opened my eyes and looked up. Abhaya’s saffron dress was bright, caught in the headlights of a car that had stopped — as everything had apparently stopped — the instant I hit the ground. “That didn’t go so well,” I acknowledged.

“Yeah, nah. Go back and start again.”

“I don’t know. Feels pretty comfortable here.”

“Well, we kind of suspended the rules. Do that in the Matrix and it’s gonna suck big time.”

“Why? Just how far can we jump?”

He shrugged. “Like Hermes says, we can bend the rules some, but we can’t just go breaking them. We aren’t levitating; we’re just doing a really extended long jump. You did good, getting over Coleman Street. I wouldn’t try it anyplace wider.”

I nodded ruefully, took his offered hand, and got back on my feet. He disappeared again and I went back to the pub . . . .

This time, the Agent came through the front door. I was forced back into the stairs to the roof, but the Agent found another host on a higher floor and beat me there. I dashed through hallways in the building, heading for a window, when I suddenly came on a wall of pure white. Not “a wall that had been painted white.” It was simply an absence of anything, where there was supposed to be a hallway with doors, and a window at the end.

The Agent turned down the hallway and I was trapped with no way out. The gun he was pointing at me seemed enormous.

But he froze. Abhaya turned the corner behind him and said, “delete Agent,” and the virtual Agent vanished. I wish it worked that way in the Matrix!

“I’m, ah, sorry about that,” Abhaya said sheepishly. “I didn’t finish this part of the sim ‘cuz I didn’t think you’d head this far into the building.”

“You mean I fell off the edge of the map?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Oh.”

“My bad. Buy you a drink?”

We headed back to the pub, where the Agent came out of a door marked “toilet.” This time, I made it through the covered walkway and across Coleman . . . .

We ran the sim at least a dozen times. I lost count. I explored multiple ways to exit the pub and several different routes to possible extraction sites.

I was back in my preferred booth at the pub when Hermes walked over carrying two pints. He handed me one wordlessly and took the bench opposite my seat. After having a drink from his own glass, he said, “You got killed in half the sims.”

“Fifty percent survival rate if an Agent shows up,” I conceded. “But . . . what are the odds that an Agent does show up?”

“Our entry into the Matrix creates a localized anomaly, and Agents will eventually come to investigate. But what happened in Vegas – having an Agent show up so soon after we arrived – is very unusual. Normally it takes four or five days.”

“Then the odds look a lot better, don’t they?”

“Yes . . . but with a significant caveat.”

I nodded glumly. “We don’t know why an Agent showed up in Vegas so fast.”

“Right. Maybe it was a coincidence. But maybe we were compromised in some way . . . and maybe we still are.”

I drank down a good third of my glass, feeling like I’d earned it. “Go/no go on the mission is your call, boss. But if you want to go forward, I’m still the one to do it.”

He nodded, his eyes troubled. “I don’t like it. But nothing I’ve seen today changes the logic of what we decided yesterday.”

“Alright then. I assume you’ll want me to go soon?”

“You’ll need to eat, and rest. Tomorrow night.”

I nodded and rose. “Tomorrow night then.”

To be continued. . . . .