Inside the vessel, the air was slightly warmer. Storms raged outside and rattled the hovercraft's frame, shaking the antennae and causing the decks to creak. A single lantern flickered down a narrow corridor, illuminating the metal walls. Rust creeped up the blemished surfaces like ivy, reminding him of the scars left by barnacles on weathered sea ships. The Junos was an old relic, a remnant of a different era. He did not know its age or how many captains had commanded this deck, only that the barge posessed an otherworldly sense of grace. He had once heard of sailors personifying their ships, and had dismissed it as a foreign custom. Now, he saw in the
Junos a companion. A friend. A protector. It was just him and these corroded catwalks. The rest of the crew had been gone for some time. Some found their families more important than their beliefs. Some had chosen to board the new hoverbarges, trading duty for amenity and luxury. To have just one passenger in a hovercraft was not conventional, but he was not under the jurisdiction of the Zion Council. Machinists did not have a central city or a ruling government. Outcasts from Zion, they lived in scattered camps and harbors. Most lived on their ships, and stopped at makeshift trading outposts to refuel and rest. Machinists were a nomadic people, migrants with many neighbors but always distant. Almost all of them were "redpills," the awakened podborn. The few "naturals," as they were called, had either been born after the end of the war, or had left Zion to follow their podborn families. Most served as operators or tended to the ships themselves, but there were no naturals on board the
Junos. Only him.
Here he was, alone inside the craft. Masses of machinery hummed in the background, now and then letting out a startling sound. Occassionally, moving parts would cast strange shadows; grotesque figures seemed to come alive on the floors. But he did not mind. This place, strange as it was, was the only home he had. He remembered the first time he had stood alone in front of this window. Outside was a landscape he still did not identify with. This entire world had seemed surreal, like a lengthy and detailed dream. But this was no dream -- the pain made that quite clear. After he had withstood the hail high in the power plants, he had fallen for what seemed like miles through mazes of tunnels and tubes. Dumped violently into a reservoir of liquid, he had found himself unable to move. His brains had wanted to flail his arms, to struggle against the current, to remain
somehow above the ever approaching waves of dark goo. After a few twitches in his shoulder, though, he had lost all ability to communicate with the limbs. He sunk, and all faded to blackness.
The next few weeks did not exist as memories, only fleeting moments of sensation. When he regained consciousness, he could not see. His chest jerked violently, and he could barely open his mouth to breathe. He could feel the needles, though. Everywhere, he was poked and prodded, stabbed and sutured by harsh metal points. They later told him it was not the needles that caused the pain; his muscles were reacting violently to the acupuncture. All over his body sinew had become inflamed.. they nearly failed, according to the Captain. If not for a sudden change in luck, he would have been a cripple. Imagine, though, the
seriousness, the
conviction with which that man spoke, and the complete disregard that met the captain's concerned gaze. Here
he had been: removed from his entire life and thrown into an alien world, betrayed by his own flesh and bone, subjected to weeks of excruiating agony... the man expected him to react to bad news with emotion?! It wasn't like things could get any worse... right?
But of course, they could. He had learned the truth, been told that his entire life was a dream, none of it had ever occured. His parents were not really his parents. His friends existed miles and miles away; they had never met. His name, Jacob Nazareth, had never truly been his. In this world, he was expected to choose his own identity, a "handle," they called it. Dumbstruck and unable to let go, he had remained nameless for some time. Regardless, every interaction, every moment, passion and dream of
that life was completely false. They said that normally, he would have been allowed to remain in his dreamworld, "The Matrix," was how they referred to it. Normally, people were awoken by their own choice; the transition for them was still difficult, but it was what they wanted. He had not been given that choice. They did not know why he was ejected from the pods, the crew had said... all they had known was that they were in the area, and had suddenly detected a life form in the liquid below.
Yes, he remembered this window. After he was "healthy," once he had gone through the training regimes and learned the "truths," he had been allowed to roam the ship. He could see it clearly, still. He had passed through a doorway, glimpsing in the corner of his eye a reflective surface. He had turned to face the window... and stopped dead in his tracks. Who
was that boy in the glass...
staring back at him? With a sudden horror, he had realized that he was looking at himself. That was not his face! The bones, the cheeks, the hair that had just started to grow long... who was that?!
"This is wrong, all horribly wrong," he had thought. Rooted to that spot, he had been transfixed by the gaze that looked back at him. Only the eyes seemed familiar, but even they had a different nature. There had been something primal in them, a different spirit than he had ever known. When the crew discovered him standing there, he had confessed his distress to them. But they did not believe him, and attributed it to stress, a breakdown in perception caused by the trauma of leaving the pods and learning the truth. Everyone's image in the Matrix reflected their real body, they had said. The crew offered him extra portions of slop, and tried to console him as though kind words would make him change his mind and admit he was wrong. For they
wanted to believe what they had been told about residual self images. The "truth" was immobile, a doctrine. Rigid and unyielding.
The crew did not realize they were enslaving themselves to illusions and fantasies, whether or not they were still in the Matrix held little matter...
... Snapping out of his daydream, the sole occupant of the
Junos slid down a pole. He made his way to his quarters, lost in thought. That image which had been long buried in memory was now fresh in his mind. He could not forget.
