Chapter Six: The Survivor
The Agents burst into the nursery to find Thomas crying. Sine turned on the lights and joined Green and Smith around the crib. Smith stood at the foot of the crib, Green and Sine stood to either side. Smith watched the infant for a moment, then looked at Green.
"Who is this?" Smith asked.
"Thomas A. Anderson, son of the late James and Julia Anderson," Green replied.
"What is his serial number?"
"Does it really matter?"
"You never know."
"Hold on. It will take a moment to get." But Smith wasn't listening. His focus was again on the baby. Thomas had stopped crying. Smith leaned into the crib and looked Thomas in the eye.
"So, James created you, too? I suppose you wonder why you were created." Smith stood up again, giving the child a sideward glance. "You wouldn't like the answer, if I told you. So we'll leave it at that."
"Here it is," Green announced. "His serial is 10507-NEO."
"Do you think he's a threat?" Sine asked.
"We don't work by what we think, we work by what we know," Smith answered. "And I know that events like these can have residual effects on people. Such effects that lead to trouble. It's best to end this now." Smith pulled out his gun and pointed it at the child.
Reality is an incredibly complicated thing. We are led to believe that we exist in three dimensions. In reality, we do not. We exist in six dimensions. Three of which we have control over, one is constantly in motion, and the other two remain static. We have control of the three dimensions of motion. We can move any way we choose, but we are most often limited to the two dimensions of front to back and side to side. The fourth dimension of time is constantly in motion, and based on current human capabilities, cannot be controlled. The fifth dimension, probability, is strictly set to 1 in 1. Everything in the universe has one chance and only one chance. This cannot be altered. If probability were changed to 1 in 2, then everything would have two chances, and all probabilities would be doubled. This is, however, impossible. The sixth and final dimension is that of perception. In almost every case this is limited to our selves, and our point of view never changes from there. There are reports of advanced hypnotists who can move their perspective to another host, but many skeptics disagree.
In reality, however, has nothing to do with this story. The Matrix is not reality, but instead the representation of reality as based on a computer's opinion on what reality is. Within the Matrix, man can slow down time, an Agent can assume the perspective of any human plugged into the Matrix, and anyone can reset a program, giving them another chance and doubling their probability of achieving their desired end. In reality, a baby could not disappear into thin air and avoid a bullet. But the Matrix is not reality.
When the smoke cleared, the Agents found nothing in the crib but a few feathers and a smoking bullet hold. Green looked up at Smith.
"Where did the child go?" Green demanded.
"He disappeared," Smith grimaced. "Something happened."
"A glitch?" Sine shrugged.
"Undoubtedly," Smith replied.
"It couldn't be another anomaly," Green whispered.
"If it comes to that, we'll deal with it," Smith snarled. "Right now, our priority is to find that child, and make sure no one else hears about him."
* * *
Down the street, a few blocks away from the Anderson apartment, there was a safe house. It was a tall, abandoned apartment building, with various floors occupied by freed humans. On the fortieth floor, a group had been awaiting Eric and James, but had just received word of Eric's death. They sat in a darkened room. One hung up his cell phone.
"They called as soon as they could," one said. "The Phoenix had to blow its EMPs and it took them a while to get things booted back up to call. Eric went down fighting."
"He always did," another spoke up.
"Hear, hear," a few chimed in. The cell phone rang again.
"Hello? You're kidding. God damn it. We were so. All right. We'll be there." He hung up his phone again. "James Anderson is dead. His signal just disappeared out of the Matrix, as did his wife's." He slammed his fist on the table, a couple of people jumped in their seats. "We were so close, too. Just a few more minutes and we could have. Anyway, we're out of here. There's a phone on the thirty-seventh floor we can use."
"What about the kid?" one asked. Everyone stared at him. "There was kid, too. What happens to him?"
"He's as good as dead. I'd rather not think about it." Suddenly, a small cry came from the next room. The room emptied as everyone dashed through the hall. A baby lay in the middle of the room. Where he'd come from was anyone's guess.
"Has he been here all along?"
"I doubt it."
"Who is he?"
"There are initials on his pajamas."
"T.A.A."
"Thomas Anderson."
"James' kid?"
"Neo."
"What should we do?"
"Should we unplug him?"
"No, he's too young, he'd be killed."
"We have to protect him."
"We can't. They're going to send out all the Agents they can spare to get him. We can't fight them all off."
"We can't just let him be killed."
"I know, we have to hide him. We'll send him to another city, where he'll be safe."
* * *
That very night Thomas was smuggled through five cities until an orphanage was found a safe distance away. Lacking any official papers, everyone called him Neo. Eventually someone might be able to identify him, but for the time being he was safe. The freed always kept an eye on him in some form or another, until he could be told the truth about his life, about his parents, about everything.
Later that week, a small funeral service was held for the Andersons, found murdered in their home by a homicidal maniac who then took his own life, presumably by poison. Their gravestone was black marble, with a quaint engraving:
JAMES ANDERSON
Loving father, husband, son
JULIA ANDERSON
Loving mother, wife, daughter
THOMAS ANDERSON
Parents' joy and happiness
The Agents did not let anyone know that Thomas had escaped them, though their search continued furiously over the next days. Over time, however, other work began to take priority, and the anomaly of Thomas Anderson faded from what served as their memories. So the story was lost and forgotten. One single night that changed the course of history for man and machine alike, never to be heard of again. Only the freed knew of it, and they only spoke of it in hushed voices, for that night, blessed or cursed, was affected by powers greater than they.
Fate works in strange ways, but even stranger are the ways of irony. So of our most important historical events go unknown for ages. When disasters are averted or miracles halted, often times by forces beyond belief, the stories are silenced. But these stories are the real truth. They are the only truth within the Matrix. This is one of those truths, the truths of the man who succeeded, and the survivor of that night.
The Agents burst into the nursery to find Thomas crying. Sine turned on the lights and joined Green and Smith around the crib. Smith stood at the foot of the crib, Green and Sine stood to either side. Smith watched the infant for a moment, then looked at Green.
"Who is this?" Smith asked.
"Thomas A. Anderson, son of the late James and Julia Anderson," Green replied.
"What is his serial number?"
"Does it really matter?"
"You never know."
"Hold on. It will take a moment to get." But Smith wasn't listening. His focus was again on the baby. Thomas had stopped crying. Smith leaned into the crib and looked Thomas in the eye.
"So, James created you, too? I suppose you wonder why you were created." Smith stood up again, giving the child a sideward glance. "You wouldn't like the answer, if I told you. So we'll leave it at that."
"Here it is," Green announced. "His serial is 10507-NEO."
"Do you think he's a threat?" Sine asked.
"We don't work by what we think, we work by what we know," Smith answered. "And I know that events like these can have residual effects on people. Such effects that lead to trouble. It's best to end this now." Smith pulled out his gun and pointed it at the child.
Reality is an incredibly complicated thing. We are led to believe that we exist in three dimensions. In reality, we do not. We exist in six dimensions. Three of which we have control over, one is constantly in motion, and the other two remain static. We have control of the three dimensions of motion. We can move any way we choose, but we are most often limited to the two dimensions of front to back and side to side. The fourth dimension of time is constantly in motion, and based on current human capabilities, cannot be controlled. The fifth dimension, probability, is strictly set to 1 in 1. Everything in the universe has one chance and only one chance. This cannot be altered. If probability were changed to 1 in 2, then everything would have two chances, and all probabilities would be doubled. This is, however, impossible. The sixth and final dimension is that of perception. In almost every case this is limited to our selves, and our point of view never changes from there. There are reports of advanced hypnotists who can move their perspective to another host, but many skeptics disagree.
In reality, however, has nothing to do with this story. The Matrix is not reality, but instead the representation of reality as based on a computer's opinion on what reality is. Within the Matrix, man can slow down time, an Agent can assume the perspective of any human plugged into the Matrix, and anyone can reset a program, giving them another chance and doubling their probability of achieving their desired end. In reality, a baby could not disappear into thin air and avoid a bullet. But the Matrix is not reality.
When the smoke cleared, the Agents found nothing in the crib but a few feathers and a smoking bullet hold. Green looked up at Smith.
"Where did the child go?" Green demanded.
"He disappeared," Smith grimaced. "Something happened."
"A glitch?" Sine shrugged.
"Undoubtedly," Smith replied.
"It couldn't be another anomaly," Green whispered.
"If it comes to that, we'll deal with it," Smith snarled. "Right now, our priority is to find that child, and make sure no one else hears about him."
* * *
Down the street, a few blocks away from the Anderson apartment, there was a safe house. It was a tall, abandoned apartment building, with various floors occupied by freed humans. On the fortieth floor, a group had been awaiting Eric and James, but had just received word of Eric's death. They sat in a darkened room. One hung up his cell phone.
"They called as soon as they could," one said. "The Phoenix had to blow its EMPs and it took them a while to get things booted back up to call. Eric went down fighting."
"He always did," another spoke up.
"Hear, hear," a few chimed in. The cell phone rang again.
"Hello? You're kidding. God damn it. We were so. All right. We'll be there." He hung up his phone again. "James Anderson is dead. His signal just disappeared out of the Matrix, as did his wife's." He slammed his fist on the table, a couple of people jumped in their seats. "We were so close, too. Just a few more minutes and we could have. Anyway, we're out of here. There's a phone on the thirty-seventh floor we can use."
"What about the kid?" one asked. Everyone stared at him. "There was kid, too. What happens to him?"
"He's as good as dead. I'd rather not think about it." Suddenly, a small cry came from the next room. The room emptied as everyone dashed through the hall. A baby lay in the middle of the room. Where he'd come from was anyone's guess.
"Has he been here all along?"
"I doubt it."
"Who is he?"
"There are initials on his pajamas."
"T.A.A."
"Thomas Anderson."
"James' kid?"
"Neo."
"What should we do?"
"Should we unplug him?"
"No, he's too young, he'd be killed."
"We have to protect him."
"We can't. They're going to send out all the Agents they can spare to get him. We can't fight them all off."
"We can't just let him be killed."
"I know, we have to hide him. We'll send him to another city, where he'll be safe."
* * *
That very night Thomas was smuggled through five cities until an orphanage was found a safe distance away. Lacking any official papers, everyone called him Neo. Eventually someone might be able to identify him, but for the time being he was safe. The freed always kept an eye on him in some form or another, until he could be told the truth about his life, about his parents, about everything.
Later that week, a small funeral service was held for the Andersons, found murdered in their home by a homicidal maniac who then took his own life, presumably by poison. Their gravestone was black marble, with a quaint engraving:
JAMES ANDERSON
Loving father, husband, son
JULIA ANDERSON
Loving mother, wife, daughter
THOMAS ANDERSON
Parents' joy and happiness
The Agents did not let anyone know that Thomas had escaped them, though their search continued furiously over the next days. Over time, however, other work began to take priority, and the anomaly of Thomas Anderson faded from what served as their memories. So the story was lost and forgotten. One single night that changed the course of history for man and machine alike, never to be heard of again. Only the freed knew of it, and they only spoke of it in hushed voices, for that night, blessed or cursed, was affected by powers greater than they.
Fate works in strange ways, but even stranger are the ways of irony. So of our most important historical events go unknown for ages. When disasters are averted or miracles halted, often times by forces beyond belief, the stories are silenced. But these stories are the real truth. They are the only truth within the Matrix. This is one of those truths, the truths of the man who succeeded, and the survivor of that night.
