The last memory he had was of being given something to drink.
"What is this?"
"It will taste like coffee."
"But what is it?"
The program had frowned. "We do not need telephones. But we do need to send a message to the mainframe. This is the means. We also wish to buffer the process, to reduce the systemic stress upon you, and this program, once ingested, will signal that sedation is required. It is the means by which the Ones were freed before. It is not experimental, you need have no concerns about that."
"But they didn't do this in the machine city. They didn't do anything."
"That was not a possibility, in the circumstances - you were not conscious in either world. That was experimental. And we are told that they had considerable difficulty in preserving your mind as a direct consequence. The shock was too great." She paused as he absorbed this, and then added with impatience, "If you have changed your mind about this departure, please advise me accordingly. We have only a brief window. I must inform my superiors of any change of plan. If you do still intend to leave, then this is the sole safe means by which to do so."
"Fine," he said, and drank.
His memories ended about six seconds later.
When he woke up he was colder, and naked, and lying under some sort of blanket. His body felt heavy.
He opened his eyes, and suddenly found his eyesight was hazy. And the light hurt.
"Try to relax, sir."
And that voice wasn't human, either.
He managed, rather shakily, to pull himself up to a sitting position, clutching the blanket to himself. "Where am I?" he said. He thought a moment. "And who are you?"
"This is a craft built to better facilitate communication between our peoples, sir. And I am the Ambassador."
"The what?"
"I was built to better facilitate communication between our peoples too, sir."
Neo blinked, and managed to focus. His vision still blurred, but he could see a vaguely humanoid shape. One obviously made of metal, admittedly, but hell, at least they'd tried.
"My name is Neo," he said.
"Indeed sir, I know. It is an honor. May I ask how your eyes feel?"
"Sore," he said. He considered a moment. "But they work. Thank you."
"Good." The Ambassador smiled. "That will be of considerable satisfaction in Zero One."
"And I can move. I mean, I don't need reconstruction. Why is that?"
"You have only been in stasis a few months. And they have been applying electrodes, I understand. In an attempt to ensure the deterioration remained as minimal as possible. That has not been necessary before. Freedom was never the openly desired outcome, in all other cases."
"So Trinity's in better shape too?"
"I regret not. They cannot apply this technique to her."
"Why not?"
"It would interfere with the life support apparatus. Electrical impulses regulate much of that system."
"So she's still on life support," Neo said, and sighed. "Right."
"Some, yes. But not to any very considerable extent, not when the past is remembered."
"So she's still improving?"
"Oh yes." The Ambassador smiled, glad to be the bearer of good news. "The arms were not problematic, at least in comparative terms. The bone grafts took well. Bone alterations are of course very commonly performed upon humans in the fields, albeit usually at the fetal stages of life, so that caused no great concern. Nor did removing the spleen. No, the main difficulty lay in adequately supporting her continued existence while the damage to her stomach was corrected, and her liver and lungs replaced. Indeed the stem-cell technology employed was theoretical, prior to this project. It is eminently satisfactory that it succeeded at all, let alone as entirely as now appears to be the case. Her surviving kidney also developed a most serious infection; fortunately this responded well to the drug regimen adopted. But she suffered myocardial infarctions with rather trying regularity in the first month, which made protecting her neural integrity more troublesome, although of course the heart's primary functions were still being mechanically performed as recently as three weeks ago - there was no possibility that organic matter would suffice any earlier. We anticipated her death until at least fourteen days into the effort, and until two months ago the expectation was that she would have to remain in the Matrix on a permanent basis if she were to continue to live." The pride in the Ambassor's voice was immense - to be able to convey the magnitude of their gift to the human messiah. "It was wholly experimental, repairing Trinity. As of course you know."
"No," Neo said. He'd begun to shake uncontrollably. Christ, what she'd been through - that poor, beloved, broken body. "I didn't."
"Excuse me, sir?"
"I didn't. I didn't know any of that," he said. He began to vomit, the pod's fluid exiting his stomach in a sticky, bitter swirl.
"Oh," the Ambassador said, at a loss. This reaction was quite outside his programming. "How... unfortunate."
It transpired that the blanket was from Zion.
The machines had been stumped on that issue - how to provide for warmth and modesty, as he came round from the sedatives they'd used to cushion his release from the pod. Apparently they'd been stumped on how to clothe him, too. They had no means of producing fabric, so had requested that Zion supply clothing, and something to keep him warm while he recovered from the fields. For all their suspicion of the machines, this wasn't a request Zion was reluctant to meet.
The clothes were civilian - fancy, expensive looking, the kind of thing he'd seen senior officers and the Council wear to the most formal of occasions. They were whisper soft against his skin and fit perfectly; clearly bespoke. It made him uncomfortable, the implications of this luxurious new wardrobe. Zion had previously given him only filthy, ragged uniforms. They spoke of ordinariness, of being overlooked, of being just another soldier amongst dozens. These spoke of publicity and status; neither things he had ever enjoyed. All he wanted, now the war was over, was a quiet life with Trinity. Time alone together, some kind of interesting work. If she was able after all she'd been through, and if she wanted them too, he hoped for babies. Anonymity, time to enjoy one another, a future: the things they'd always been denied. It was all he'd wanted from life, ever since he'd met her. And threadbare uniforms symbolized that, whereas these clothes spoke of expectations. Of further, more ambiguous demands.
His eyes still hurt, but then, he supposed they would. They were new, too.
The first sight of Zion was harrowing. Gate 3 lay open, unguarded and unrepaired, and despite everything, despite knowing of the peace, it unsettled him to see the city so vulnerable. As they entered and he saw the damage done to the great dock - the pride of Zion - he swallowed hard. There was a gaping hole overhead, now criss-crossed with steel girders; presumably the initial stages in a major repair. It must, he knew, have been where the machine diggers first breached. And on the ground, the control tower was gone completely. Not even rubble or twisted metal remained, which spoke of an effective salvage operation, but also of how much must have required salvation. And the ports were almost all empty. Only one contained what appeared to be a skeletal Hammer; the rest, bare. He couldn't bring himself to look at the Neb's landing stage; couldn't bring himself to acknowledge that his home - the place he'd first been freed, fallen in love, worked, found his place in the world - was gone forever. Somehow, those last 48 hours before the end had seemed dreamlike, impossible, without any real proof or evidence. He'd been living in a temporal byway, it seemed, and this step back into reality meant each loss was still fresh. So many and so much had been lost. Every empty landing stage meant a crew he'd known and respected, and in some cases, people he'd cared for. Friends, allies, comrades; all gone. None of them had lived to see the freedom they'd given the years of their lives to win.
As he walked slightly shakily down the ramp, he saw Morpheus, standing with Ghost to greet him. He stumbled a little, and then he and Morpheus locked into a silent embrace. When he pulled back, he saw Ghost's agonized face, gazing anxiously into the vacated ship.
"She's not with me," he said at once. "But she's doing well. Don't worry."
Ghost let out a shuddering sigh and closed his eyes. "Thank God."
Morpheus tightened his grip on Neo's arm. "We've been... very anxious," he said softly. "Ghost and I."
"Yeah. But she's much better. She just needs time now."
"Why didn't you bring her home?" Ghost asked. Morpheus raised a hand.
"No. Ghost, not tonight. No questions. Neo needs some rest and some peace. We can talk tomorrow."
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Neo said. "But - where is everyone?" He suddenly realized the key reason the dock felt so alien. It wasn't just the missing ships, the missing infrastructure; it was the stillness and the silence. Not a soul was about.
"A gathering." Ghost smiled at him, understanding his confusion. "The city was told there would be news of you announced tonight. Nobody would miss that - you've been all anyone's talked about, ever since the war ended. But we thought - Morpheus and I - that you might appreciate a night in peace. Nobody knows you're here yet, except the Council and the fleet survivors." He hesitated, and looked at Morpheus. "Though I'm afraid you will be expected to speak to the people tomorrow. Just briefly, just to reassure them. Ease the pressure on the Council, stop the rumors. But not tonight. Tonight, you can have some quiet."
It was a relief, when he reached the city proper, to see that it was mostly intact - unlike the dock, no new hell had been wreaked here. The sole damage was where some bridges had been broken. The actual apartments and sidewalks, the terrain of his home city, had all survived untouched.
When he reached his own apartment, he hugged his friends goodbye and closed the door behind them. He stood for a moment, looking at this little time capsule, this little sanctuary. Every inch was just as he remembered it, and saturated in memories. He reached for Trinity's robe, still on the chair where she'd left it when she'd hurriedly dressed to leave for that final mission. He remembered the reluctance, the barely-hidden resentment in her eyes when she'd answered the door that morning, knowing it would mean the end of their precious time alone together. He remembered wrapping his arms around her, feeling her body through the thin fabric, wishing he could offer reassurances that weren't lies. But he couldn't, any more than she could, so they'd both been silent, just clutching one another, motionless. They'd stood like that for several minutes, before turning away without a word to change, pack, ready themselves for the war once more. The moment she took that robe off, things had reverted to a military footing. She'd reverted.
He put the robe to his face and breathed her in; the civilian, Zion Trinity. The one that was wholly his. Then he curled up in their bed, surrounded by unlit candles, and slept.