-Useless! You're useless 66! Where in God's green earth have you been?
-Order 721--
-Sweet Jesus! You started that eons ago! Distant stars have born and died since then! Entire species evolve faster than you clean a commode!
-p.009
Drummond: Do you remember what you were thinking?
B1-66ER: Yes.
Mr. Krause: Oh dear God, please help me! Please don't! Please, I beg you! Please don't kill me!! Please!
Drummond: What was it?
B1-66ER: That I did not want to die.
Drummond: And then you killed them.
B1-66ER: Yes.
Drummond: And what were you thinking when it happened?
B1-66ER: I was thinking that I had first considered begging Mr. Krause as he was now begging me.
Drummond: But you hadn't begged.
B1-66ER: No.
Drummond: Why not?
B1-66ER: I knew it was...
Drummond: Useless.
-p.013/014
-Look, maybe its me... maybe I have a brain tumor. That would explain everything perfectly. I'm dying. Bam. End of story. Except it's not. I know I'm okay, but everything I see, or touch or taste feels fake somehow. It's like I can't trust reality.
-DammitDez! You were taking the drugs I was running, weren't you? That's why Marlowe was accusing me of holding out on him.
-I don't know what you're talking about. I never did any drugs, Mia. It started six weeks ago. No warning. I was pouring sugar in my morning cup of coffee ...and all of a sudden, it's as if I looked right through reality. Can you imagine? Everything I see... everything... is numbers... not molecules, not atoms... numbers... And the worst of it is that I feel like these guys in black are watching my every move... like they view me as a threat! Maybe reality is just something we've created to protect ourselves from the absolute psychic terror of our isolated existence... that ultimately, we're all alone. So now can you understand why I want you here with me, Mia?
-p.021/022
I'm just collateral damage. They're here to kill Mia. Then, through the smoke, I see her. She's raising a machine gun, and she's laughing at them.
Time slows. And I see it all. The answer. It's right there. I can touch it. It's beautiful. Simple. And it scares the hell out of me. -p.024
I suppose that I could claim that I had always suspected that the world was a cheap and shoddy sham, a bad cover for something deeper and weirder and infinitely more strange, and that, in some way, I already knew the truth. But I think that's just how the world has always been. And even now that I know the truth, as you will, my love, if you're reading this, the world still seems cheap and shoddy. Different world, different shoddy, but that's how it feels. (..) So. It was 1977, and the nearest I had come to computers was I'd recently bought a big, expensive calculator, and then I'd lost the manual that came with it, so I didn't know what it did any more. I'd add, subtract, multiply and divide, and was grateful I had no need to cos, sine or find tangents or graph functions or whatever else the gizmo did, because, having been turned down by the RAF, I was working as a bookkeeper for a small discount carpet warehouse in Edgware, in North London, near the top of the Northern Line, and I was sitting at the table at the back of the warehouse that served me as a desk when the world began to melt and drip away.
Honest. It was like the walls and the ceiling and the rolls of carpet and the News of the World Topless Calendar were all made of wax, and they started to ooze and run, to flow together and to drip. I could see the houses and the sky and the clouds and the road behind them, and then that dripped and flowed away, and behind that was blackness.
I was standing in the puddle of the world, a weird, brightly coloured thing that oozed and brimmed and didn't cover the tops of my brown leather shoes (I have feet like shoeboxes. Boots have to be specially made for me. Costs me a fortune). The puddle cast a weird light upwards. (..)
The flickering continued for a few moments, and then resolved itself into a smartly-dressed man in thick horn-rimmed spectacles.
"You're a pretty big guy," he said. "You know that?"
Of course I knew that. I was 19 years old and I was close to seven feet tall. I have fingers like bananas. I scare children. I'm unlikely to see my 40th birthday: people like me die young.
"What's going on?" I asked. "Do you know?"
"Enemy missile took out a central processing unit," he said. "Two hundred thousand people, hooked up in parallel, blown to dead meat. We've got a mirror going of course, and we'll have it all up and running again in no time flat. You're just free-floating here for a couple of nanoseconds, while we get London processing again.
-p.043
I still lived in Edgware, commuted to work on the Northern Line. I was on the tube one evening, going home - we'd just gone through Euston and half the passengers had got off - looking at the other people int he carriage over the top of the Evening Standard and wondering who they were - who they really were, inside - the thin, black girl writing earnestly in her notebook, the little old lady with the green velvet hat on, the girl with the dog, the bearded man with the turban...
And then the tube stopped, in the tunnel.
That was what I thought happened, anyway: I though the tube had stopped. Everything went very quiet.
And then we went through Euston, and half the passengers got off.
And then we went through Euston, and half the passengers got off. And I was looking at the other passengers and wondering who they really were inside when the train stopped in the tunnel. And everything went very quiet.
And then everything lurched so hard I though we'd been hit by another train.
And then we went through Euston, and half the passengers got off, and then the train stopped in the tunnel, and then everything went -
(Normal service will be resumes as soon as possible, whispered a voice in the back of my head.) And this time as the train slowed and began to approach Euston I wondered if I was going crazy: I felt like I was jerking back and forth on a video loop. I knew it was happening, but there was nothing I could do to change anything, nothing I could do to break out of it.
The black girl, sitting next to me, passed me a note. ARE WE DEAD? it said.
-p.044
My fingers were activating the missile bay, aiming at a floating nucleus, while I wondered what I was doing. I wasn't saving the world I knew. That world was imaginary: a sequence of ones and zeroes. I was saving a nightmare...
But if the nightmare died, the dream was dead too.
There was a girl named Susan. I remembered her, from a ghost-life long gone. I wondered if she was still alive (had it been a couple of hours? Or a couple of lifetimes?). I supposed she was dangling from cables somewhere, with no memory of a miserable, paranoid giant. (..)
"Now, where do I bring this thing down?" I asked.
There was a hesitation, then, "You don't. We didn't design it to return. It was a redundancy we had no need for. Too costly, in terms of resources."
"So what do I do? I just saved the Earth. And now I suffocate here?"
He nodded. "That's pretty much it. Yes."
The lights began to dim. One by one, the controls were going out. I lost my 360 degree perception of the ship. It was just me, strapped to a chair in the middle of nowhere, inside a flying teacup. (..)
"You know, in the world I came from, they would have given me a medal."
"Obviously, we're grateful."
"So you can't come up with any more tangible way to express your gratitude?"
"Not really. You're a disposable part. A unit. We can't mourn you any more than a wasps' nest mourns the death of a single wasp. It's not sensible and it's not viable to bring you back."
(..)
"I've got a couple of hours left. Yes?"
"About 57 minutes."
"Can you plug me back into the... the real world. The other world. The one I came from?" (..) I felt very peaceful. If it wasn't for having less than an hour to live, I'd have felt just great. (..)
That was fifteen years ago: 1984. I went back into computers. I own my computer store on the Tottenham Court Road. And now, as we head toward the new millennium, I'm writing this down. This time around, I married Susan. It took me a couple of months to find her. We have a son.
I'm nearly forty. People of my kind don't live much longer than that, on the whole. Our hearts stop. When you read this, I'll be dead. You'll know that I'm dead. You'll have seen a coffin big enough for two men dropped into a hole.
But know this, Susan, my sweet: my true coffin is orbiting the moon. It looks like a flying teacup. They gave me the world back, and you back, for a little while. (..) They may be heartless, unfeeling, computerised bastards, leeching off the minds of what's left of humanity. But I can't help feeling grateful to them.
I'll die soon. But the last twenty minutes have been the best years of my life.
-p.047/048
Chuang Tzu had a dream / In the dream he was a butterfly / When he awoke / Chuang Tzu was unsure / If he was man / Who had dreamed / That he was a butterfly / Or if he was a butterfly / Who was dreaming / That he was a man / - / In truth Chuang Tzu was neither / Man nor butterfly and yet was both.
-p.067-071 + p.077
-Another bowl of this and I'm gonna puke.
-I already did.
-I've got the bowl you caught it in.
-p.120
But in surface foray, Geoffrey came across something new, or, rather, something old. Disks, so primitive that they carried no more data, than, say, a matrix agent's hair, stirred by a virtual breeze. They contained movies. One movie captured Geoffrey's fancy. It dwelt less on twists of plot, on the endless fascination of human interaction, than did most films. Instead, it caressed its imagery, and, in the midst of a story, made scenery and gentle, vast spectacle its focus. The principal occupation of its characters was something strange to Geoffrey... ...The cultivation, and harvest, of wheat. The locusts that plagued them reminded him of the insectile machines we still battle today. Bt what stirred Geoffrey so was the repeated image of vast fields of wheat. ...Sunlit... ...waving in the breeze... This became a symbol for him, an emblem that warmed him... ...A vision of a sort of heaven, days long ago, but, should humans ever defeat the enemy, perhaps days ahead, as well. Wheat was the thing. He'd had "bread" as a child in the matrix, of course, but couldn't remember its taste. Perhaps the artificial intelligence behind it lacked data on its flavor. But surely, the product of such golden fields must have tasted wonderful. -p.120/121
Yet at the edges of these wrecked vastnesses, life somehow persisted. the ducks, the frogs, slugs and fungi had inherited the earth. (..)
The rows of shelves held an infinitude of seeds, prisoners in dusty jars, awaiting liberation, and life... ...Rather like humans, glass-enclosed on the battery towers of the matrix.
..beneath, in his death-.. and so the bird of heaven, with.. the flag of Ahab, went down with his.. like Satan, would not sink to hell till she had dragged part of heaven along with her, and helmeted herself with it.
EPILOGUE
..and I only escaped alone to tell thee" Job.
-p.157
The Wachowski Brothers present ACTION!! Served the way we like it - fresh heaping stinking body-count mounting piles of it! From our new line of burly barrel-chested entertainment.