The T-600 broadcast new orders. All but two of the assault robots were to accompany it as it set off to run down the T-X’s tracer signal. It angled left, around the exterior of the civic center, and began running in that direction. Ahead, assault robots that had just entered the center came spilling out through the doors once again.
* * *
The two assault robots remaining within the civic center continued on their unaltered mission. Their infrared-sensitive optics picked up the faint bright spots on the floor indicating where humans had recently walked or run, and, though there was some confusing dispersal of steps suggesting a certain amount of uncoordinated activity, there were clear signs that the majority of humans present had departed the main chamber through one specific door. The robots followed that trail.
The glowing footsteps followed a linoleum-floored back corridor to a stairwell, then descended its stairs. Had the robots been human, they would have hesitated in their pursuit, as following humans down into a lair they had occupied for any amount of time tended to result in high casualties. But assault robots had no more a sense of self-preservation than refrigerators. They followed at their relentless walking pace.
On the basement level, the corresponding corridor led the robots to signs of recent damage. A concrete wall had been blown out, probably through use of an explosive charge. Mounds of rubble still littered the hallway, though it appeared that the majority of the rubble had ended up on the other side of the wall. The robots approached.
On one mound was a device small enough to be held easily in a human hand. It had an aperture in one side, the side turned toward the robots, and a series of light-emitting diodes on top. As the robots neared, the object began to beep, an unending series of high-pitched noises.
The first robot bent over the device and quickly identified it as a primitive motion detector. Wires ran from the object in several directions—through the hole in the wall, back along the corridor and up the stairs, farther along the same corridor.
The robot decided that the very arrival of Skynet forces was being utilized to trigger some event.
Then the largest mound of rubble, artfully arranged by hand to conceal a quantity of high explosives, detonated.
So did explosives planted on support pillars all over the civic center.
* * *
The T-600 received a partial transmission: TARGET ZONE SHOWS SIGN OF HUMAN TAMPERING (ESTIMATED PURPOSE: DESTRUCTION OF EVIDENCE, DESTRUCTION OF SKYNET FORCES) WITHIN STANDARD PARAM—
Then it heard the explosions. It turned to see the civic center swell just a bit, then become blurry around the edges as walls and ceilings buckled, collapsed. Gouts of flame burst through the ceiling of the main chamber at several points.
It was not relevant. The robots within the complex had not detected John Connor. The T-X was still moving. The T-600 returned to the task of catching up to the T-X.
However, this was proving to be a problem. Telemetry provided by the Skynet units was tracking the T-X with acceptable accuracy, but as soon as the T-600 or one of the assault robots got within a certain distance of the tracer, typically fifty to sixty yards, the T-X would put on a burst of speed and move to a new, more distant location. As yet, neither the T-600 nor any of the assault robots had obtained visual evidence of the T-X’s position.
The T-600 changed tactics. It sent its entire complement of assault robots ahead in a broad, fanning pattern, instructing them to set up a circular perimeter about two hundred yards in diameter, to set up stationary positions, and to set all sensors to optimal performance. It waited stock-still for five minutes, as more and more neighborhood buildings caught fire around it, before moving once more toward that signal source. This time it set up to receive visual broadcasts from all of its units.
The signal source was now sixty yards ahead. In that vicinity, the T-600 saw a pickup truck with a flatbed trailer attached, both parked there for the better part of three decades. The flatbed truck was loaded with machinery small enough to be carried or propelled by a single human; the T-600’s scanners and analyzers indicated that the machinery was used in the maintenance of plant life. The wooden flooring of the trailer had rotted over the years, depositing most of the machines as mounds of corrosion upon the pavement below.
There was enough room beneath the truck and the remains of the trailer to conceal the T-X and perhaps John Connor as well, but the likelihood of either of them being there seemed remote. Still, the T-600 headed toward the signal source.
Its approach caused a reaction. A blur of gray fur exploded from beneath the trailer, moved across the nearest lawn, and disappeared between two houses.
The T-600 took a moment to evaluate all its sensory data. The map it viewed internally finally updated with telemetry from other units. The gray mass was the source of the T-X tracer signal.
The T-600 brought up and sharpened images of the gray mass both from its own optical sensors and from those of some of the assault robots. It was an indigenous canine. There was a man-made object around its neck, a band of leather. Skynet informed the T-600 that such items were used by humans to restrain and identify animal companions.
The canine could not be the T-X. Therefore the T-600 had been relayed the incorrect signal frequency information or the T-X’s tracer had been relocated. The T-600 broadcast that information and waited for instructions.
* * *
By storm drain and overgrown field, by back road and creek bed, the members of the Resistance made their way out of Santa Fe.
They were aided in their escape by the ever-growing fire behind them. The fire confounded Skynet units’ visual sensors with smoke and flame. Even Skynet’s surveillance satellites, optimized to use infrared photography, were thwarted by the conflagration. By nightfall, the entire group, excepting those who had fallen before they could join the others in the storm drains, were well outside the city limits, keeping cold camps in the hills.
And John Connor allowed himself to feel just a touch of optimism. They had a T-X. They would learn more from it than it had from Paul Keeley. They would turn its very existence to their own advantage.
If they could make it back to Home Plate alive, that is.
* * *
The vehicle depot beneath the National Guard armory had been nicknamed Yucca Compound, but to Paul it seemed far less like a Resistance compound than it had several days ago. Many of the vehicles that had been here were now gone, having been repaired to the point of drivability and taken away by Resistance workers over the last few days. With those drivers, an equivalent number of mechanics, and the entire set of leaders and their bodyguards gone, the place was echoingly empty.
Of course, some vehicles remained and probably would always be here. One old pickup had proven to be too far gone to resurrect. The self-propelled howitzer was too slow, too loud, and too prone to breakdown to be transported anywhere, but it would be maintained here by the Resistance in case they ever needed a long-range artillery piece in this part of the world.
The two motorcycles were still here, and Paul had spent the last two days arranging for them to be transportable.
One would be easy. John Connor had announced that he would carry it on the back of his Humvee. Paul had merely put together some brackets that could be mounted on the Humvee’s back.
The second was more problematic. It might be carried on one of the Army trucks, but indications had been that one truck would be nearly empty, carrying little more than the T-X and the expedition’s remaining fuel supplies, while the other would consequently be packed from bed to canopy.
Paul had cannibalized portions of the dead pickup truck, removing both its axle assemblies and using them to form the frame of a small trailer. He had welded cross-braces and mounted portions of the pickup’s bed, folded over for reinforced strength, to serve as the trailer’s flooring. Now he was finishing the yoke that would connect to a towing vehicle’s trailer hitch, but it was his second attempt to get the yoke and cup right. He wasn’t entire
ly satisfied with the results, though they were better than his first effort.
He heard the compound’s main door grind open, followed by cheers from the three or four personnel stationed at the top ramp.
It had to be the return of the convoy, the first vehicle at least.
Paul bent over to put some more finishing touches on the yoke, then Kyla’s words popped up in his mind: “To become something, you have to define it, then understand it, then simulate it until it becomes second nature.”
Did he want to be the sort of person people greeted by name, welcomed with genuine warmth at gatherings and reunions? Yes.
What would such a person do in an event like this? He’d go up the ramp and talk to the returning Resistance fighters.
He sighed, then shut off his oxyacetylene torch, pulled off his goggles, and set them on the trailer. Then he marched up the ramp.
As he got close, he saw that the first vehicle in was one of the Hell-Hounds’ SUVs. A few paces closer, and he could make out the forms of Mark Herrera and Kyla Connor talking with the workers up there. He breathed a sigh of relief.
And pulling down the ramp to the top depot area was a dune buggy. Smart was driving, Fix in the front passenger seat; the youngest Scalpers member, J. L., was sitting up from the rear seat. All seemed jubilant.
The first words Paul made out were Mark’s: “… not entirely clean. We lost four of the regular troops.”
“But you got the package,” said one of the workers.
“We got the package. In fact, that’s what will be pulling in next. It’s a couple of miles back.”
There was general applause and back-slapping. Paul moved up behind Kyla. “Dogs okay?”
“Huh?” She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Oh. Yeah. I let them out just outside so they could run around for a few minutes. Thanks for asking.”
“Sure. Uh, when your dad gets in, you might want to tell him that I’ve got a pair of motorcycles for him to choose between, and he’s not going to find it an easy choice.”
“He’ll be happy to hear that. He’s—oh, here it is.”
All present could hear the distant sound of a large engine downshifting. Moments later, the reflected sunlight from up the ramp was partially blocked by the hulk of one of the Army trucks as it turned into the tunnel to descend.
Kyla took a couple of steps toward the truck. Paul moved to follow—and felt his legs grow rubbery, too weak to hold him upright.
He leaned against the SUV, holding on to the support of its side-view mirror. That’s what it took to stay on his feet. Now dizziness made his head swim, made everything he saw a bewildering blur. Shaking his head made it worse, so he shut his eyes and sank to sit on the SUV’s step-up rail.
He heard the others surround the new arrival, heard its tailgate slam open. And there were more cheers as the treasure it carried was revealed.
Which was all fortunate for him. Everyone had moved forward to see the truck and its contents. No one remained behind to witness his sudden weakness.
What the hell’s going on? I need help. Then Paul forced away the thought. He didn’t need help. He needed to bull his way through the problem—whatever it was. Gripping the door frame above him, he pulled himself upright.
The dizziness was subsiding, and his legs supported his weight. They were still shaky as he made his way around to the back of the truck.
There, laid out in a coffinlike wooden crate, its side now open so people could look into it, was a thing, half woman and half robot. Its face was that of a lovely young woman, its clothes were those of a Resistance citizen … but its neck and torso were metal, with a series of steel clamps holding several pieces of electrical apparatus to her.
Mark Herrera clapped Paul on the back. “There’s your girl,” he said.
Paul considered an angry reply. But there, again, were Kyla’s words standing between him and the wrong answer. He wouldn’t make any friends instructing jerks in just what jerks they were. “No, I’m currently dating a microwave oven,” he said.
Mark snorted.
Besides, it wasn’t Eliza. The face was different. He knew that it was all illusion, a function of the T-X’s liquid crystal skin and its infinite permutability. But it still made a difference to him somehow. Without Eliza’s face, it was someone else.
He turned away. He was feeling better, but was still not quite himself. I need help. The words would not leave him.
* * *
Across the next half-hour, the remaining vehicles of John Connor’s executive caravan arrived, refueled, underwent maintenance. For John’s orders were that they get back on the road, carrying everyone and everything not destined to remain at Yucca Compound, as soon as possible. “The more distance we open up between us and where they’re looking, the better,” John said.
John did take a few minutes to admire the work Paul had done on the Kawasakis. Both looked to be in excellent shape, considering their antiquity and recent state of disrepair, and he couldn’t really determine which one he considered to be in better condition.
He flipped a coin, a big copper twenty-peso piece that had been old before he was born, a souvenir of Mexico that he often used for such purposes, and settled on the motorcycle with the flecks of white paint on the handlebars. “This one goes on my Humvee,” he told Paul. “The Scalpers can tow yours. Get ’em set up.”
Paul gave him a salute and a smile. “Yes, sir.”
* * *
It was to be a longer-than-usual caravan for a nonassault mission: eight vehicles total.
First, designated Fishhook-1, would be the Scalpers’ dune buggy with Sato and Jenna the Greek. Behind it would come the first Hell-Hounds’ SUV with Mark Herrera, Kyla, and her dogs. Of course, John Connor had had to decide, impartially, which of the two special forces units would lead the procession; he had resorted a second time to his coin.
The third vehicle would be the Army truck containing the bulk of the expedition’s gear, the weapons and tools liberated from Yucca Compound, and, in the cab, three of the expedition’s technicians. Behind it would be the Humvee with John Connor, Kate Brewster, Tom Carter, and Glitch driving.
Fifth would be the second Scalpers’ dune buggy, carrying J. L., Smart, and Nix, and hauling Paul’s motorcycle. Sixth would be the prize package, the Army truck holding the T-X, remaining fuel stores, with two soldiers and a technician in the cab.
Seventh would be the Humvee Avenger that John Connor was so pleased to add to the Resistance’s ground fleet. The remaining soldiers and technicians would ride in the eighth vehicle, a military van from Yucca Compound. At the very tail of the caravan, Fishhook-9, was the other Hell-Hounds’ SUV, bearing Ten Zimmerman and Earl Duncan.
* * *
In the rearview mirror, Tom Carter watched Paul finish tying John’s dirt bike onto the hastily mounted brackets on the Humvee’s rear. Paul pulled on his backpack, then moved up to the front passenger window and leaned in. “Ready to go,” he said.
Carter gave him a quick nod. “You’re in the van at the back. Slightly less bouncy—and slightly less kidney-killing—than the big trucks.”
“Thanks. Good luck.” Paul gave him a nod, threw a salute to John and Kate in the backseat, and headed back toward the van.
Kate watched him go. “What do you think, Tom?”
“He’s shaping up, I think,” Carter said. “Since we got back, I haven’t seen any sign of his paranoid fits. He may be ready to rejoin the human race. Well, to join it for the first time.”
“That’s something, anyway,” John said. He pressed the button for his lapel mike. “Fishhook-One, go in one minute.”
Sato’s voice came back instantly, “Roger that.”
* * *
As Paul reached the T-X truck, the driver, one of the expedition’s soldiers, leaned out of the driver’s-side window. “You coming with us?”
Paul waved toward the rear of the caravan. “Farther back. You’re going to have to live without my luminous presence for
a while.”
“We’ll suffer, but we’ll manage.”
I need help.
He was alongside the truck’s bed when the words filtered through his mind again. But this time the voice was not his.
He looked around. In the side-view mirror of the truck, he could see the soldier who’d addressed him, but that man wasn’t looking at him; he was turned to talk to someone else in the cab.
Behind the truck, the next ramp sloped down into the darkness. At the bottom of the ramp, the van that was his destination would be waiting, but he couldn’t see it in the darkness. There was no one near enough for him to have heard.
He moved around the back of the Army truck to peek into the bed. Within was the T-X’s closed crate. Trapped within it, her body paralyzed by interference signals being pumped into its wiring by the device Tom Carter had installed, she could not have spoken to him.
Then who?
I need help.
New dizziness threatened to overwhelm Paul. He put his hands on the tailgate to steady himself.
c.14
I need help.
Paul woke up on his back, staring up into darkness.
The surface he moved on was moving—rocking, swaying, jostling. He was in a car or truck. It stank of gasoline.
The voice that awoke him spoke again. I know you’re awake. Say something, but whisper, please. Otherwise they’ll hear you.
“This is bullshit,” he whispered.
You just said, “This is bullshit.” I heard you. Please believe me, it’s real.
He shook his head, trying to force the strangeness of the situation out of his head so memory could return. He had no idea how he had come to be here, where “here” was, or anything. The last he remembered, he was going to work, day after day after day … “Who’s speaking?”
It’s Eliza. Do you remember me? For God’s sake, say you remember me.
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