Terminator Salvation

by Alan Dean Foster

  Rushing to the edge of the roof, Connor and his team peered down at the now inert machine. A few appreciative murmurs rose from the veterans among them, but for the most part everyone was too stunned to do more than stare. It was as if they could not comprehend what they were seeing.

  Stopping alongside the thoughtful Connor, Barnes observed tautly, “With all due respect, sir—did you have to let it get that close?”

  It had been a long time since Connor had experienced the kind of deep contentment brought him by the sight of the deactivated Hunter-Killer. He smiled meaningfully at Barnes.

  “If you’re going to kill something, especially a Terminator, get close enough to make sure you finish the job. Toughest soldier I ever knew taught me that.”

  Barnes’s eyebrows rose, reflecting his interest.

  “Yeah? Who was that?”

  “My mother.”

  Turning, Connor started toward the tech carrying the transmitter. “Status report.”

  The technician was studying the control panel he held in both hands.

  “This thing burns through a lot of power. Batteries are getting hot already. Long-range units are going to need forty, maybe fifty kilowatts. Sustainable kilowatts.” He looked at the squad leader. “With that kind of draw, this power pack can maintain transmission for another ten minutes, maybe twelve.”

  Connor nodded to show that he understood, turned to the watching members of the squad.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? It’s party time.”

  Whoops and hollers of delight rose from the tightly knit group of men and women. Connor watched as they disappeared down the stairs. Knowing what was coming, he beckoned to Barnes and the tech, leading them to the far side of the building. Moments later several massive detonations ripped the night air as the demolition team set off the explosives they had planted on the now-powerless killing machine.

  Chunks of concrete and shards of rubble rained down on the side of the roof where he and his people had been gathered earlier. They were gratified to see that the debris contained numerous chunks of twisted, scorched metal. The shouts from the street below that followed the fading explosions resounded louder than ever. Connor nodded thoughtfully to no one in particular.

  It also had been a long time since he had heard his fellow humans cheer like that.

  He pulled a communicator from his service belt, the most up-to-date available in the Resistance inventory. It took a moment to set up a secure contact. When the operator came through, he barked, “This is John Connor. Get me a line with Command.”

  The delay required to establish the necessary connection allowed him to reflect on how peaceful it was in the absence of combat. It was a reverie that did not last long. He recognized the voice on the other end of the line immediately.

  “Connor?” General Ashdown’s voice had lost none of its intrinsic sharpness. “Tell me the damn thing works.”

  “Would I be in contact with you now if it didn’t?”

  “So it functions like we hoped?”

  “That’s affirmative, but it’s just as the engineers diagrammed it. I mean that the signal has to be continuous until demolition of the objective has been achieved. Which means that, also according to projections, the machines will be able to track any transmitter location while it’s in the process of broadcasting. Anyone utilizing this system will be giving up their position.”

  The glee in Ashdown’s voice was unmistakable.

  “I don’t see what the problem is. As long as the signal works, there’ll be nothing left to do the tracking.”

  The general had a point.

  “I can do this, but I need more time. One successful trial run isn’t adequate.”

  “No, there is no more time. We don’t have time. The attack commences tomorrow. 0400, worldwide.” Ashdown paused a moment, as if consulting something unseen. “Your unit will be in support of the bombing of Skynet Central.”

  Connor frowned at the communicator.

  “Bombing? According to our latest intelligence, Skynet Central is filled with human captives. What’s the extraction plan for the prisoners?”

  Ashdown did not waver. “Extraction plan? There is no extraction plan. This is a war for the survival of the human race, Connor. We’ll do our mourning after we’ve won it. The names of a few hundred more can be added to the millions who have already perished.” There was a pause. “Leadership has its cost. You, above all, should know that.”

  Without another word the line went dead. Connor stared at the communicator for a long moment, until he was once again distracted by the elated shouts and hollering of his returning troops. Forcing himself back to the present, he gave the order to form up and move out.

  ***

  Only Barnes, watching his squad commander, sensed that something was not right. The test of the transmitter had worked perfectly. Everything had gone as well as or better than planned. Yet instead of partaking in the general elation, Connor had sunk deep in thought. Barnes knew his commander well enough to leave him alone. Which was hardly new.

  No matter the circumstances, John Connor always seemed to be alone.

  The Transport came down between several decaying buildings whose interiors were anything but inactive. Smoke and fire belched into the leaden night, suggestive of the continuous activity that was taking place within the flanking structures.

  Straining to peer out the tiny openings in the side of their flying prison, Kyle Reese could see shapes moving about in the haze and darkness. Some he thought he recognized while the design and function of others were completely alien to him.

  Limited as these glimpses of the outside were, they were not reassuring.

  Then the lights went off inside the detention compartment. A few of the prisoners screamed. Others uttered whatever oath was most immediately at hand. Curses were voiced in a multiplicity of languages.

  Something tickled Reese’s sense of smell, then assailed it. Gas; pungent, thick, and pregnant with unknown possibilities, not the least of which was the prompting of a sudden urge to retch uncontrollably. Brighter light appeared in quantity at the far end of the compartment.

  Fighting through the surging mob, the effluvia, and the rising stench, he found his way to Star and Virginia and shielded them from the escalating chaos as everyone on board the Transport stumbled toward the exit, desperate to get away from the intolerable stink.

  The oversized doorway toward which they were being herded by an assortment of T-1s and T-600s was lit like the mouth of hell. Floodlights turned the immediate unloading area bright as day, forcing exhausted prisoners who had been held in near darkness to shield their eyes from the sudden intensity. The light had no effect on the silently watching machines, whose vision was modulated by circuitry and not sensitive retinal pigmentation.

  As they staggered out of the Transport away from the gas that was coercing them, something that had been dropped on the floor of the craft caught Reese’s eye. Holding his nose and forcing a path back through the surging crowd, he managed to recover it.

  Battered, trampled, and dirty, it nonetheless brought an immediate smile to Star’s face when he was able to put her hat back on her head. If he could have identified them, he would have thanked whoever had originally found it.

  There was no time to inquire. Lurching forward, a huge machine with a wide curving front blade rumbled to life and began ungently shoving the dazed and tired humans along the walkway on which the Transport had deposited them. An ominous actinic brightness dominated the interior of the building in front of them.

  Forced forward along the walkway together with everyone else, a terrified Star turned an imploring gaze to Reese.

  He had always been able to help her, to fix things, to make it all okay. This time all he could do was meet her forlorn stare with one of his own.

  One of the prisoners had no intention of being thrust into the waiting maw. Leaping out of the line, the man who had previously challenged them to revolt on board the Transport char
ged one of the remorselessly scanning T-600s. Reese had to admit that the guy was fast, and to his credit he actually managed to get his hands on the Terminator’s weapon. His chances of actually wrestling the gun away from the machine, however, were about as likely as Star taking over the machine’s brain.

  Responding to the desperate assault, two of the other metal sentinels immediately zoned in on the rogue human and fired simultaneously. Both shots missed their automatonic comrade. Both struck the human who was fighting with it, killing him instantly. To make certain, the one with whom he had been grappling put the muzzle of its weapon against the front of the unconscious man’s head. Taking a long stride forward, Reese reached out and pulled Star’s face against his side just before the Terminator’s gun went off and blew its attacker’s head to bits.

  Throughout the altercation, none of the three Terminator sentries had uttered a sound. They did not do so now as they returned their attention to the line of disconsolate, shambling humans. There was no need to issue a warning or offer commentary.

  With the machines, actions always spoke louder than words.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Emerging from the edge of the forest, Williams led Wright toward a barbed wire fence that ran off in both directions as far as he could see. Directly ahead of them lay a section of fence that had been knocked or had fallen down. No one had bothered to replace the posts that had once kept the segment erect. An annoyed Williams paused to inspect the gap.

  “How are we supposed to win this war if we can’t even maintain a fence?” She nodded at the other side. “Come on. This is us. Outlying sector. Main base is further on.” She stepped over the downed section of fence.

  Wright stared at the twisted, crumpled wire.

  “I don’t understand. From what I’ve seen, this enclosure couldn’t stop the smallest of the machines.”

  She glanced back at him.

  “It’s not designed to stop Terminators. It’s to keep unauthorized humans out of this area.”

  “But why would your people want to....” Stopping before finishing, he hurried forward to grab her by the shoulder. With his other hand he pointed to a small metal tripod that pushed its head just above the ground. Its presence did not unsettle her. On the contrary, she seemed pleased that it was there.

  “Landmine. Pretty advanced design. One of the simpler but more effective projects the Resistance’s tech people have come up with. Not much use against something airborne like a Hunter-Killer or an Aerostat, but it works pretty good against anything on the ground.” She made a sweeping gesture. “The terrain around the base is filled with ’em.”

  Wright peered down at the simple tripodal projection.

  “I figured it was something like that. Thought you might want to keep all your limbs.” He frowned at her. “Doesn’t seem to bother you that you almost stepped on the damn thing.”

  “Their triggers are electronic sensors, not mechanical contacts. They’re programmed only to respond to the control signatures emitted by Terminators. Pretty slick piece of tech work. Humans can practically kick one around without worrying about it going off.”

  A dubious Wright studied the innocent-looking exposed tip.

  “This a theory or has someone actually tested it out?”

  “You think I’d be on this side of the fence if it hadn’t been?” Smiling, she turned and started straight across the minefield, making no effort to avoid anything in her path. In fact, she deliberately made contact with a couple of mines along the way, just to demonstrate. Executing an impatient pirouette, she peered back at him.

  “You coming? We’re gonna miss breakfast.”

  Responding with a diffident shrug, he stepped through the gap in the fence. Though her exhibition had been more than convincing, he still found himself edging carefully around the first mine. He was barely a foot past the site when something went click. Williams heard it too. Whirling, she had barely a second to meet his startled gaze before the earth erupted beneath him.

  He did not hear her shout.

  It took four of them to carry him into the infirmary. A limping Williams was among them, moving at approximately two obscene adjectives per linear yard. All the while she was talking to him, trying to get a response, any kind of response. It didn’t matter whether she pleaded, cried, cursed, or cajoled: there was no reaction from the battered body.

  “The damn mines...those damn techs,” she was muttering as she strained to hold up her portion of his weight. “They’re supposed to react only to the presence of Terminators!”

  In front of her, Barnes growled a response.

  “That was the plan. Doesn’t mean every one of the shithead engineers followed it. Maybe they got lazy with the programming on every tenth mine they turned out. Maybe someone forgot to insert the discrimination programming altogether and just built the thing to go off if a bird landed on it.”

  On the other side of the body, a soldier named Lisa saw their burden’s lips move.

  “Hey, he’s conscious! He’s trying to say something.”

  Williams strained to hear. She would have switched positions with the other woman, but it was more important to get the injured man to where a doctor could work on him than to listen to what he had to say.

  From the depths of Wright’s throat two words emerged, barely intelligible.

  “What...happened?”

  Nobody answered as they approached the nearest operating table. Turning toward her burden, Lisa struggled with the body. Wright was dead weight, but not dead.

  “On three! One, two, three—lift!”

  All four of them had to work in unison to get the body onto the table. Stepping back, the fourth soldier regarded the limp figure as he wiped at his brow.

  “Son of a bitch is heavy! No fat on this guy.”

  Williams was about to comment when the door burst open and Kate Connor strode purposefully into the operating theater, tying the string of her surgical mask behind her head as she came toward them. Studying the injured man, she moved purposefully around to Williams’ end of the table. Her eyes were roaming over the body; examining, appraising.

  “Okay, what’ve we got here?”

  A distraught Williams explained.

  “He stepped on a mine. My fault. I told him it wouldn’t go off.”

  “Not your fault.” Barnes hastened to correct her. “Fault of the bastard who improperly programmed the device.”

  Kate spoke to her assistant. “Start a large bore intravenous. Keep it open. Push twenty ccs morphine.” Her gaze flicked back to the anxiously watching Williams. “What’s his name?”

  “Marcus,” Williams managed to mumble.

  Kate had returned her attention to the patient.

  “He’s lucky to still have a leg. Both of them, no less.” Turning to a waiting tray of instruments, she selected one and began cutting away the shreds of Wright’s left pants leg. “Marcus—Marcus. I need you to keep talking to me.”

  Still stunned, Wright tried to follow what was happening around him.

  Kate spoke calmly as she worked.

  “Just keep listening to my voice. Do you hear me? Concentrate on what I’m saying. You don’t have to reply; just try to understand. Keep your mind working.”

  It was impossible to tell if he had heard and understood because he did not reply. Already working fast, she picked up her pace even more. Peeling away the last strips of shredded fabric revealed blackened flesh beneath. She scrutinized the damage coolly.

  “He’s got a prosthetic leg?” Without waiting for a response from Williams, she raced on. “Okay; we’ve got burns—multiple lacerations. Can’t tell how bad until I get in deeper. I need gauze, disinfectant, antibiotic—methicillin for a start, keep some vancomycin handy.” She didn’t need the scissors to rip open Wright’s shirt. A large chunk of metal was embedded in his chest.

  “Pulse is good. Okay—let’s see what we’ve got....”

  Wright opened his eyes. At almost that exact moment she dropped the surgi
cal instruments she had been wielding and stumbled backward. Compassion and professionalism gave way to a look of uncontrolled horror.

  Lying on the table, Wright turned his head just enough to meet her dismayed gaze.

  “What’s the matter? What’s wrong? How bad is it?”

  She continued to gape at him—lips parted, mouth wide, pupils expanded, focused on something he could not see. He tried to understand, just as he had tried to understand everything that had happened to him since—since....

  Since he had been executed by the State of California.

  “What’s happeni—?”

  Relieving him of confusion and its accompanying angst, the butt of Barnes’s rifle slammed into his face.

  When he regained consciousness for the second time since activating the landmine, he was too overcome to speak. But not too dazed to realize that he was unable to move. Though held suspended in a vertical position with his arms outstretched at the apex of an old and long since abandoned missile silo, the bindings and heavy chains that tightly restrained his arms, legs, and other parts of his body prevented him from doing more than thrashing futilely.

  This he did for several minutes before an intensely bright light struck him full in the face, causing him to squint sharply and look away.

  When the prisoner’s eyes could finally focus once more, a watchful John Connor allowed himself to approach more closely. Given the circumstances, he knew the sensible thing would have been to keep his distance. But he had to have a better look. The fascination of the thing was undeniable. As a bewildered, exhausted, and yes, frightened Wright gasped for air, Connor slowly let his gaze travel over every inch of the singular captive.

  “The devil’s hands have been busy,” Connor finally murmured.

  The prisoner had been allowed to retain his pants. He had been allowed to retain his boots and his hair. What he was presently missing was his shirt and much of the skin that had formerly covered the upper portion of his body. It had been cleanly peeled back like the plastic wrapping on an old toy. Beneath lay—beneath was....