Wright had begun to understand its importance, as well, perhaps as a result of his machine half. Yet gazing at it from his position across the street, he felt nothing. No surge of emotion, no feeling of triumph at having made it this far. There were still corridors to traverse, doors to open. He was still outside.
A geographical disposition that was soon to be rectified.
Despite its safe location in the heart of the burgeoning fortress compound, the electronic multiplex was not entirely unguarded. Several T-600s were on patrol. Based on his previous experience, Wright doubted they would shoot him. He did not intend to take the chance, however. Regardless of what the other machines thought of him, it was better not to broadcast his presence. His “type” might not have permission to be here.
Even Terminators had protocols, he assumed.
Leaning back, he studied the structure across from him. While the first four floors were dark, lights gleamed on the uppermost level. The absence of illumination on the lower floors was not surprising. The machines did not need light, or not very much, to carry out their assignments. Light was for hunting humans. Then why the illumination on the top floor?
He waited for the T-600 patrol to disappear around a corner. Then he dropped into a crouch and started across the street.
In contrast to the perimeter wall, the outside of the building was replete with handholds. Wright scurried up one side all the way to the top like a squirrel on steroids. Once on the roof he had to navigate a cautious path through a jungle of antennae. He had never seen so many dishes and receivers in one place. Packed together though they were, none intruded on its neighbors’ space.
Well out of sight of the ground below, he paused to consider his options for entry. He could lean over the edge of the roof and swing himself through a window. That would be noisy and might well draw attention. He could try to fit himself into a ventilation shaft. Given the heat they generated, the machines needed a flow of fresh air as much as did humans. Or he could....
A glance through the moonlight revealed a rectangular shape sticking up above the rest of the roof. Rising, he darted over to the old access door. It was unlocked.
The top floor command center boasted more processing power than had ever existed on the rest of the planet combined. For all that, it was nearly silent. Illumination came not from the usual overhead fluorescents or lamps set on tables, but from the thousands of telltales that indicated whether or not a particular component was functioning properly. A few of the lights were red, some were yellow. Unfortunately for humankind, the vast majority were green or white.
Wright took the seat in front of the multiplicity of monitors. Several minutes of fruitless examination found him giving vent to the frustration and impatience that were, if nothing else, patent hallmarks of the human Marcus Wright.
Reaching out, he dug his fingers into the panel that covered the main control board, ripped it free, and flung it aside. Revealed to his probing gaze was an intricate maze of glowing wiring, silent chips, and busy processing units. He stared at the lambent display, memorizing all that he could.
Finally he gave up and shoved his hands deeply into the electronic wonderland.
The initial contact caused him to spasm as if in pain. It wasn’t pain, exactly. More akin to an interrupted heartbeat. One or two skipped thumps followed by a resumption of normal rhythm and circulation. More than blood was circulating through Wright’s mind now that he had made contact. Accumulated knowledge flowed through him in a river; a class five series of data packets over which his perception bounced and swirled. Another mind would have been overwhelmed by the sheer volume.
He did not know how he understood any of it, far less perceived it, but he managed to do both. Reams of information flashed before his eyes. He was a distributor, he was a sponge. The informational surge ought to have killed him.
It didn’t even give him a headache.
Gradually, the data storm subsided. On leisurely reflection he discovered that he was able to inspect, process, and discard an enormous quantity of numbers and records. Elation replaced disquiet when he came across the security codes for the perimeter defenses. Knowing that it might well set off multiple alarms, his fingers flew over several of the keyboards as he proceeded to shut these down.
That accomplished, he ran a thorough database search until he found exactly what he was looking for. Not the location of new prisoners, nor of old. Not the present location of the majority of human detainees. He was hunting for one particular individual.
Finding him, he used the complex’s own communications set to send forth a single terse, pre-agreed-upon signal. Though it would be broadcast widely and might be picked up by humans and machines alike, the special significance of the coordinates that indicated Kyle Reese’s present location would be understood by only one human.
Out in the mass of twisted girders that somehow still underpinned one side of the Golden Gate Bridge, Connor heard the soft beep of his compact communicator. Pulling it out, he studied the single red dot that was now flashing in the center of an overlay map of the old city. No words accompanied the pulsating dot, nor were they needed. He knew what the sound and sight signified.
Hauling himself out of the concealing tangle of steel and concrete, he started to climb down the remainder of the severed structure. At the bridge’s other entrance a pair of automated gun emplacements detected the movement and swiveled toward him. He tensed and prepared to run. When nothing further happened, he took a couple of cautious steps in the direction of the turrets. Still, the guns didn’t fire.
They didn’t fire when he was within maintenance range, nor did they alter their aim when he continued walking between them. Overhead, a small Aerostat hissed past. Its weapons systems tracked and fixed on the now running human figure—and without taking action it moved on.
So did Connor.
***
Having accomplished his purpose in coming, Wright was suddenly reluctant to leave. There was so much more to learn, so many details that could prove useful to the Resistance. He made himself stay, continued scanning and studying, soaking up as much potentially constructive information as he could.
That was when he came across a particularly interesting file with a simple yet profound designation.
MARCUS WRIGHT
Old headlines whipped past in front of him. Leaning toward the monitor, he scanned them with a mixture of anxiety and eagerness.
“Murderer Donates Body to Science.”
“Doctor to Congress: Death Row Inmate’s Body Can Aid Cybernetic Research.” This one was accompanied by a photo. A photo of someone he knew, a memory from his past. One of his last memories.
Dr. Serena Kogan.
Relentless and unemotional, the file continued to spill information. An obituary sped before his mesmerized gaze.
“Dr. Serena Kogan, cyberneticist, succumbs to cancer. Was infamous for convincing Congress to allow death row prisoners’ bodies to be utilized in scientific research.”
The subject matter abruptly changed, from the personal to the apocalyptic.
“Defense system goes online. Cyberdine Research says system foolproof.”
Then, “Rumors of glitch in multi-billion dollar defense system abound.”
And following, “Missiles in air: Russians retaliating. Hundreds of millions to die.”
From a religious website: “Judgment Day Upon Us!”
And finally, almost calmly, a simple computer readout.
NO FURTHER INFORMATION: WORLD WIDE WEB DISCONTINUED AFTER THIS DATE.
“Welcome home, Marcus.”
A voice, firm and unexpected, suddenly filled the room. Whirling, he looked up and around, but there was no one to see. He was still alone, still the only presence.
At least, the only physical one.
He knew that voice. It was one of the last voices he had heard. The voice of Dr. Serena Kogan. Who was dead, of cancer.
As he fought to resolve the apparent impossibility, some
thing slammed into the back of his skull—from within. Reaching up and back, he clutched at himself. There wasn’t so much a sensation of pain as of—finality.
Then he collapsed.
Within the submarine that was home to Command, the communications operator turned from his console to look back at the waiting Admiral.
“Signal broadcasting at full bandwidth, sir.”
Ashdown nodded approvingly. “Good. Issue the order to commence bombing of Skynet.”
The operator complied.
And failed.
And tried again. His expression one of helplessness, he looked up and to his right. Losenko was there, studying the readouts. Finally the Russian looked over at the two men.
“All outposts have stood down. You know about the broadcast. He’s reprogrammed everything. They will not attack until Connor orders them to.”
Ashdown spoke through clenched teeth. Only one word, that emerged as a curse.
“Connor....”
Unlike a comparable human fortress, the deeper Connor pushed into Skynet Central, the fewer patrols he encountered. From a machine standpoint, it made sense. Assuming nothing could get past the massive outer fortifications, there was no reason to waste resources looking for non-existent infiltrators. That did not mean he let down his guard, though. It would only take one sighting of the solitary fast-moving human to bring a host of lethal devices swarming in his direction.
So he kept to abandoned, ruined alleyways and empty streets, always on the lookout for the slightest sign of movement. Once, he nearly blew his cover and revealed his presence when movement among debris caused him to swing his rifle in its direction. Fortunately, he didn’t fire.
The cat that ambled out of the mountain of garbage eyed him imperiously, flicked its tail, and sauntered off in the opposite direction.
Connor let out a sigh of relief. The Terminators were thorough, but they were not omnipotent. If the cat could survive here without drawing attention, so could he.
Traveling deeper into the heart of Central, he slipped past several open areas crowded with inactive machines. All were mindless servant devices, from excavators to delivery trucks. They had brains, but no intelligence, no sentience, and were not capable of making decisions independent of what Skynet programmed into them.
Despite its provisional ascendancy, however, Skynet was neither the original nor the only remaining source of viable programming.
When he encountered a field hosting several large Transports, he had no trouble slipping into one. There were no guards. Once safely inside and out of sight, he made his way to the neural nexus, sat down, and removed the maintenance cover as deftly as he could. From his pack he took out the compact unit he had used to hack and reprogram the Moto-Terminator. If anything, gaining control of the Transporter’s brain was even easier. Where a Moto-Terminator was endowed with considerable freedom of action and the ability to make decisions on its own, the Transporter possessed none of those independent qualities. It could do only what it was told to do.
It took only a few moments for Connor to find what he was looking for, override the simple continuance commands, and enter a sequence containing new instructions. Once these had been set he replaced the panel as cleanly as he could, slipped back out of the Transporter, and disappeared once more into the night.
At first he wondered at how little machine activity he encountered. The more he pondered the absence, however, the more sense it made. You just had to think like a machine. Resources were allocated to fighting humans and building new facilities. Except for occasional maintenance, once a facility or component had been completed and put into operation, it could be allowed to carry on by itself, performing its programmed functions.
The result was an eerie absence of activity. Lights and automata hummed all around him. Since none were designed or had the capability to independently detect intruders, he continued to be ignored.
The lack of attention allowed him to reach the ever-expanding complex that was the heart of Skynet Central. Clearly, far more than communications and programming was being carried out in the new buildings. These structures formed spokes with Central as their hub. A quick check of his comm unit showed that he was closing in on the area where Wright had indicated Kyle was being held.
He still was not challenged as he entered the outermost structure and began to make his way inward. Designed to allow easy passage by everything from T-1s to much larger wheeled machinery, the often doorless portals permitted ready access to every part of the building. Though he had no time to linger, he could not help but be fascinated by some of what the machines had wrought. Here at Central they had begun to construct their own version of the world. It was all clean, polished, and utterly functional, with nothing of the human about it at all.
Until he heard the first screams.
Given all that he had been through, there was very little that could unsettle John Connor. Those hopeless shrieks, imbued with the last vestiges of despair and mired in ultimate agony, sent a chill down his spine. Slowing his pace, he rounded a corner and found himself peering into....
It was not a slaughterhouse. The machines were too neat, too efficient for that. Bits and pieces of what had once been people hung from the low ceiling. Some drifted suspended in viscous liquids while others were kept going by tangles of tubes and cables. As he made his way forward he passed everything from electrically stimulated arms and legs to individual organs to still intact torsos.
Worst of all were the wired heads. He thanked what spirits remained that the eyes of every one of these preserved and studied specimens were closed.
The shrieks came not from the fragmented cadavers he was passing but from deeper inside the building and another direction. Every human instinct screamed at him to go to their aid and it was a real struggle to keep to his preplanned path. If the unfortunates were being experimented on by machines, he could not save them. As had so often been pointed out to him, much more was at stake here than a few lives. But it hurt, it burned, not to be able to do anything to help them, if only by putting them out of their misery.
He kept moving and lengthened his stride. According to the comm readout, he was very close now. He would do no one any good—not Kyle, not Kate, not himself, not anyone, if he ended up stuck in a storage room somewhere in the depths of the vast complex, floating in a vat of gelatinous preservative with an anonymous label slapped over his decomposing face.
The section of Central in which continuing experimentation was being carried out on live humans was not entirely unguarded. While recognizing their superiority to the bipedal carbon-based lifeforms with whom they were at war, the machines had learned not to underestimate them. That included even those humans who were safely confined.
In the early days, security had been interrupted by the occasional breakout or escape attempt. Though one had not occurred in a while, the machines did not relax their vigilance. It was not necessary to maintain a large guard presence in the incarceration area, but a few Terminators were always in attendance. Their mere presence was enough to contain any effort at flight.
The T-600 heard a noise where there ought not to have been one. Tireless, remorseless, programmed to respond to the slightest departure from the norm be it visual or aural, it immediately turned and headed in the direction of the perceived auditory deviation.
It halted outside an elevator bay. While the doors stood open, there was no sign of the lift itself. Another divergence from the norm. Where presently there was only the blackness of the open shaft there ought to have been a waiting cab. Programmed to respond to and investigate any such digression from the expected, it moved forward and commenced a careful examination of the doors. Detecting nothing out of the ordinary, it then advanced to bend forward and inspect the open shaft.
A scrupulous examination of the dark depths similarly showed nothing unusual. Twisting its head upward, the machine continued its inspection. It immediately located the underside of the absent car, which appeared to
have become stuck halfway between the uppermost floors.
Something attached to the main cable drew the attention of its sensors. Magnification revealed a small blob clinging to the line. As the Terminator started to subject this discovery to analysis, the lump of C-4 detonated, severing the cable. The heavy, industrial-duty elevator cab immediately plummeted downward.
The T-600 was powerful, but not especially quick. It could observe, evaluate, and react, but not do all three simultaneously. The result was that the plunging multi-ton lift sheared it neatly in half. The upper section accompanied the falling cab downward. What remained wobbled on its legs, keeled over, and with a lifeless clang fell backward onto the floor
Swinging around to the open doorway from where he had been clinging, Connor put away the tiny remote detonator he was holding. As he stepped over the mangled remains of the Terminator a muted screech echoed up the open elevator shaft, signifying that the lift’s automated braking system had brought the cab to a safe stop at the bottom. Connor had been counting on that to forestall any much noisier, potentially alarm-activating crash. It was always gratifying to be able to use a machine’s own efficiency against it.
As he strained to listen to his surroundings, sounds began to filter up to him from holding cells that could not be much further down the corridor in which he was standing. Moans and occasional distinctive sobbing drew him onward. He glanced down at the comm unit. Holding steady in the center of the readout screen, the beckoning red light could grow no brighter.
He was inside it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marcus Wright remembered dying.
The bright lights. The attentive, expressionless attendants who in their fashion were more robot-like than the machines who were ostensibly their servants. A soft, nuzzling pain working its way through his body as if his blood was being lightly carbonated. Little different from going to sleep, really.
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