Item 3: Perhaps most importantly, there were other worlds.. .other realities. Skynet had been defeated i in this world, even though its machines remained J dangerous. But two people who'd been crucial to that victory—Jade Tagatoshi and Anton Panov —had come from another world entirely. In their reality, Skynet had been on the verge of triumph when they'd left it in 2036. What should be done now to try to help them? What could be done?
Those issues divided the militia, even the leader-ship. Some wanted to use Skynet's technology, now they had captured so much, and mastered a great deal of it. To others, that was a worse crime than risking defeat by the warlords. It had to be worked out, Danny thought, and quickly. One way or other, the future of the Resistance depended on it. The future of the Earth itself.
TEJADA ESTANCIA
Death must be like this. Curtis Suarez crawled forward, feebly; he coughed as he inhaled dust, then stifled the sound quickly, hoping that no one had heard. For a moment, he wondered whether he was still alive, or whether this was some kind of afterlife that he'd never imagined—not the fires of Hell, but something more drab and basic. He was lying in loosely packed earth, surrounded, he knew, by other bodies. When he stretched an arm, it was to touch a leg, or a boot, of one of his comrades.
It seemed that someone had started to fill the trenches with earth, then given up, at least temporarily, perhaps finding the job too difficult. It was too hard, perhaps, to break down the eight-foot walls, or shift that much dirt. The trenches had been dug out well, and reinforced with sturdy wooden supports. Perhaps the Rising Army of Liberation had higher priorities than to spend the hours of darkness destroying them. Evidently, its commanders had been content, in the end, to pile in loads of dirt, half burying the bodies. Perhaps they'd come back and burn them, in which case he really had to get out of here. Then again, would they act so barbarically? There was no ancestral hatred here, between the victors and victims. It was just a lust for power, for territory, not some intractable race feud. Perhaps they'd be humane if he surrendered.
Perhaps this. Perhaps that The truth was, he had no idea. Somehow he had to survive, keep going, get out of here. But how? And even if he could crawl to safety, there was nowhere to run. He'd be alone on the thousands of square miles of near-desert that the Pampas had become, with no shelter, no transport, no allies to harbor him.
That was getting ahead of himself. Could he even make it out of this trench? What if he was seen?
The earth that had fallen over him was loosely packed, not even covering him completely. With an effort, he could extend his gloved fingers into the open air. He was breathing fairly well now: at some point, he'd fallen or rolled face down, his mouth and nose tucked safely in a cavity made by the crook of his arm. He couldn't be sure, so far, what wounds he'd sustained, but he could snake his entire body forward, inch by inch, without any of his limbs failing, without any sudden stab of pain. It seemed that nothing was broken, at least no major bones. No limbs had been torn from him, no life-threatening wounds inflicted. Anything like that would have killed him by now.
He couldn't tell how much time had passed, but it had to be hours, possibly longer. The last thing he remembered was a massive bombardment, the earth all round seeming to rock and dance as though it was alive. Some massive force had knocked him down. That was all...or almost. Then there were disjointed fragments of memory, either real or dreams—no way to tell which. Come to think of it, many hours might have gone. The battle had raged all day, taking them almost to the fall of night. How dark was it now? He had to look around and see, even if he risked being seen at the same time.
With an effort he crawled on his stomach and elbows, finding the base of a wooden ladder. He pulled himself upward, then swung around into an awkward position, back against the trench wall. Overhead, the sky was the leaden color of day, not the pitch dark of night. It must be morning, then. Every bone and muscle ached, and he started to feel the cold, to realize how thirsty he was. He'd need to find a water canteen. He'd just rest for a few seconds.
It seemed that no one else had survived through the night. Perhaps some had been taken prisoner, but no one here was moving, even now he'd disturbed them. With pity, he looked on the corpse of his uncle, Angelo, who'd fought so bravely—not only in this battle, but for years, against the machines and the first wave of warlords.
He rummaged around Angelo's corpse, and found a metal flask. He unscrewed the lid carefully, and slowly, filled his mouth with water. He drank some without rushing, let it settle in his stomach, then drank more greedily this time, but keeping as quiet as possible. The trench must not be well guarded or someone would already have heard his movements and come to investigate, but surely there would be patrols of some sort; the Rising Army could not be utterly complacent. It leaders might have proved treacherous, but there'd been nothing wrong with their planning so far. Plainly, they were not incompetent.
When he was ready he found a pair of binoculars and a Kalashnikov rifle. He crawled into a tunnel that led back to the casco, its surrounding buildings, and the estancia's impressive bunkers. The tunnel had collapsed, in part, under bombardment, but it looked like it might still be possible to squeeze along it. The worst that could happen was that he'd have to back out. If he headed out onto the dustbowl, he'd surely be found.. .and besides, there was nowhere he could go. His only hope was getting among whatever was left of the buildings, even though it was walking into the enemy's hands. He could try to steal one of their vehicles, or one of the casco's own trucks and Humvees.
There didn't seem much chance of escaping without being seen and heard, or of outrunning the Rising Army's helicopters, if they came after him, but he'd find a way around that problem. If he could sabotage them somehow...
He crawled and pushed his way through the tunnel, trying not to moan or pant. Despite all his aches, he was starting to believe he'd be okay. Perhaps he would die soon, but not without inflicting damage. At least his body was up to some exertion. Like all of the defenders here, he'd pushed himself to the limit for days, hardly sleeping. No wonder he'd slept through the night.
Some light came from the other end of the tunnel, so it wasn't entirely blocked. He reached a point where the roof had entirely collapsed, opening it to observation from above, but he crawled through there quickly, lying on his back with the rifle's selector on auto, ready for a firefight if he was spotted. That was okay. He got through it, then back under cover. Just another fifty yards. He'd had no chance to construct in his mind what the casco and the estancia must look like, now, at ground level, or from the air. It must be totally changed from the bombardment. He imagined a scene of craters, torn up earth, and buildings reduced to matchwood and rubble. With any luck, enough would remain to give him some cover, some chance to do his work. He had one advantage: he knew the layout like the back of his hand. This was his territory, known from when he was a baby, every square inch of it.
The tunnel ended in a dug out area close to the bunkers. The Rising Army would surely have forced those open, ransacked them for anything useful, and taken over their rooms. It was no use trying to enter them, but there were also bungalows, garages and workshops: more buildings than the attacking force could use, designed to serve a large agricultural labor force. His best bet was to find which buildings were not in use, and try to hide for the next twelve or more hours, until darkness fell again. Once total darkness concealed his movements, he could act decisively. Even if he were killed, he might be able to inflict some real damage.
As he reached the tunnel's exit, he strained to hear any voices or other sounds. Two of the Rising Army's soldiers walked by, talking quietly in Spanish, but then they were gone. Somewhere to his right, a motor was running; he recognized it as the diesel engine of one of the estancia's Humvees. There were no sounds of helicopters, so he was safe from aerial surveillance. On his left, someone spoke harshly, followed by a quieter voice. Then the first voice said something dismissive in what sounded like mix of Spanish and English. Those
voices came from the direction of the casco. It sounded like two soldiers—one the other's superior—surveying the wreckage. With luck they would not be looking this way. Even if they were, he had every chance of seeing them first, since he'd still be in a hollow and could peer out carefully.
He inched his way out of the tunnel, curling up into the smallest space possible now that he was back in the open air. As he'd imagined, no vantage points overlooked his position. Some of the estancia's guardtowers must have looked down into this hollow, but they had not survived the years of fighting. The terrain was too flat to provide any natural position for surveillance. Carefully, he poked his head above the bank of earth to his left, checking out the casco through his binoculars. Not two but three Rising Army soldiers walked beside its ruins, one doing most of the talking and pointing. Curtis slid back, took another swig of water, then checked out the situation on the other side.
That was a problem. Several vehicles were parked together: five-ton army trucks; modified civilian vehicles; and a few Humvees. A dozen soldiers were gathered, some of them keeping watch, with rifles at the ready. Three were working on a Humvee, one inside it, revving the engine, while another peered underneath. The third stood at the driver's door, talking quietly to the man inside and looking almost in Curtis's direction. The Abrams tank and the two helicopter gunships were parked one hundred yards farther away, with another soldier standing around, while one worked on top of the tank. Together with the two who'd walked past him, headed for the trenchworks, that accounted for most of his enemies. Others might be in the bunkers or out doing reconnaissance work.
None of the buildings was undamaged. There was no hope of hiding in any of them. That made his situation so much worse. He'd at least imagined he might escape, entertained it as a possibility. But it seemed that his only choices were to surrender, and hope that the local commander showed some mercy, or go down fighting—doing as much damage as he could.
Surely the Rising Army hadn't massacred everyone that had been defending the estancia. Though he'd been surrounded by bodies when he'd woken in the trench, there must be some who'd survived and been taken prisoner. The logical place to hold them was underground, in one of the bunkers, where escape was impossible. If he could find a way to break in, that could make the difference. Should he try to break them free, or concentrate on creating what havoc he could, unaided?
Time to decide. Escape appeared impossible; surrender was unacceptable. He resolved to die, but not quite yet. He could go without food, and there was plenty of water and clothing. If needed he could strip the dead and get himself more layers of protection against the cold. Sooner or later, he would be discovered when someone checked the trenches again and found the trail he'd made in the dirt, but that might not happen for hours. Perhaps the Rising Army would have other priorities today, the day after its victory. Meanwhile, it seemed he could function here in the tunnels, unobserved. What he needed were more powerful weapons and—if his luck held out that long—the cover of darkness. It was a tight squeeze through the tunnel, but he could make a few trips, gather what he needed.
With some RPGs and hand-thrown explosives, he could take the Rising Army by surprise. He now knew where its choppers and the tank were placed. He could work out how to hit some of the other military assets here. Much as it would be nice to rescue some prisoners, that was too tall an order. He'd do what he could, acting alone.
As he crawled back into the tunnel, Curtis felt better by the minute. He would be killed, but he'd make sure that the Rising Army paid a price. He planned to sell his life dearly.
THREE
ATLANTIC OCEAN
EAST OF NEW YORK CITY
SEPTEMBER 5, 2029
Sixteen-year-old John Connor traveled on the same plane as the General, his elder counterpart. The younger John had traveled through time, and across 1 the dimensions between alternative timelines, from one reality to another. Now he was in the world that he'd once expected to be his own future, a world | where civilization had ended in August 1997, on what had become known as "Judgment Day." He and Sarah had played their parts in the final destruction of Skynet, the mad would-be god of this world, the war computer that had tried to exterminate the human species.
During the night, he had made some hopeless attempts to sleep. He'd actually napped for a few minutes, here and there, on the hard floor of the cargo bay, using his backpack as a kind of pillow. But there'd been too much on his mind. Nightmares had come as soon as sleep began to overtake him; then he'd woken, feeling creeped out. For hours at a time, he'd simply lain there, awake, worrying, trying to plan, trying to ignore the presence of Jade and all the others. It was too much. His thoughts had wriggled in his mind like maggots in rotted meat.
They'd kept bright interior lights on all night, throughout the plane's interior, just in case of what might happen with their dangerous cargo. Someone had to be awake and vigilant at all times. As he'd switched between trying to sleep and simply giving up, the Hercules had dodged storms, fought with ferocious winds, dropped suddenly into air pockets. John's back was now full of knots and aches, from the nape of his neck to the dimples above his coccyx bone. His head felt full of concrete.
Through the long hours, cold and uncomfortable, he'd thought about what had to be decided today, and what it meant for this world's future, perhaps the futures of other worlds. And he'd also thought about Jade. Amazing, wonderful Jade. Now he stood at a window in the aft of the plane, near one of its side-firing Bofors cannons. He watched the sea, not speaking a word, as Anton piloted them unerringly toward the ruins of New York City.
Jade stood next to him, using one hand to balance herself against the wall, though even that was not needed. Like everything else about her, her sense of balance was perfect. She wore a phased-plasma weapon, a heavy laser rifle, slung on a leather strap across her neck, ready to fire it at a moment's notice. It was a black, metal weapon almost three feet long, with no stock attached—like a giant, elongated handgun.
Jade's oval, Asian face was almost perfect, but something about her lips and eyes was solemn. She looked about twenty, but she'd lived only about sixteen years, much the same as John. That was measuring their ages by internal years, years of life actually experienced. John had been born in February 1985, and it was now 2029. But he'd traveled forward in time, and across the dimensional gap between timelines, from August 2001. He'd been here only six weeks. So, measured internally, he was still sixteen. . .going on seventeen. Jade was much the same. She'd been born some time in 2020, not long before her reality's version of Judgment Day. She'd traveled back in time from 2036 to 2001, spending a few weeks in John's world and time—then she'd come here.
In some ways, John was much older than sixteen, for he'd seen and done so much. But he couldn't compete with Jade, even in that respect. She'd fought for years against Terminators, H-Ks and other war machines. She had been genetically designed to grow up quickly, then stop aging completely. Indeed, with her sad smile, and her black hair falling raggedly about her beautiful face and down to her shoulders, she could have been infinitely old, a goddess troubled by the sight of human suffering.
She wore gray military fatigues, torn canvas boots, and a green T-shirt that clung to her figure closely whenever she leant back. She seemed unaware of the effect she created, which took John's breath away. Easy, John, he thought. Get a grip here. She must know. Jade's senses were enhanced beyond human, like every other aspect of her. Her mind was equal to that of an "ordinary" genius. What wasn't she aware of? She could probably read him like an open book.
His thoughts returned to their cargo, the nightmarish being that they'd imprisoned in a steel crate, welded tightly closed. It was a T-1000 Terminator, frozen in position like a statue, but potentially alive. When they'd fought it, along with another T-1000, in the Spanish mountains, they'd never managed to destroy it. The Terminators had simply frozen up when they'd destroyed Skynet's hardware. Evidently, they'd had no mission except to protect their master�
�a mad machine that was now defunct.
At the same time, the T-1000 they'd brought onto the plane could always come alive. Its underlying multi-distributed programming and molecular structure must all be intact. No one knew what other orders it might have; it might still reactivate. For that reason, they had taken care to bring back only one of the T-1000s. If anything happened, dealing with just one of the liquid-metal horrors would be bad enough.
Jade glanced up at John's face, as if something had disturbed her, perhaps just the slightest change in his breathing. "John?"
"Yeah?" He loved her, and she must know it. However frustrated or resentful he felt, there was nothing he could do about that—about either of those things. Worse, he meant nothing to her. To her, he must be just another ally in the war against Skynet, not even an important one. Compared to hers, or Anton's come to that, his abilities were nothing.
"Is everything all right?" she said, reaching out a hand to touch his arm.
"Yeah, sure," he said. "No problems." She looked at him more quizzically, and he added, "Really."
They'd been in close proximity for two months now...two months of lived, subjective experience. John, Jade, Anton, Sarah, and General Connor had been in the group that had finally destroyed Skynet six weeks before. The only others in that last raid, in the mountains north of Madrid, had been an American Resistance fighter called Tenez—who'd died before the final victory—and a Frenchman called Arnaud,
whom they'd left in Europe. Before that night, John and Jade had worked and fought together in John's own reality, back in 2001. A couple of months in all. "Hey," he said, when she was silent. "I'm just enjoying the view."
T2 - 03 - The New John Connor Chronicles - Times of Trouble Page 4