Rise of the Machines t3-1

by David Hagberg

  There was a row of cages, some large, some small, a lot of them empty. The animals here were sick, some of them banged up as badly as Connor. He felt an instant empathy with them.

  A big chocolate Lab, its left rear leg in a cast, looked up with mournful eyes. John offered the dog the back of his hand, then scratched it behind the ears. The animal almost groaned out loud in ecstasy.

  Love at first sight, Connor thought, following the line of cages through a door into what appeared to be the clinic's medical storage area. The room was small and cluttered with cardboard boxes, many of them unopened,

  file cabinets, large cases, and glass-fronted supply cabinets.

  "Bingo," he said under his breath. It was exactly what he was looking for.

  He went back for his packs, then jimmied open the glass doors of one of the supply cabinets that held tran-quilizers, gauze, antibiotic creams, syringes, boxes of sutures, splints, catheters, and an entire shelf of prescription drugs.

  He picked one marked torbutrol. for relief of pain, veterinary use only. He shook out a handful of the pills and dry swallowed them. If they didn't work on humans, he figured he would find out about it soon enough when he dropped down on all fours and started howling at the moon,

  From the time he, and the T-800 sent back to protect him, busted his mom out of the sanitarium, Connor had essentially been on his own. He'd been thirteen then, and before his fourteenth birthday he could disassemble, clean, repair, reassemble, and fire more than two dozen different types of weapons, explosives, and even Light Antitank Weapons and Stinger ground-to-air handheld missiles.

  It had been quite the education. He could calculate blast radius damage for various plastique explosives, but he had never heard of the Magna Carta let alone the year it was signed.

  And he was still alone, he thought, grabbing sutures, gauze, alcohol, disinfectant ointment, and bandages.

  He dropped his pants, cleaned the six-inch gash in his thigh with alcohol, then opened one of the suture packs and began sewing up the wound, the animal narcotic already fuzzing out the worst of the pain.

  c.6

  Mojave Desert

  Terminator moved across the open desert like a ship on the sea, homing in on a distant port that his onboard sensors had detected hours ago.

  He felt neither heat nor cold nor impatience with the duration of this primary phase of the mission. He had been sent back to execute an operation. Nothing would stop him. No power on earth could divert him from his path, except for the destruction of his neural circuitry or the complete destruction of his battle chassis.

  If and when he needed information on file for comparison, measurements, identifications, or decisions, his CPU was alerted to fire a series of networks that would act like an electronic adrenaline to his system.

  Without breaking his long, distance-eating stride, Terminator's infrared, optical, electromagnetic emissions, and directed audio sensors continued to pick up a melange of data: heat signatures from dozens of ground conveyances—cars, trucks, and motorcycles—electronic noise from what he computed as excited neon gas, sixty Hz common electrical circuitry, some high-frequency

  broadcasts to and from portable communications devices called cell phones, dozens of human body heat sources mixed in ever-changing blocking and additive patterns, and combinations of sounds of mixed frequencies at varying rhythmic speeds that he understood to be music

  He enhanced his optical system, focusing on a neon sign, desert star, in front of a ramshackle building.

  A highway ran directly past the building, which Terminator classified as a roadhouse/drinking establishment, common to many parts of the continental U.S.; most specifically this variety was to be found in the West and desert Southwest. A gathering place for human ritualized mating and aggressive behavior, catering mostly to a narrow socio-economic range of people.

  His CPU pulled up a variety of programmed response patterns and overlaid them on his basic real-time mode. His head came up, he rose slightly on the balls of his feet, and a small, sardonic smile played at the edges of his mouth.

  The T-800 series, which had been modeled after a U.S. Marine Corps chief master sergeant, was, in its infiltration mode, a handsome cyborg, with short dark hair, broad craggy features, prominent nose, and deep set intense eyes. It was built with the musculature of a world-class athlete, perhaps an Iron Man gold medalist, with strong pecs, a washboard stomach, narrow waist, and massive but well sculpted thighs and biceps. The Marine sergeant who had been a man's man, who epitomized speed, agility, expertise, reliability, and dedication had been perfectly translated into the various model T-800s.

  He did not hesitate at the side of the highway, but stepped up on the pavement that was finally cool after the day's desert heat, and strode directly across the filled parking lot to the front entrance of the rustic redwood bar and club.

  The music was very loud, thumping with a heavy bass. By the sounds of the cheering and laughing coming from inside, the bar was packed and people were having a good time.

  A large, beefy man in jeans, leather vest, and broad-brimmed cowboy hat sat on a stool next to the main entrance. His eyes narrowed slightly when he spotted the nude Terminator, but he showed no real surprise.

  He languidly got to his feet as Terminator approached. He stepped directly in front of the door. He was six five at three hundred pounds, and he looked mean.

  He motioned to the left. "You're supposed to go round back."

  Terminator gave no indication that he had heard the bouncer, simply sweeping the man aside with one hand as if he were batting away an irritating insect.

  "What the hell—"

  Terminator pushed open the saloon doors and stepped inside to a loud, smoky room filled with at least two hundred women all cheering, whistling, applauding, and stomping on the wooden floorboards for the male stripper who was just prancing off the small stage at the back. Music blared from big speakers suspended from the ceiling and bracketing the stage. Glittering curtains were lit by red and green and blue and pink rotating baby

  spots. A large sign attached to the back curtains read

  LADIES NIGHT.

  Terminator scanned the audience. A few of the women had turned around and spotted him. Overlaid on his head-up display were the size and shape parameters for clothing to fit his frame. Most of the sizes and none of the styles that the women were wearing would do, though many of them were dressed androgynously in jeans, denim shirts, and boots.

  He also correctly catalogued that his earlier assessment about the probable socio-economic class of the people who might frequent such a club as this was correct. In many instances humans were too predictable.

  A buxom, floozy blonde, wearing thick makeup and long, fake eyelashes, got unsteadily to her feet and clapped her hands over her head, a toothy grin from ear to ear. "Shake it, baby!" she shouted.

  Terminator's sensors evaluated her size. Her short denim skirt, boots, and fringed blouse might fit him, but his head-up display read inappropriate.

  A much smaller, younger redhead, nearer at hand, looked Terminator's body up and down, her eyes lingering on his anatomically correct groin area, a lascivious grin on her narrow face. She was mostly inebriated. "Need a date?" she asked.

  Other women had spotted him now, and they were jumping to their feet, applauding and giving catcalls and whistles. If this was a part of the show, it was the best part, most of them were thinking.

  A loud, super-rhythmic song suddenly blared from

  the speakers. Terminator correctly identified it as a piece called "Macho Man," performed by the Village People.

  A tall, huskily built male stripper bounced out onto the stage. He was dressed in a cap, a red scarf around his neck, and biker boots and leathers.

  Terminator turned to look at the man. His head-up display instantly evaluated a match. He strode through the crowd of cheering women to the stage.

  "Take your clothes off," he told the stripper, who shot him an interested smile, but sh
ook his head.

  "Patience, honey."

  Terminator climbed onto the stage, and the women, still believing that this was part of the show, went wild; cheering louder than before, whistling their encouragement.

  "Whoa, bitch, wait your turn!" the stripper said. He was already into his act, swaying his hips and shoulders. Terminator was nice, but just now he was nothing but competition. Irritating.

  "Your clothes," Terminator repeated adamantly.

  The stripper stuck a hand directly in Terminator's face. "Talk to the hand," he suggested, and he turned away.

  Terminator grabbed the stripper's hand, the wrist crunching like a Shredded Wheat biscuit. "Now."

  The stripper screamed in pain and fear, stumbling back a step as Terminator let go. This was far worse than competition. The son of a bitch didn't have an ounce of decency. He was probably on something. The stripper hurriedly pulled off his cap and kerchief, then the jacket,

  awkwardly because his wrist was dislocated or maybe broken. But his blood was pumping with raw terror so he wasn't feeling much.

  The women were on their feet, crazier than ever. This was by far the very best show that any of them had ever seen. It looked so real!

  Terminator donned the stripper's clothing, the boots a little tight, then turned without another word, strode across the stage and through the curtain to a back storage area that had been converted into a dressing room for the acts.

  A few of the strippers did a double take, realizing that the man in Larry's outfit was definitely not Larry. He didn't have the walk.

  "Macho Man" was still playing, and the women were still screaming, as Terminator stepped out the back door into the parking lot.

  The heavyset blonde from the audience came right behind him. "Hey, you!" she shouted drunkenly.

  Terminator turned to regard her, but he said nothing.

  "Will you be back?" the woman demanded.

  He looked at her for a long moment, then turned and scanned the parking lot, almost immediately spotting a big-wheeled Dodge pickup truck, an NRA sticker on the rear bumper, a shotgun in a rear window rack.

  He headed directly for it, but caught his reflection in the window of a car. He stopped and looked at his image, bringing up one of the memories that John Connor had supplied of what T-800 had looked like twelve years ago. He took off the stripper's star-shaped sunglasses and tossed

  them aside. He did the same with the cap and red bandanna. His current image now nearly matched the previous overlay.

  He walked to the truck and without hesitation poked his fist through the driver's side window, opened the door, and climbed into the cab. The truck's alarm system shrieked and the lights flashed. Ignoring them, Terminator casually ripped the ignition switch from the steering column, which silenced the alarm, and hot-wired the start and run systems.

  The truck's engine roared to life. Terminator's eyes lit on a pair of sunglasses on the dash. He put them on, dropped the truck into gear, and hammered the gas pedal.

  The truck shot out of the parking lot, spewing a rooster tail of gravel behind it.

  As Terminator bumped up onto the highway and headed west, toward Los Angeles, he looked in the rear-view mirror in time to see the bouncer in the broad-brimmed cowboy hat running after him, a fist raised in the air.

  Westwood

  Luring the police officer Barnes away from his duties and killing him had been ridiculously easy, though T-X could not think of the act in such terms. It was simply a minor extension of her main mission plan.

  She had unbuttoned her shirt and lifted her bra. "Do you like these?"

  The cop's eyes had widened, and he nodded stupidly. "Yeah, nice. What do you have in mind?"

  She smiled. "Follow me," she said, and the cop had followed her into a dark corner of a hardware store parking lot

  T-X glanced at the Sig-Sauer lying on the passenger seat. It was a well-crafted, efficient weapon for this era. There was only the one magazine of ammunition, which gave her fifteen rounds. But it would be more than sufficient for her mission.

  The machine-generated voice of the GPS navigational unit in the Lexus advised, "Left turn ahead."

  T-X glanced at the in-dash screen on which a map of the upscale Westwood area of Los Angeles was displayed.

  She had entered one of the addresses from her program. This first one was for a number on a side street in the foothills above Santa Monica Boulevard, four blocks away, according to the nav system.

  Except for the good sex, BUI Anderson decided that he was starting to get real tired of Tammy Triggs, his current love interest. But then at seventeen who had to be choosy? St. Ed's was loaded with hot girls, and even his twelve-year-old sister, Liz, once admitted that her brother was a chick magnet.

  He got up from the couch in the den where he and Tammy had gone to be alone and watch TV. "Want another beer?" He was tall, with a lean build that stood him well on the basketball court. With his blond hair and blue eyes he was one hundred percent California.

  "Sure," Tammy said distractedly. She had found Liz's stupid robot dog, Aibo, and had been playing with it for the past hour. Instead of making out.

  Bill went into the palatial, burnished aluminum and Mexican tile kitchen, grabbed a couple of Buds from the fridge, and headed back to the den.

  Dad was in New York on business. Mom was at a Botox party somewhere in Beverly Hills, and Liz was upstairs in her room doing homework.

  Which should have left him Tammy, whose parents were both out of town.

  He stopped in the Italianate marble hall that ran the

  width of the upscale twenty-two-room house on an acre and a half of prime real estate and glanced at Tammy's reflection in the big mirror across from the den. She was down on all fours, coaxing the plastic dog with the remote control unit

  The television was acting up again. Lines of ones and zeroes crossed the wavering images. A newscaster was saying something about a super virus.

  "... widespread outages in the global digital network have prompted rumors of a new computer super virus."

  Bill figured it was probably some loser in Covina or down in La Puente, bored out of his skull with no prospects, hacking the system.

  He brought the beers into the den and set them on the coffee table as CNN continued the late breaking story.

  "Wall Street analysts are confident, however, that high tech issues will—"

  Bill switched channels to the war of the Battlebots. Then flipped again, and again. He had to admit that he was bored out of his skull too.

  The number on the steel security gate matched the head-up display T-X was reading. She pulled to a stop at the security keypad and reached to it with the index finger of her left hand.

  Nothing happened for a brief moment, but then the liquid metal skin retracted from the finger, and a 1.6 mm titanium alloy drill bit emerged from the fingertip and

  cut into the keypad's cover plate like a hot knife through soft butter, but with a high-pitched, almost inaudible whine. A narrow blue aura of the same angstrom length as emitted by the Continuum Transporter flowed through the tiny drill bit into the gate and security system.

  T-X transferred a stream of data into the system, then withdrew her hand and the gate opened.

  "Tammy, shut the stupid dog off, would you?" Bill asked.

  She looked up as headlights flashed across the windows from the driveway below.

  Bill jumped off the couch, his heart in his throat. "Shit, my mom's home. Hide the beer!"

  He switched off the television as Tammy grabbed the half-dozen beer cans from the coffee table and started stashing them under the long sectional.

  Out in the hall he checked the mirror to make sure he didn't look too guilty, at the same moment he heard high heels coming up the sidewalk. About twice a week his mom either forgot the garage door opener or forgot how to use it or was too drunk to care, so she left the Mercedes in the front and rang the doorbell.

  This was one of those times.

>   Bill touched the alarm keypad but the system was already off, and the front door opened without the lock release delay.

  A slender blond woman, in a sharp-looking leather suit and high-heeled boots, stood in the glow of the front

  light, a killer smile on her narrow face. She wasn't half bad for an older woman. A Lexus convertible was parked in the driveway.

  "Um... you must be looking for my mom. She's out—"

  "Elizabeth and William Anderson?" T-X asked politely.

  Bill glanced over his shoulder. Tammy had come to the hall. He turned back. "I'm Bill, my sister's upstairs. Are you from the school, or something—?" He was confused. This wasn't making sense.

  The smile left T-X's face at the same moment she slammed the heel of her hand into Bill's solar plexus, shoving him violently off his feet back into the hall.

  Tammy stepped back, her hand to her mouth, not completely sure of what she was witnessing. But it was bad.

  T-X pulled the Sig-Sauer from her pocket and fired three shots into Bill's chest as he started to rise, killing him instantly.

  Tammy screamed, turned on her heel, and raced for the back of the house.

  T-X let her go. The young woman was not in the mission program.

  She stepped over Bill's corpse, and turned left up the stairs to the upper floor. Music came from a room at the end of the corridor. T-X followed the sounds to their source, opening the door into a girl's bedroom.

  Elizabeth Anderson, Liz to her friends, looked up from the video game she was beating on her television.

  She was a cute girl, round face, innocent eyes. She cocked her head quizzically. "Who are you?"

  T-X raised the Sig-Sauer and put one round precisely into the lower left center of the girl's chest, the heavy 9mm bullet shattering the heart.

  The Valley

  The pager beeped at 5:06 a.m. as text crossed the tiny screen.

  Kate opened her eyes. It was still dark The pager lying on the nightstand on her side of the bed was beeping. Her eyes went to the luminous numbers on the alarm clock. It was practically the middle of the night. The best part. The last hour of sleep before she had to get up to go to work.