Rise of the Machines t3-1

by David Hagberg

  He fell back in a bloody heap.

  T-X went to the bathroom where she fastidiously washed the blood from her hand as the front doorbell rang.

  She cocked her head, her sensors picking up electronic emissions from a plain sedan parked on the street. Police frequency emissions.

  She glanced at Scott's body, then headed to the living room, her body thickening, her clothing melting away and changing so that by the time she opened the front door she had assumed the infiltration mode of Scott Peterson, including the boxer shorts and T-shirt he wore for bed.

  Two men stood in the corridor; one a bald white man, the other a black man with short dark hair. They were dressed in cheap suits and ties.

  They held out their gold shields. "Detective Martinez, LAPD," the one introduced himself. "We're looking for Katherine Brewster. Is she here?"

  T-X, as Scott Peterson, shook his head.

  The detective consulted his notebook. "You're her fi-anceScott Peterson?"

  T-X nodded.

  "A few hours ago there was an incident at the veterinary hospital where she works. We're concerned something might have happened to her."

  "Where is she?" T-X asked without inflection, as if the Scott character were in shock.

  "Well, we got a report from a gas station attendant out toward Victorville about a possible kidnapping. Might be related."

  T-X nodded his head. "I can help you find her."

  The two detectives glanced at each other and nodded. "Sure. Any idea where she might have gone?"

  17

  Valley of Peace Cemetery

  In the back of the pet van John Connor watched through the dividing window over Terminator's shoulder.

  He and Kate had finally eaten something and had drunk some water, but she refused to say anything else to him. He almost hated to turn his back on her. She looked as if she were on the verge of going berserk again. There was no telling what she was capable of doing.

  Connor hadn't been able to figure out where they were going, although he knew that the desert was off to the east and LA. back the other way. But now they were in an area of grass and tree-covered rolling hills, the occasional long driveway up to a house in the distance, or a small horse ranch nestled against a steeper hill. Pleasant countryside. He figured that a lot of people escaping from the daily grind in Los Angeles came out here.

  Terminator drove at a steady sixty miles per hour, on the straight stretches or on the curves, it didn't seem to matter to him.

  They were off the main highway, on a blacktopped secondary road that suddenly came around a hill to a

  broad vista of trees, grassy slopes, and narrow roads that wound their way in and among headstones, classical statues, small family plots enclosed by low iron picket fences, and mausoleums of all sizes, styles, and ornateness.

  No one seemed to be here this morning, except for a hearse and a Cadillac limousine parked at the base of a hill in the distance. At the top was a Gothic stone building that was an entrance to a crypt. But there didn't seem to be any people nearby. Nor were there any signs that caretakers were at work this early.

  Without slowing down, Terminator made the sharp turn onto the entrance road, flashed past a sign that read valley of peace cemetery, and crashed straight through a tall iron gate, knocking it half off its hinges.

  He drove directly across the cemetery, following the narrow roads, finally slowing down and coming to a halt near where the hearse and the limousine were parked.

  The morning was cool and beautiful out here, the sun very bright in a crystal clear sky. i

  Terminator opened the rear door. Connor jumped out first, blinking in the brightness. He turned and offered his hand to Kate, but she batted it away and jumped down on her own.

  "Come with me," Terminator said. He turned and strode up the hill to the crypt entrance that was flanked by tall stained-glass windows showing angels ascending to heaven. Connor almost expected to hear organ music playing softly.

  The heavy bronze doors were locked, but Terminator

  simply pulled them open as if they had been held in place by straw.

  Inside, he led them down a flight of stairs into the crypt Coffins were set behind marble slabs in tombs that were stacked five high. The morning light was diffused and colored by the windows, lending the place the solemn air it was supposed to have.

  Connor suddenly had an uneasy feeling that he knew who was buried here, but he couldn't stop himself from seeing with his own eyes.

  Terminator stopped in front of one of the tombs near the center of the crypt.

  Connor pulled up short, hesitating, as he saw what was chiseled in the marble cover of the tomb. He'd never been here before. He didn't even know about this place.

  He took a few steps closer, Kate just behind him. The inscription read sarah connorሗ-1997—no fate

  BUT WHAT WE MAKE.

  Kate was obviously confused. Nothing that had hap- pened to her this morning made any sense. She looked from the inscription on the tomb to Terminator and then to Connor.

  "Your mother?" she asked.

  "I never knew where she was buried," he said, his voice soft but filled with emotion. "I hit the road the day she died." He looked at Terminator. "Why did you bring

  me here?"

  Terminator didn't answer. Without warning he slammed

  his fist through the marble slab, shattering it into a mil-

  lion pieces, sending chunks flying everywhere, dust rising from the pulverized stone.

  Connor couldn't believe what was happening. He tried to muscle the cyborg aside, but it was like ramming his shoulder into a brick wall. "No! What are you doing?"

  Terminator shoved him away, reached into the tomb, and pulled out the polished stainless-steel coffin with one hand as if it were a toy. He slammed it on the floor, popped the locking bolts out of their seats, and threw open the lid.

  Connor was speechless. He didn't know exactly what he expected to see after all these years; his mother's skeleton, probably. But he wasn't expecting to find a steel coffin completely crammed with weapons and loads. A .30-caliber machine gun, several Russian-made AK-47 assault rifles, 9mm Glock pistols, a bandolier of H&W stun grenades that U.S. Special Forces used, a LAW antitank rocket, a 40mm Mk-19 grenade launcher with its loads, small bricks of C-4 plastic explosive, and a lot of other weapons, all of which Connor knew how to use.

  "Sarah Connor was cremated in Mexico," Terminator explained. "Her friends scattered her ashes in the sea. They stored these weapons in accordance with her will."

  Connor's eyes were drawn away from the weapons to a larger piece of the marble tomb on which the name connor was legible. So many years wasted. So many lives lost. So much damage and heartache.

  Now this.

  "What happened to her?" Kate asked at Connor's shoulder.

  "Leukemia."

  "I'm sorry," she said, staring at the weapons.

  Terminator was going through them, checking to see what had been left behind, in what condition everything was, and discarding some of the things.

  "We were living down in Baja when she was diagnosed," Connor said, not looking up. He was still in his own thoughts. Still back in Mexico with his mother. "They gave her only six months, but she fought for three years." He lowered his eyes. "Long enough to make sure."

  "Make sure?" Kate prompted.

  "That the world didn't end," he said. His life for the past twelve years had been surreal. But these past four hours had been the worst " 'Every day after this one is a gift,' she told me. 'We made it, we're free.' But I never really believed it." He glanced at the weapons. "I guess die didn't either."

  He and Terminator looked at each other.

  "You know, you were the closest thing I ever had to a father," Connor told him. He shook his head. "How pathetic is that?"

  Kate suddenly lunged between them, snatched a Glock 17 pistol from the coffin, and skipped back a couple of steps as she fumbled for the twin triggers. Her father had taught
her something about guns too.

  Terminator stepped to the left, blocking her exit.

  She pointed the pistol at his face. "Out of my way!" The gun trembled in her grip.

  "My mission is to protect you," Terminator told her

  evenly. He took a step toward her and she backed up, keeping the gun trained on him.

  "That's enough," she warned. She took another step back and was at the wall. There was nowhere to go. She tightened her grip on the gun and steadied her aim. "Move, or 111 do it. I swear I will. I'll shoot you!"

  Connor hadn't moved. "Go ahead," he told her. "See what happens."

  Kate was distracted by what Connor was suggesting. She glanced at him to make sure that he wasn't laughing at her again.

  Terminator snatched the weapon out of Kate's hand. Her finger jerked the triggers back, past the safety guard, and the weapon fired point-blank into his face.

  He flinched, and Kate stepped aside in horror, stifling a scream, not believing what she had just done. '

  Terminator rolled something around in his mouth, turned his head, and spat out the deformed bullet, a drop of artificial blood on his lips.

  "Don't do that," he said mildly.

  Kate was beside herself. She didn't know what to do. Where to turn. What to say. "Oh, my God," she muttered. "Oh, my God."

  Something metallic banged against the entry corridor wall and clattered down the stairs with a tremendous racket, belching dense white smoke.

  It was tear gas. Connor jumped back from the canister as the sharply pungent smoke filled his nostrils and burned his eyes like acid. He had been taught as a kid to

  breathe shallowly when you found yourself in this kind of situation. But Kate wouldn't know that.

  "This is the police," a powerfully amplified voice came from outside the crypt. "We have the building surrounded. Release your hostage."

  Connor reached for Kate, but she spun on her heel, managed to skip past Terminator, and was gone up the stairs in a flash.

  He tried to go after her, but Terminator kicked the tear gas canister aside and hauled Connor back to a relatively smoke-free niche behind a couple of marble statues of angels.

  "Just leave me here," Connor protested. His eyes were red and filled with tears. His vision was blurry at best. "You're wasting your time. I'm not the one you want."

  "Incorrect," Terminator replied firmly. "John Connor leads the resistance to victory."

  "How?" Connor shouted. "Why? Why me?"

  "You are John Connor," Terminator said without inflection, as if Connor had just questioned a fundamental law of the universe.

  But Connor shook his head. "Christ, my mom fed me that bullshit from the cradle. But look at me. I'm no leader. I never was. I'm never gonna be."

  Terminator grabbed Connor by the throat and lifted him bodily off the floor so that they were eye to eye.

  Connor struggled desperately to get free. "What are you—Let go—"

  Terminator squeezed harder, as if he were going to

  choke the life out of the human. "You are right," he said. "You are not the one I want I am wasting my time."

  Connor's eyes went wide with rage. The injustice of what was happening to him now was beyond bearing. After all he had gone through. After his mother. After everything. The struggle. All the bullshit for twelve years.

  Not this way. He wasn't going to die here and now. Not this way. He slammed his hands into the sides of Terminator's skull, kicking, thrashing wildly, fighting for his life with a rage that threatened to blot out every last sane thought in his head. '

  "Fuck you!" Connor screamed raggedly. "You fucking machine!"

  Terminator nodded. "Better," he said. He tossed Connor aside.

  Connor picked himself up and rubbed his throat as he tried to catch his breath. He had been close to fuzzing out. "Why did you do that?" he croaked.

  But Terminator showed little or no reaction.

  "You were dicking with me?" Connor demanded.

  "Anger is more useful than despair."

  "What?"

  "Basic psychology is among my subroutines," Terminator said as if he were discussing the weather. He pulled the modified Stoner 63A .30-caliber machine gun out of the coffin, then grabbed a belt of ammunition and efficiently loaded the weapon, pulled the slide back and released the safety.

  Connor suddenly remembered what Terminator was capable of doing. "Jesus, don't kill them."

  "My reprogramming will not allow it. I am incapable of taking human life."

  Connor grinned wryly, still rubbing his bruised neck. "Good to know."

  c.18

  Near Victorville

  They had left the BP station a few minutes ago. The black detective was driving the plain blue Chevy sedan, while his partner, Detective Martinez, spoke to someone by cell phone. Something was haywire with all the police frequencies, but so far cell phones didn't seem to be affected.

  T-X, as Scott Peterson, dressed now in a light sweater and slacks, sat in the backseat listening. There was trouble not too far away from here. The San Bernadino County Sheriff's office and State Police had been called in, along with an LAPD SWAT team.

  "Perps are still holed up?" Detective Martinez said. He nodded. "Gotcha." He broke the connection and turned to T-X. "Good news, your girlfriend's okay."

  "Where is she?" T-X asked.

  Martinez glanced forward. "Valley of Peace Cemetery. But they're going to bring her downtown—"

  T-X drove its left hand through the back of the front seat, its fist emerging from the black detective's chest, the fingers grabbing the steering wheel in a spray of blood, shattered bone, and torn tissue.

  Martinez reared back, not able to grasp what he was witnessing except that it was bad. Worse than he'd ever seen.

  "Oh, Jesus, God—" he blurted.

  He grabbed for his piece beneath his jacket, but T-X smashed the man's head into the passenger side window with its free hand, breaking out the glass and shattering the detective's skull.

  T-X drilled into the Chevy's dash panel and connected with the automobile's computers. The cemetery was highlighted on a map in its head-up display.

  Its arm still through the detective's chest, T-X hauled the car into an accelerating U-turn and headed off.

  Valley of Peace Cemetery

  The LAPD SWAT team leader hustled Kate down the hill to one of the waiting ambulances, where he turned her over to a paramedic whose name tag read stewart.

  Police radio units, the SWAT team van, and fire rescue units were parked along the base of the hill thirty yards from where the hearse and Cadillac limousine were parked. No one had found the drivers of the two vehicles. They had probably taken off the moment the trouble started.

  Officers, some of them dressed in dark jump suits with visored riot helmets and Kevlar vests, armed with various weapons including the Colt Commando assault rifle and the 9mm Heckler & Koch MP5 room broom,

  were fanned out behind headstones, statues, and one of the large mausoleums near the crypt

  Other cops were positioned behind their squad cars, their sidearms drawn. Still others held shotguns at the ready.

  Dense clouds of tear gas poured from the entrance to the crypt as shell after shell was fired through the open doorway.

  Kate shivered, and the paramedic put a blanket around her shoulders.

  A heavyset man, with thinning white hair and a smarmy look on his round face, came over. He had a manner that Kate supposed was meant to be comforting.

  "You're safe now," he told her.

  She couldn't determine if he was for real or not. But then he hadn't seen that thing that had kidnapped her.

  He dropped the cigarette he'd been smoking and ground it out. "Kate, my name is Dr. Silberman. I'm a post-trauma counselor for the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department" He smiled pleasantly, trying to reassure her that everything would be okay. "How are you feeling?"

  "He's not human," Kate said softly. "He's really not human—"

 
An understanding look came into Silberman's eyes. He sat down next to her in the back of the ambulance. "I know what it's like to be in a hostage situation. I've been there myself." He looked away and stared into the distance. He had been there. He knew. "The fear, the adrenaline. You find yourself imagining things. Impossible things. It can take years to get over it"

  Six SWAT cops wearing gas masks made a dash for the entrance to the crypt, leapfrogging by twos so that they could provide covering fire for each other if need be.

  Kate shrank back, but Silberman patted her hand. "It'll be fine, you'll see."

  One of the stained-glass windows burst outward in a spray of colored glass shards. Terminator stepped through the opening. The machine gun was cradled in his right arm, and with his left he balanced the stainless-steel coffin on his shoulder. Dense smoke swirled around him.

  The SWAT chief waiting farther down the hill raised his megaphone. "Drop your weapon." His sharply amplified voice rolled across the cemetery. "And the coffin!"

  Terminator headed down the hill away from the crypt toward the pet van without breaking stride, looking neither left nor right.

  Kate's heart hammered out of her chest Dr. Silberman jumped to his feet.

  The SWAT team at the entrance to the crypt swung around and opened fire. Bullets slammed into Terminator's back, ricocheted off the coffin with angry whines, and tumbled away at oblique angles.

  They crab-walked behind him down the hill, laying down a continuous line of intense fire. Some of the bullets struck the pet van, opening the gas tank, and it caught fire with a dull thump.

  Terminator paused momentarily, then turned and took a couple of steps toward the hearse parked about twenty yards away. He was still taking heavy fire to his torso, his legs, and to the back of his head.

  He stopped again, raised the Stoner machine gun, and began spraying the cemetery in a long, looping arc; the large caliber bullets shattered headstones, cut down small trees and statues, and destroyed several police cars.

  His targeting computer, which showed up as a reticle in his head-up display, overlaid with the heat signatures of humans, was meticulous in avoiding nonmechanical targets.