T2 - 01 - The New John Connor Chronicles - Dark Futures

by Russell Blackford

  Sarah lit a cigarette and drew back on it. She chewed her lips, then took another drag on the cancer stick. "All right," she said grimly. "We'll wait." She sounded resentful, like she knew better, but then she went quiet and her face softened. She stood and stepped close to him, opening her arms. She hugged John to her tightly, not saying anything, just sobbing. "I love you," she said. "I always have."

  And he realized: he'd always known. "I know. It's okay, Mom... I love you, too."

  Three hours later, they were in Mexico. The two of them, and "Uncle Bob."

  LOS ANGELES

  The T-1000's shapeshifting abilities were almost unlimited, constrained only by its constant body mass. Its default appearance was that of a young, serious-looking male human. Since arriving in 1994, it had found the value of mimicking a police uniform and using police vehicles.

  At the Pescadero Hospital, the Connors had evaded it, stealing a car and accelerating out into the city streets That was a setback, but the T-1000 still had resources. Down the road, within the Hospital's grounds, police and paramedics milled about like ants around a honey jar. A motorcycle policeman rode up to the T-1000, mistaking it for a human colleague. "You okay?"

  "Fine," the T-1000 said. "Say... that's a nice bike." Its finger became a metal spear, quickly stabbing the man] through the throat. If he lived, he might interfere. Quickly, the T-1000 hid the body in a nearby garden, then slipped away into the night, following the direction the Connors had taken. It had little chance of reacquiring them without assistance, but the authorities would pursue them, and it could easily obtain police information.

  Hours passed as it cruised round the city and its mile of sprawling suburbs. The Connors would need to hide somewhere overnight and deal with their wounds from the breakout. As the night passed, the T-1000 listened to the police radio. Numerous messages came through, including several sightings of the Connors, but they were alarms. This was a waste of time, and the trail was getting cold. By now, they would have disposed of their vehicle. In this situation, the T-1000's programming offered no clear solution. It knew very little about the resources and associates of the Connors during this period of their lives, except that they were known to have come from Los Angeles. Unfortunately, many records had been lost in the Judgment Day war and the chaos that followed.

  As morning approached, the T-1000 returned to the home of John Connor's foster parents: Todd and Janelle Voights. It had terminated the Voights and their dog before

  taking action to acquire Sarah Connor at the Pescadero Hospital. Everything here was quiet.

  It rifled through the pages of letters, diaries, and address books, seeking anything that might suggest the Connors' next move or any hiding place they might use. Among the papers were letters from Sarah Connor to her son, sent from Pescadero, but they were not useful. If there was information here, it was too privately coded. The house also contained computer disks, a hard drive, and many video and audio tapes. The tapes were mostly in commercial packaging, but that could be a deception--any of them might contain hidden messages. As the sun rose, the T-1000 played the audio tapes on the Voights' sound system. They were all as advertised: various commercial recordings.

  It lacked the resources to analyze the other material. Dealing with the disks and hard drive was the most difficult There was too much information on them for the Terminator to waste time reviewing them itself. Nor could it stay here watching the videotapes—sooner or later, someone would interrupt it and cause complications. It dismantled the computer and stuffed everything it needed into a shopping bag. At 10:35 a.m., it left the police bike in a downtown alley. Unobserved, morphed its appearance back to that of an orderly whom it had terminated at the Pescadero Hospital. Taking the computer materials, it walked to the police station, where a desk sergeant was seated behind a screen of bulletproof glass, talking to a wildly gesticulating middle-aged couple.

  The T-1000 pushed through and handed over the disks and the hard drive. "This came from the Voight residence," it said in the orderly's voice.

  "Hey, you can't barge in like this," said the middle-aged man. "Wait your turn."

  "This is evidence from the Voight residence," the T-1000 said, ignoring this. "The foster parents of John Connor, whose mother broke out of Pescadero last night. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

  "What? How did you get this?" the sergeant said.

  "Check it. It may contain information about the Connors' whereabouts." It strode out past the couple, who glared at it with impotent rage.

  Minutes later, it found its bike, still parked in the alley. Fine. It left the bike there and changed its appearance once more, this time to that of Janelle Voight, John Connor's foster mother. In that guise, it entered an appliance store two city blocks from the police station. As it checked the racks of gleaming video equipment, a clerk approached. "Can I help you, ma'am?" He was a gangly teenager with prominent teeth. He wore a striped shirt and a bright yellow tie.

  The T-1000 pointed to the shelves, to an Aiwa integrated tele-video unit. "I'd like that, dear," it said, using Voight's voice pattern.

  "How would you like it delivered, ma'am?"

  "I can carry it away, dear, don't worry."

  The clerk looked at the T-1000 as if he was dealing with a crazy customer. "That's a large item," he said.

  "Are you sure—"

  "Trust me on this, dear. I'm stronger than I look."

  The clerk still looked dubious. "Well, if you say so. I really think you should feel the weight of it first. We have a very good delivery service."

  "Well, perhaps. But is there one all boxed up ready for me if I want to take it away now?"

  "Sure. In the pile over there." He pointed, and the T-1000 took note. "Now, how would you like to pay?"

  "Like this, dear." The T-1000's right hand suddenly changed, stretching into a two-foot thorn of silvery metal. In one movement, it drove the newly-formed weapon upward through the clerk's chest, then withdrew it, letting him collapse behind the counter. It scooped up a boxed unit, and left the store.

  Next, it found a low-rent hotel on

  West 7th Street

  . In its Janelle Voight form, it walked in, balancing the boxed tele-video on its shoulder, with the shopping bag of videocassettes in its other hand. Behind the scratched, badly-painted counter, a fat Anglo woman looked it up and down, chewing gum and eyeing the large cardboard box.

  The T-1000 placed the bag and the tele-video unit on the threadbare carpet at its feet. "Hello, dear," it said. "I need a room."

  The woman shrugged her shoulders, as if she saw eccentric guests all the time and how they acted was none of her business. "Sure. How long do you want to stay, honey?"

  "Unknown, dear."

  The woman looked at the T-1000 quizzically. "'Unknown', huh? All right, I'll put you down as a long-term guest." She made a note in a foolscap exercise book, its used pages held in place by a thick rubber band, then found a room key on a red plastic ring marked with the number "8." "Let me take you through the rules here..."

  Once in the room, the T-1000 set up the tele-video and started watching cassettes on fast forward. During the afternoon, it worked its way through several of the videos, learning more about the behavior of human beings, but finding no clues to the Connors' whereabouts. As evening stretched on, it used its improved understanding of humans to conclude that the Connors might attempt to strike back against Skynet through its inventor, Miles Dyson, or Dyson's employer, Cyberdyne systems.

  It interrupted its search for evidence and made an action plan.

  Though many of its records were scanty, the T-1000 held detailed files about Cyberdyne and its key employees all material that had been available to Skynet in 2029. At 10:00 p.m. it rode in its policeman form to Miles Dyson's plush, modern house in Long Beach. From the street, nothing appeared suspicious; there was no sign of the Connors. So far, they hadn't struck.

  The T-1000 stepped quickly to the front porch and rang the doorbell. Someone
called out, "Honey, can you get it?" A human male with a gentle, educated voice, but he sounded very busy.

  After a minute, the door opened slightly. The young black woman looked surprised. "Yes, Officer?" she said.

  "I'm sorry to bother you so late. Is everything here okay?"

  "Yes," she said slowly, sounding puzzled.

  "No one else has disturbed you tonight?"

  "No. Not at all. Are you sure you have the right house?"

  "I believe so. Are you Mrs. Dyson?" "Yes."

  "Is Mr. Miles Dyson home?"

  "He's working, but I can get him."

  The T-1000 carried out an assessment. This was the right house, and the Dysons were safe—that was important in itself. "No," it said. "There's no need for that."

  "What's this all about?"

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Dyson. It's probably just a hoax, but we have to take it seriously. An inmate called Sarah Connor escaped last night from the Pescadero State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. You may have seen it on the news?"

  She shook her head slowly. "I might have seen something in the newspaper this morning. We didn't watch the news tonight. Miles was busy working and—"

  "I understand, ma'am. Sarah Connor was imprisoned for attempting to blow up an experimental computer installation over a year ago. We had a tip-off tonight that she might try to harm your husband or his employer, Cyberdyne Systems. Try not to worry, but please call the Police Department if you see anything unusual."

  "Thank you," Tarissa Dyson said uncertainly.

  "We'll keep in touch with you. Thanks for your cooperation."

  After she shut the door, the T-1000 considered the situation further. It rode off, searching for a public phone, and found one on a corner, outside a 7-Eleven convenience store. Its index finger lengthened and flattened to go down the coin slot and trick the mechanism, and it dialed the 911 police emergency line. When it finally got through, it imitated the voice of the clerk in the appliance store. "It's about yesterday's breakout from Pescadero."

  "Please, sir, where are you calling from?" A woman's voice, young and harassed-sounding.

  "I want to remain anonymous. I might be in danger."

  There was a sigh at the other end of the phone.

  "That woman who escaped custody," the T-1000 said. "Sarah Connor. Her and the kid—and the big guy from the shopping mall. They're going to target either Cyber-dyne Systems or its chief inventor, Miles Dyson. Maybe tonight. That's what I hear. I think you'd better check it out."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "This is important. Please check it out." It hung up. That should produce some more police activity and give additional protection to Dyson and Cyberdyne.

  It was nearly midnight when the Dysons' phone rang. They'd put Danny to bed, but they were too worried to sleep after that motorcycle officer called by.

  Tarissa took the handset. "Hello?" she said in a tentative voice.

  "Mrs. Dyson?"

  "Yes."

  "This is Detective Weatherby from the Los Angeles Police Department. We've had a tip-off that you and your husband may be in serious danger. We're going to call on you. I'd like you and your family to pack some clothes. I'm really sorry to disturb you like this."

  "Thank God you rang," Tarissa said. "Is this about Sarah Connor?"

  The detective sounded surprised. "It is, but how did you know?"

  "One of your officers came round a little earlier. A policeman on a motorbike."

  "That's very strange." There was a pause. "On a motor-bike, you say?" He sounded skeptical.

  "Yes, about half an hour ago."

  Weatherby sounded puzzled. "We've only just received the tip-off."

  "I can only tell you what happened," she said, feeling a bit irritated. The police needed to get their act together. That wasn't her problem.

  "I really can't explain that," Weatherby said. "Anyway, we have information that Sarah Connor could attack your husband or his employer. She is armed, and the man with her is extremely dangerous. He's already wanted for questioning over the murder of seventeen police officers in 1984."

  “Oh, my goodness." She remembered the news at the time, back before she married Miles, when they were both at Stanford.

  "We're taking this very seriously."

  "Okay. That's fine."

  "We'll put you in a hotel tonight and stake out your house. Try not to worry, but please call me immediately if anything suspicious happens before we get there."

  "Certainly, Mr. Weatherby," Tarissa said.

  "Be careful if anyone comes to the door. We'll be there soon."

  “Thanks," she said. It was stranger and stranger, more and more frightening. "We'll be careful. Thanks for all your help."

  "That's our job, ma'am."

  The T-1000 rode past the Dyson house one more time. After a few minutes, there was a call on the radio for a squad car to park here and wait, and another one to check out Cyberdyne. The T-1000 turned a corner and dumped the bike in the parking lot half a mile up the road. It was becoming a liability. The policeman's body had been found. Anybody using this bike would be questioned.

  Retaining its default facial anatomy, the T-1000 changed its copied clothing from police uniform to casual wear—sneakers, jeans and a two-tone sweatshirt— as it walked back to the Dyson house. Then it blended into the trunk of a tree across the road, and waited.

  Soon a marked car pulled up out the front. Not long after, another car arrived, unmarked this time. Two men in plain clothes and two uniformed officers got out of the second car, and went to the front door. Within another ten minutes, Miles and Tarissa Dyson had left, with their son, in the back of the marked squad car. One of the police moved the unmarked car moved round the corner, then returned. There were now four officers waiting inside the house in case the Connors appeared at the scene. That was a good trap.

  Miles Dyson rang Oscar Cruz, Cyberdyne's president from the hotel and briefed him quickly about the police stakeout. Oscar was in bed when the phone rang, and he sounded tired and grouchy at the other end, but he soon gained his normal composure. He was always smooth with employees, or anyone else he had to deal with. He got his way subtly—always a good manipulator, a social engineer.

  "Okay, Miles," he said. "I'll talk to Charles Layton and some of the others."

  "Ring the cops as well," Miles said. "The tip-off specifically mentioned me, but you'd better be careful."

  "All right. Look, come to my office in the morning, there's something else we need to talk about. I need to get your views."

  "On this?"

  "Not just this. But it's all connected."

  "Sure, whatever you want. Just be careful tonight, Oscar." To Miles, the main thing was that his family was safe. Danny was playing with his radio-controlled truck,

  guiding it all round the hotel room, zooming past the bed, then around Miles's feet. He really shouldn't be up this late. Tarissa sat up on the bed, leaning against two pillows and watching Danny play. She looked drawn, but at least she was all right. No one would find them here.

  "How close do you think you are with the new processor?" Oscar said.

  The question seemed to come out of nowhere—it was a funny time to be discussing business. "You sure you want to talk about that stuff, right now?" Miles said.

  Oscar sighed into the phone, but then gave a laugh. "I'm sorry, Miles. I have my reasons for asking, I'm not just being a heartless boss. I'm worried about your safety—nearly as much as you are."

  Miles laughed along tensely, glancing across at Tarissa and raising his eyebrows at her. "I kind of doubt that, right at the moment."

  "Yeah, yeah, point taken, but your call has got me thinking. Look, we'll talk about it in the morning. Take your time getting in, but come straight to my office."

  Next day, Miles arrived at 10:00 a.m., feeling tired as hell, but wanting to know what was on the president's mind. They met in Oscar's office, on the seventh floor of Cyberdyne's black-glass building. Oscar wore a
light sports jacket over a plain black shirt. His office walls were hung with Brazilian expressionist paintings—wild splashes of freeform color suggesting selvas, broad rivers, and exotic animals.

  "It looks like we're both in one piece," Oscar said. "How's Tarissa feeling?"

  "Shaken up, but she'll be okay."

  "Good. Take a seat, and I'll get to the point--it was time to bring you in on this anyway "

  "Yeah? What's the big mystery this time?"

  Oscar sat on the edge of his desk. "We've been worried about security at Cyberdyne--I mean me, Charles, the board. There's nothing wrong with our staff or our processes, but we're developing a profile that could attract psychos like Sarah Connor. That's not going to change, either. If II only get worse."

  "Yeah, that's probably right."

  "You can count on it. I was worried when Connor broke out of prison--or whatever you call it where they had her locked up---but I hadn't heard of any threats until you called me Thanks for doing that, by the way."

  "Hey, no problemo."

  "Yeah, well, it was appreciated. I'll get us some coffee and take you through the issues." Oscar called out to his secretary to bring café lattes for both of them He stepped over to Miles, sitting down and bending forward as if speaking more confidentially, though there was no one else to hear. "I asked you last night for your opinion on the new processor." He waved away any attempt at an answer. "I know, I get your reports, and I probably understand them as well as anyone."

  "Right."

  "Don't sound so skeptical," Oscar said. "Okay, there's Rosanna." That was Dr. Rosanna Monk, maybe Miles's best subordinate. "Anyway, I need a frank overall assessment right now. Are we as close as the reports say we are?"

  "I was working on it last night," Miles said. "It's frustrating. We're so close to solving the problems."

  "All right, but let's be realistic. You say we're so close, but what does that really mean? When will the problems be solved? Look, I'm not pressuring you, Miles, just trying to get some data."

  "Uh-huh?"

  "We've got some management decisions to make and this is vital if we're going to get it right. It's May now—do think you'll crack it by, say, August?"