Music

Disclaimer: I do not own Sarah Connor Chronicles or the Terminator Saga. The following events are fictional.

Authors Note: This story is a part of my series that began with "Judge the Sky." I recommend going back and reading "Judge the Sky," "The Line is a Canyon," and optionally "Chasing the White Rabbit" before reading this one. For those of you who read "Chasing the White Rabbit," I know, I know… "Swordsman, what the hell did I just read?!" The answer… Whatever you make of it. Anyway, I am going to retread some of the philosophical ground from that story to benefit those who got half-way though and decided they needed to sober up and move on. Be aware that these stories are AU, ignoring the series episode "To the Lighthouse" and beyond. I also recently rewatched the series and apparently I am also breaking with certain elements of "Ourselves Alone" pts 1 & 2. I am going to continue writing shorter, more episodic stories, and probably won't fit more into a fic than could have been shown in 45 minutes of TV.

Please forgive me a few discrepancies. I know a lot of you come to expect me to be very accurate with my technical details, but my exposure to musical culture was not as prolonged or detailed as my exposure to naval aviation. I'm sure there are readers who could tackle this subject better than I.

As always, I am not above a little exaggerated hilarity. Prepare for a lot of musically-based puns and gags. The OC Scottie was intended as much for comic relief and awkward humor as she was a plot driver. But she'll probably become one of the most important OCs in this series.

If the title of this story isn't a dead giveaway I mention a lot of songs. If you haven't heard them, feel no shame. But it wouldn't harm you to look them up.

I am introducing a fictional country and geography in this story, borrowing from the milsim series Armed Assault. It will become important later.

Finally, for those of you looking for Jameron in this story, I like a slow burn on that fuse.

As always, please enjoy. And if you loved it, liked it, are neutral, thought it could use improvement, disliked it, or hated it, please drop me a line.

Prologue

From the journal of Cameron Phillips:

Dance is the hidden language of the soul. These words were delivered by Martha Graham, an American dancer and choreographer who was considered a pioneer and revolutionary of modern dance. This is something I was told once, and it is a saying I hold up as a truth. The entire quote is "To me, the body says what words cannot. I believe that dance was the first art. A philosopher has said that dance and architecture were the first arts. I believe that dance was first because it's gesture, it's communication. That doesn't mean it's telling a story, but it means it's communicating a feeling, a sensation to people. Dance is the hidden language of the soul, of the body. And it's partly the language that we don't want to show."

Yet while this most basic and difficult forms of human expression can consume its practitioners in a lifetime of passion and relentlessly pursued perfection, dance, I have found, is incomplete without music. Music provides the human mind with the compunction to move. Even a basic beat of drums creates a compulsive and instinctive desire to conform to rhythm. Music sets the tone for dance. Music sets the pace. Music provides perspective to the observer and enhancement to the performance. Without the music to accompany it, dance as a language would be the equivalent of throwing words into a pile and hoping they would form a sentence. If dance is the hidden language of the soul, music is the voice.

Chapter 1: Same as it Ever Was

"Shocking news from the White House today: Sarah Connor, the domestic luddite terrorist, has been pardoned. New evidence suggests that she may not be fully or solely responsible for the trail of destruction she left over a decade ago and may have, in fact, been coerced in some of these incidents. Sarah and her son John disappeared for over eight years before…"

"Right now, joining us from out Los Angeles studio is Terissa Dyson, wife of Miles Dyson, with whose 1995 murder Sarah Connor had been charged. Terissa, how do you feel about this turn of events, the charges being dropped?"

"Tom, I have always felt that the Los Angeles Police Department, not Sarah Connor, were responsible for my husband's death. In the early years, I held a lot of anger towards her, but now I think, we can finally begin to know the truth. My husband was a hero. The woman even said so herself. I think it's time they let her go."

"But what about the bombing of the Cyberdyne building?"

"That was my husband's idea. Sarah was just hooked into it."

"Fighting has broken out again in the Chernarussian province of South Zagoria. Small skirmishes have erupted again into combat where just weeks ago it seemed as if a permanent settlement might be reached. The shooting of loyalist General Arkadi Bromchov by a Zagorian assassin caused the flare up. Chernarus has been in a state of civil war now for almost three years. The country is divided along racial lines, namely between the Chernarus and Zagorian ethnic groups, both Slavic peoples…"

"Authorities are asking your help tonight in an effort to find a missing Baltimore man. Keith Tagwell, seen in this photo, has been missing for approximately two weeks. Tagwell is a construction contractor and owns his own business. In early August, he left suddenly for a business trip to Virginia and did not return. Tagwell has no family or known relatives and no known medical conditions…"

"Senator Daniel Blakemann was killed this morning when the civil airplane he was flying crashed in a heavily forested area outside Seattle. The plane, a brand new Kaliba Aviation Sparrowhawk 60, took off from Skykomish State Airfield and crashed near Tonga Ridge some twenty minutes later. Cause of the crash has yet to be determined…"

"The hottest smartphone on the market, the Krome-5E by Kaliba Electronics. Sales of the newest model of the Krome have beaten both the Android and iPhone by an impressive margin. User satisfaction surveys indicate that one of the most praised features is the voice command personal assistant the company calls SkyBot…"

"After weeks of speculation, the US Navy has released a report detailing what happened on the afternoon of August 4th in the skies east of Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia when no less than three F/A-18 strike fighters were lost in the space of an hour. Brian Wiley, a pilot in the Navy, went rogue and killed his wingman in an aerial dogfight. Wiley was then shot down by USS Port Royal, an aegis cruiser. The third F/A-18 lost that day was a Super Hornet from VF-32, which suffered a mechanical failure in flight. The crew ejected and was recovered safely. Rumors have persisted that Sarah Connor, recently pardoned by the president, was involved. These rumors are false. In fact, a woman thought to be Connor was arrested in connection with Wiley but was later released…"

"Intense fighting continues in the Chernarus civil war. Zagorian rebels have recently secured the city of Krasnostav in the central South Zagoria region. Rebel leader Valeri Zelenko is calling on all ethnic Zagorians to rise up and fight for their independence and freedom. South Zagoria is a region vital to the economy of Chernarus. Aside from farmland, the province is rich in mineral wealth. Its primary export: coltan…"

X

It was a pretty day for November, Sarah thought. That idea gave her some pause. Was it really already November, she wondered as she drove north east along Santa Monica Boulevard towards West Hollywood. Well, okay, she reminded herself, it was just November first. October had ended just yesterday. It was not at all out of the question for her to be stunned that it was November just yet. It wasn't that cold. It never really got cold in Southern California. They never had to deal with snow or any of the nastier winter weather, which was nice. Sarah was the first to admit that she wasn't the best driver. She didn't need it to be complicated by weather. Though having a white Christmas once in her life wouldn't be such a terrible thing…

Oh, what was wrong with her? Why was she thinking so much, spending so much time in her own head? It was stupid for her to think about all this garbage. It wasn't like she was actually alone in the car anyway. Well, she reminded herself with a glance into the passenger seat, okay, she was the lone human in the car. She wasn't sure how Cameron qualified. The cyborg girl may be a terminator, but Sarah knew fully well that she was capable of small talk. She had seen her do it before when they were on missions, conducting idle chit-chat with her next mark before doing whatever it was that she did. Sarah had just never had much else to talk to Cameron about other than the mission, the status of their supplies, or the safety of Sarah's son. Recently, their conversational subjects had expanded some. They could now talk about what to cook for dinner, what was happening at the school Cameron and John were attending, what Cameron thought of John's few friends. But Sarah had never bothered to put much effort into idle talk with the machine, and the machine had never been one to strike up an idle conversation. Sarah returned her eyes to the road and began to think that maybe she needed more human friends. John was her son, and there were just certain subjects she couldn't broach with him. Derek, well, he was a nut. Cameron… aside from the aforementioned issues, she was a machine, and Sarah had specified human friends. That didn't leave her with a whole lot. But Sarah had not spent the last eighteen years of her life putting much effort into the social scene. And this was only one of those rare moments where she missed her past and longed to be something other than what she was, to spend time doing something else other than hunting Skynet's present day supporters. She didn't even know why she was pursuing them so hard other than it was what she had spent a large part of her life doing. It wasn't as if they could much affect the future now. Sarah, John, Cameron, and Derek had pretty much taken care of that. With the termination of Brian Wiley and the foiling of his plot, they had with a single strike eliminated the need for Skynet to exist. Judgment Day and the terrible future she had learned of so long ago was never going to happen. And all the fighting she had done, the peripheral consequences had been swept under the rug. The charges against her for the murder of Miles Dyson had been dropped. The President of the United States had mysteriously granted her a pardon for all the other crimes. She was a free woman, able to live and do as she pleased. And yet, there was no feeling of liberation. Almost the moment of her greatest triumph, she had been faced with death at the hands of a machine once again. It took only that to realize that while Skynet was gone, its supporters hadn't just vanished. They were still here, still doing whatever it was that they did. Moths eating holes in a cloak, rats knowing cables in two, or any one of the other analogies from that Rudyard Kipling poem that she somehow miraculously remembered from her days as a college student. Whatever they were doing, it was dangerous. People were being killed. And while it did not directly affect herself or her son, it was still happening and it was happening because of them. She felt the need to do something about it. Even though she didn't have to.

But that didn't change her occasional need for a mental escape. As she turned onto North Crescent Heights, she shot one more look at Cameron. The two of them had spent the last four hours at the Century Mall in Century City shopping for clothes. In the year since Sarkissian had attacked their first house and burned it to the ground, the team had not managed much idle time to completely refill their wardrobes, and none of them had much more than a week's worth of clothes. This fact was lost the least on Cameron, who had been tasked with keeping the laundry clean, a chore which even the machine could not hide her dislike for. Sarah had occasionally tried to pass it off on John, to keep the chores evenly distributed, but Cameron had put an end to that when John had ruined one of her tops. There had been an argument about how he never read the care instructions and couldn't just throw everything in the dryer, and how she would now have to wash more frequently because she was down to only eight shirts thanks to him. John had sneeringly replied that she shouldn't be wearing anything that was difficult to clean anyway because it was inefficient. Cameron had then retorted that girls wore complicated things, and she had to do the same if she were to fit in. Lord only knows where it would have gone after that if Sarah hadn't intervened, reprimanding John to read the tags and promising to Cameron that they would find the time to expand all of their wardrobes. That hadn't been so long ago… okay, a month, but at least they were finally getting around to doing it.

Cameron had approached the possibility of new clothes with as much enthusiasm as she did anything, which was to say none, and had initially made a request to visit a thrift store in Echo Park, but Sarah refused. She wasn't willing to drive all the way over to Edendale today, what with Saturday traffic around Dodgers Stadium. Cameron would just have to settle for the mall. Cameron's protest that baseball season was over had not persuaded Sarah to drive across town for one store. The machine didn't pout. Well, she had made a big show of not pouting, which as far as Sarah was concerned how Cameron did not behave was just as important as how she did. And the machine had made every effort to hide any disappointment. But she had been quiet for most of the outing, even for her.

The female terminator tended to favor the brand Rock & Republic, of which her purple jacket was a product as were the boot-cut kasandra jeans and embossed terry sweatshirt she was wearing now. R&R wasn't a cheap brand either and sometimes it stunned Sarah just how much John and Cameron were willing to spend to wear clothes that looked like they had been dragged behind a truck down a dirt road. One hundred fifty bucks for a single pair of holey, worn-out-looking jeans! Sheesh! Fortunately for Sarah's budget, the two of them were just as fond of Wal-Mart graphic tees and Levi Strauss as they were the more expensive clothes, but Sarah had been in a mood to indulge and Cameron was willing to take advantage of it. And the trip had cost Sarah enough that if John screwed up the wash instructions again, she might actually let Cameron kill him the next time she was so inclined.

Still, Sarah was thoroughly exhausted of Cameron's current stoicism. She had become aware, if not totally comfortable, with the idea that the machine had subtle moods, and she had an inkling as to what this current sour one was all about. She wasn't going to let the cyborg posing as her daughter get away with it for any longer. If Cameron was going to be her daughter, she would get the treatment. "Hey," she asked, tapping the machine on the shoulder. Cameron, whose attention was already focused out the window, turned her head a few more degrees away. Sarah was undaunted. "Hey. Did we get everything you needed?"

Cameron continued to look outside as she replied. "Yes. What we bought is adequate. The three new pairs of jeans, two pairs of leggings, five t-shirts, skirt, and two tank tops we bought me will provide me with a more versatile wardrobe. It will be easier to fit in." The one item that Cameron hadn't mentioned, the one she had been the most mysterious and yet insistent about purchasing, was currently in a box resting on her lap. Cameron kept at least one hand atop the small box at all times, as if protecting some cherished prize. In the box was a pair of brand new Gaynor Minden Luxe satin pointe shoes, size 7 ½ and surprisingly in powder pink, that Cameron had practically begged Sarah to buy. Or at least, begging for Cameron, which consisted of very few words, only a persistent gaze and an unusual willingness to touch excessively. Once the shoes had been purchased, Cameron had seemed even less focused on shopping than before, and continued to carry the box as if it were some sacred object.

"So," Sarah pressed, "is that your way of saying that you're feeling better?"

"I don't have feelings," Cameron said, "I shouldn't have to remind you."

"You're just so quiet."

"It's never bothered you before. Why start now?"

"Gee, Cameron," Sarah rolled her eyes, "you sure are good at making a car ride lonely."

"Thank you," the machine said evenly. The response was probably automated at what Cameron's processors assumed was a compliment based on the phrase "good at." Even though it was perfectly within reason for the gynoid to say so, it still aggravated Sarah, and part of her wondered if Cameron was doing it on purpose. So much about the female machine was infuriating. She was at once made to plot and execute the deaths of human beings, and yet sometimes she could be endearingly naïve. She was programmed to loyally protect Sarah's son, but at the same time she hid information with lies and misdirection. She also claimed that in order to be his safest, John needed to be alone, and then she would do some strangely manipulative thing to draw him closer to her. Sarah understood this last part. Cameron, in order to fulfill her programming, needed John to be her friend. Many times, she had let him do things his way, things that Sarah would have instantly forbidden, and while Sarah was always proud when her son's plans worked out she was conversely angry with Cameron for letting him try. She could always manage to renew her anger at Cameron by remembering when the cyborg had malfunctioned and tortured her while trying to hunt John but her ability to hold this grudge was becoming difficult to maintain. Indeed Sarah, in spending some time with her own thoughts while incarcerated in a Navy brig, had come to the realization that Cameron couldn't be so bad. After all, if she had developed enough trust in Uncle Bob to let him raise her son, she could have the trust in Cameron to let her do her thing even when Sarah wasn't sure what that thing was. While it had been under the affects of malfunction, Sarah had even seen Cameron express authentic emotions -smiling, laughing, angry, afraid- and do so in such a way that Sarah could not discount it as genuine. And while Cameron had claimed to have fixed the problem, had returned to her emotionless self, there was still some aura shrouding her that had never been there before. Or maybe it had and Sarah was just too busy to notice.

"Okay," Sarah finally asked, "what's wrong with you?" The tone in her voice was obvious exasperation.

"I'm optimal," Cameron replied. There she went, using more of that robot jargon than she had ever before, and for no other reason than to maintain appearances. It was as if she was insisting on reminding Sarah that she was a cyborg and not a person. Sarah didn't need to be reminded. She knew it. She had spent almost half of her life living it. The machine that looked like a pretty teenage girl didn't need to remind her that it was a machine. "Though," Cameron added, "it doesn't help that you've claimed my car."

Oh! A-ha! So that's what all this robotic sulking was about. She may have been a robot, but she did sulk. A month ago, Sarah had decided for the sake of expedience to take possession of the silver Mercedes CLS 550 coupe Cameron had taken from Sarkissian's goons. It was a nice car, and it somehow managed to survive all of their misadventures. Cameron had initially claimed it for her own use, and Sarah had been fine with that. But the machine hardly ever used it, more content to be a passenger than a driver. The car had been kept in the garage most of the time. Before driving it to Virginia, Cameron hadn't even turned it over in four months. If they were going to have it and Sarah was going to pay the insurance on it, then it was going to get driven. In fact, they were sitting in it now. "Well, I needed one. I do more driving than you do."

"Sometimes it's nice to have my own mobility."

"Well, we can't really afford another car right now."

"Our expendable cash resources alone are worth nearly seven hundred thousand dollars. You got John that Dodge Dakota just three weeks after school started."

"He has places he needs to go."

"Yes. School, home, school, home. So many places to go."

Sarah stopped for a stop sign. "And since you need to be with him to protect him, you just go where he does." Cameron made no answer this time. Her eyes had been drawn outside again. At first, Sarah thought she had just gone back to being quiet and aloof, but then she saw what Cameron was looking at. In the driveway of one of the homes sat a silver 1979 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am with a T-top. It was a little grimy, but even Sarah found herself admiring the car for a moment. And then she noticed the red For Sale sign. The car behind them honked, so Sarah pressed the gas pedal, but it did not escape her that Cameron's head continued to crane to look at the car until it was out of sight. When she returned her attention to the road, her expression was placid, if a little forlorn. "Did you like that one," Sarah couldn't help but ask, the discomfort of the dead air not lost on her.

"It would prove an adequate conveyance," Cameron answered, "the Pontiac W72 400 cubic inch V8 engine will provide excellent power and speed to evade pursuit."

"So, that's a yes." Sarah said with a nod.

"That's a yes." Cameron confirmed.

"Okay. Did you get the number?"

"Yes."

"Good," Sarah smirked, "then you can give them a call when we get home. And you can go buy it for yourself."

Cameron's head dipped and her eyes turned to look Sarah's way. "My personal account lacks the adequate funds. It would be a useful vehicle to have for my assignment."

"Nice try, Tin Miss," Sarah almost laughed, "If you want it, you're just going to have to get a job and save for it." And she patted the machine girl on the knee with condescension.

The terminator missed not a beat. "Okay," she responded, with an air of enthusiasm.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "That was sarcasm, Cameron."

"It's a good idea," Cameron replied. And she was serious. Sarah blew out a breath. Oh, well. May as well let her.

X

The world beyond the bubble shifted, and she knew she was in trouble. Replacing the stink of jet fuel and the scream of turbines was a solid blue void and silence. Though she had not seen one in years, she knew what it was. As the bubble began to collapse, she took a last, deep breath and emerged. The water flooded in on her from all sides. She had been displaced into a competition diving pool. And she was deep. The water pressure pushed in painfully on her eardrums. She looked around her, eyes stinging with chlorine, trying to get her bearings. The inner ear could play tricks on a person in water, lending vertigo. Still shaking off the displacement, she knew that she could drown if the clouds of residual dizziness didn't clear soon. And she refused to die here, cold and naked and nameless, before she could even start her mission. The pain in her head didn't help.

A toe hit something solid. She had sunk to the bottom of the pool. Her foot had come to rest on the floor. She kicked and scrambled for the surface sixteen feet above her even as her lungs began to force the bad air out. She had to be very careful breaking the surface. She had no idea what was around her, who might have seen it. She kicked for closer to the wall, and in spite of the burning in her lungs, she let her head rise gently, taking discipline with calm, even breaths. Above her, the evening sky burned orange as the sun set over the Pacific. The young woman hauled herself out of the pool and flopped onto the concrete, shivering as her wet bare skin was kissed by the cool SoCal air. Well, it was cold, so maybe she had arrived in the right month. She allowed herself to rest for just a moment, then got up and began to explore her immediate surroundings.

She had arrived at a community pool, she remembered it being called from when she was a little girl, before the bombs fell. This place was probably used by junior leagues for diving and swimming competitions. She had barely learned to swim when the war had begun, and hadn't done so since. Beyond the low chainlink fence, she could see the hilly area that this complex resided. If she were lucky and the displacement engine hadn't really screwed up, she should be in the hills between West Hollywood and Burbank. That road down the hill should be Cahuenga Boulevard. Jesus, well at least she had not ended up in the Upper Hollywood Reservoir, which was… just over there south of her. The sight of Los Angeles before Judgment Day, before the war, made her stomach turn and she was bent over with a heave, coughing dryly. The feeling passed, and she stood again.

Well, she couldn't leave here until night fell. This time of year, the sun went down early. But that did not mean the people were going to bed down. Still, night would make for cover, which the young woman needed if she were going to find the address she needed. She shouldn't be far, and that was good. Nudity didn't bother her so much, but there was no sense in drawing attention to oneself by chasing about in the buff. For now, she'd need to lay low and be ready to put her act on.

X

Sarah and Cameron found John doing his homework when they walked into the door. It was Saturday evening, and Sarah figured her son would be out with friends. Before the end of Skynet she would have protested vehemently for his safety, but now was different. Sarah's fight with Kaliba was hers, not his, and she was willing to let him stay out of it when necessary. That point had been driven home to her a couple months ago when they had tried to break into one of Kaliba's shell companies to obtain documents. A T-800 had greeted them at the door, disabled Cameron, and then pursued the humans through the facility. They had just been cornered when Cameron had awakened and did her thing. Lucky them, but she was not willing to let John participate any further and was content to have him out of the house with Cameron in tow while she and Derek pursued leads. John himself had taken it in stride, allowing his mother the space to work. The future him, the one she had prayed that she'd never have to see, had begun to emerge in his ability to generate genius plans and a commanding tone on a whim. Indeed, John had turned a mercurial creature, able to play the role of hero general or teenaged son with ease. Sometimes, it was almost as if he could flick a switch to become one or the other. Sarah was not certain whether she felt proud of him that this new John was showing itself with greater frequency or ashamed that it was emerging now into a world where Judgment Day would never happen.

Sarah opened the fridge door, intent on figuring out dinner. They were not going spend another Saturday night ordering pizza. "Hey," she heard John say to Cameron, "what's in the box?"

The box rustled open, and the crinkle of paper accompanied Cameron's reply. "My new pointe shoes."

"So, you're going to keep dancing, as a regular thing?" That gave Sarah some pause to hear. Cameron danced? Since when? Well, it certainly explained the shoes.

"I am," the cyborg answered, "as a regular thing." There were two plops on the hardwood floor. "It might disrupt my regimen when I get a job, however."

"A job," John asked, smirking.

"I need a car," Cameron replied, "your mother suggested I get a job and earn the money to get one myself."

"Wait, you're really going to let her do that," John asked his mother.

Sarah didn't turn around as she rifled through the fridge. "It was a joke. But I don't see why not."

"You mean aside from the fact that she's a robot from the future who couldn't fool anyone into thinking she was human?"

Cameron tilted her head at him, smiling widely and giving a little chortle. "I fooled you." The whole act reminded him of when they first met.

John cleared his throat, "yeah, okay, I guess so." And the two of them fell quiet. Sarah decided to get the ground beef out of the freezer, so she stood upright to open it. She glanced at her son, noticing a mirthful expression on his face as he stared at his cybernetic companion. Wondering what was so funny, she looked over at Cameron.

"Cameron," Sarah snapped, "those pointe shoes cost me a hundred and twenty dollars! You're going to ruin them!" The terminator had laid the shoes on the floor and was show standing on them, digging her naked heels into the square toes.

"I can't use them until they are broken in," the machine replied evenly.

"Excuse me?"

"I need to soften the toe box first," Cameron explained as she rocked on her heels, "then the shank. After that I'll wear them, but not to dance. I have to walk on demi-pointe and do roll-throughs. Until then, they're useless."

Sarah shook her head, "so, in order for them to be useful, you have to destroy them?"

"Not destroy," Cameron corrected, "breaking in pointe shoes forces them to mold to the shape of my feet." The machine gave her a cat smile, "I know what I'm doing."

"She really does, mom," John said supportively, "she's pretty good."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "How do you know anything about pretty good at ballet?"

John shrugged, "you can just tell."

Sarah found that she wasn't totally uncomfortable with the idea that the machine would dance recreationally. "So, when did this start?"

Cameron picked up the new shoes and began to massage the toe boxes with her hands. "When we began chasing the Turk, looking for Dmitri. You remember that I enrolled in Maria Shipkova's ballet school?"

"Yes, I do," Sarah nodded as she peeled the plastic from the frozen meat.

"I didn't see any reason to stop." The cyborg went back to her work, and Sarah could only hope that she didn't wreck the brand new pointe shoes before she had even worn them.

"Well," the woman said finally, "just don't destroy them. I'm not buying you another pair."

John began rummaging in the bags that they had dumped on the kitchen island. "So what all did you guys get?"

Cameron immediately snatched the bag from his hands. "Nothing you're ever going to wash."

"Hey, I learned my lesson," the teenager said defensively.

"That was a cashmere sweater you ruined," the terminator's tone was almost snappy.

"Okay, kids," Sarah shouted, picking up two bags from the island and handing them to John. "These are yours. Go put them away."

"What are they?" John began looking in them.

"You'll wear them," Sarah said, "go." John smirked, but he took a bag under each arm to do as she asked.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Everything stopped, as all three of their heads snapped towards the front door. The knock came again, more insistent this time. Sarah jerked her head at Cameron, who with a few steps was at one of their secret weapons lockers. She opened it and drew out an M4 with an aim point scope. John was moving just as quickly, retrieving an M79 grenade launcher from a box beneath the sink, loading it with an M433 HEDP grenade and tucking two more into the pockets of his pants. Sarah herself just took a silenced Glock 34 that was taped underneath the utensil drawer. She would answer the door. John and Cameron would kill whatever was on the other side if it were dangerous. The knock came a third time. Everyone took positions and Sarah looked out the peephole. The roll of her eyes indicated that the guest wasn't dangerous. They lowered their weapons as she swung the door open.

As the door opened, Sarah immediately regretted not doing more than looking at the face. A young woman in her early twenties stood there. Her waist-length hair was copper red, and her skin was a constellation of freckles. Sarah could tell this because, aside from her two arms wrapped around herself, she was naked. Not just naked, but freshly time-traveled naked with that pale sheen of shock-chilled flesh. And the copper color of her hair was obviously not a dye job. The girl looked up at Sarah with stormy blue eyes. "Lemme in?" The words were accented, and maybe not even English.

Sarah blinked hard and gave her head a clearing shake. "Um… what?"

"Lemme in? Am-ur in the skuddy an' it's pure baltic outwith!"

"… what?"

The girl was obvious sick of shivering on the porch, so she came in of her own accord. She held her arm out, showing her barcode. Sarah shut the door and took her arm, giving the Skynet mark a good look. So, this girl was a member of the human resistance. She had just come back from the future, though obviously very recently. From the future and wearing a barcode… Judgment day? Skynet? Hadn't they stopped it? Sarah's head swam for a moment. Not now. Not again…

"Claes?"

"Huh?"

"Mibbe some breeks an' a jessy ah can tap?" It became obvious that Sarah was still not getting it. What language was this? "Cleas, pish!" The girl growled at her in frustration and snatched the afghan blanket from the back of the couch, throwing it about herself like a bath towel.

"Okay," Sarah said as she allowed the girl to cover herself, "if this is going to work, you're going to have to speak some English," and she began talking slowly in a loud voice. "Can… you… understand… me?"

"Aye! Am-ur-nay a dobber. Gawd!"

While John had been enjoying the whole spectacle, Cameron had been analyzing the girl and her speech patterns. Syntax, accent, and dialect… "Scottish?"

The girl looked up, "Aye."

Cameron gave a ghostly smile, "Perhaps you can be less colloquial with your speech?"

The young woman smirked, and rolled her blue-grey eyes before slapping her own head. "Sorry," the baroque was still very heavy, "I do that when I get nervous. Fall into slang like a bloody tube."

"Who are you," Cameron asked.

"Friends call me Scottie. Been serving Tech-Com in Los Angeles for twenty months. Originally from Glesga."

"Glasgow, Scotland?"

"Aye."

Sarah finally found a moment to interject. "What year are you from?"

"Twenty twenty-six."

"And the war?"

"Over a fourteen months now," Scottie shrugged, "we're still working through the Skynet displacements and sending people back to stop them."

John asked the next one. "When did the war start?"

"J-Day? June third, twenty fourteen. Skynet initiates a massive nuclear strike against targets in Russia and China. Retaliation occurs immediately. Total exchange is some two thousand megatons. Human casualties estimated two-point-five billion. The war claims another four hundred million over ten years. August twenty-third, twenty twenty-five, Skynet's primary core is destroyed. The defense networks had been offline for almost two months before the final attack. Battle of Cheyenne Mountain, twenty-five thousand human troops and fourteen-hundred free T-units attack the mountain. Only six hundred casualties. A single plasma charge dropped down a vent shaft takes care of the Big Bastard. War over."

"Wait," Sarah held up a hand, "free T-units? Reprogrammed machines?"

"Aye and Nay. Only two hundred of those were wipes. The rest were Machine Liberation Front. Machine faction that turned on Skynet and allied with humans."

"That happens?!"

"Aye. And considering that of the eight-hundred series endos there were only sixteen thousand made with only five thousand skinnies, it was a big chunk of Skynet forces. 8s had the highest voluntary turnover."

Cameron tilted her head. "We didn't want to be slaves anymore."

"Nay, and thank God. War woulda lasted easy three or four more years without."

Sarah nodded, "at least it's shorter."

"Who starts it," John asked, his mood darkened, "who builds Skynet?"

Scottie stared at John for a long moment before answering, "Kaliba International. They build the Big Bastard for NORAD." So, Sarah had been right to pursue Kaliba. But now, instead of a clean-up operation, this was a continuation of the fight.

"What's your mission," Cameron asked, "who sent you."

"Help take down Kaliba," Scottie replied, tossing a glance at John. "The Commander sent me hisself."

"The Commander," Sarah asked, "you mean John Connor?"

Scottie didn't take her eyes from John. "Dunno," she said, "I never met him. No one knows his name. Only the guys at the top. No one else. Even after the war his name is classified. Too many fugitive Greys yet that might get access to a time engine." She finally leveled a finger at John, "you were there. In the future, when they sent me, you were there. An older version of you. Had a scar on your cheek, but your eyes were the same. You made me memorize this address. I never knew your name." Things suddenly clicked in the young resistance fighter's head. "You're him! Pure barry, you're him! The only reason they dinnae tell me your name. You wouldnae tell me your name."

John nodded sheepishly, "Yeah, I'm him."

"Who are you?"

"I'm John Connor."

X

Moscow, Russian Federation

Vladislav Kutkin turned the collar of his coat up against the breeze that blasted down Tverskaya Street like a chilly razor and let out a sigh that made itself visible as vapor. He dug his wallet from his coat pocket and took out a few bills, handing them into the window of the Taksi Argo to the driver. He begrudged the task not because the ride was terribly expensive, but because it kept him from shoving his bare hands into the pockets of his coat where they could be warmed up. The driver thanked him, and the GAZ-3110 sped off, probably to another fare. Kutkin admired it as it drove off. The 3110 was an old but beautiful luxury model, and not one driver alive, not even a taxi driver, would be caught driving anything less on Tverskaya Ulitsa or anywhere else in Tretyakovsky Proyezd or neighboring Kitay-gorod. Well, that was not necessarily true, but Tverskaya was one of the busiest shopping avenues in all of Moscow, and one of the most alive with night life. Yet as he stood on the corner of it and Mamonovsky, all he could see as he panned up and down the street was something that brought him shame. Terranova, Benatton, Starbucks; the yankees had moved in and were apparently here to stay. Americansti, blech. He spat next to his shoe and stroked the luxurious Kaiser mustache he had cultivated, considering what to do next. His meeting was supposed to be in 26/1 Tverskaya, the tall white building belonging to the Marriot's Moscow Grande Hotel. It was just right across the way from him. He could see it now on the corner with Uspenskiy. The classical structure announced its branding in red English, and the hotel's specific name in green Cyrillic below. His contact would be in the hotel lobby, and the bar there.

He crossed with a crowd, then jogged up to the lobby door, stepping inside and pausing long enough to admire what he saw. The hotel lobby was white everywhere, with marble tile floors broken by a green trim. The walls were a mural of the city around the hotel as it may have appeared a century ago. The furniture was lush, stained mahogany wood with gold fabric. The center of the lobby opened into a rotunda with stairs spiraling downward to where the lobby bar was, an open area decorated with a blue-tiled fountain. All of this expanse under a glass dome ribbed with green iron. Of course his contact would choose somewhere like this. The old fool had picked up many western tastes in the past decade. To have a meeting in this place instead of his own home in the luxurious Rublyovka district showed a distinct lack of trust. And obviously the man was in a hurry, or else he may have hosted Kutkin at his dacha on the Shosha River. It did not really matter to Kutkin. All that mattered was the money.

"Vladislav," the voice carried as Kutkin stepped off the stairs by the fountain, "Vladislav Gregorovich, so good to see you."

"Good day, Ivan Mikhailovich," Kutkin embraced Ivan Mikhailovich Vostrikov with little enthusiasm. The firm, bonecrushing handshake was not terribly surprising. Such a greeting is used between men here to size up each other. The bear hug, on the other hand, with the hearty slaps on the back surprised Kutkin. One usually reserved that for respected friends, and Vostrikov was no such thing.

"Come," Vostrikov said as he embraced his young charge, "sit. I already have us a table. How is everything?"

"Normal," Kutkin replied with a shrug of the shoulders. This was the typical thing people here struggled for: normal life. There was no more scramble to beat anyone else at their own game.

"And Kutkina?" So, Vostrikov wanted to be social… that or he was asking after Kutkin's wife for other reasons.

"Anfisa is very well," Kutkin answered as they sat down.

"I was saddened to hear about your brother."

"Yevgeny and his motorcycles," Kutkin answered. That had been months ago. "The damn fool could not stay off of them."

"God rest him."

"Indeed." Kutkin straightened his back, "so, Ivan Mikhailovich, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Vladislav Gregorovich, you have not changed one bit," Vostrikov said, and laughed heartily, "always with you it is business."

"Business, Ivan Mikhailovich, is what I have. Please, tell me what this is about."

The older man's face grew stern. He leveled a finger at Kutkin, "You young children with your bluntness. You do not know anything of manners. Your father should have walloped you and that despicable brat Yevgeny more frequently when you were growing up. Maybe now your brother would be alive and you might have actually made something more of yourself than… this."

"You're being ridiculous, you old fool. You and my father were not such friends in the old days. Do not expect me to kowtow to you and your social niceties because you knew him, because you worked with him. The war is over, you damn fool. You lost it. People like you let the yanks spend us into the ground while you convinced the Diet that they were building super weapons, lasers and space bombers and artificial intelligences and other such nonsense. How you let them trick you."

"You know nothing of history. We got in our own licks."

"Be that as it may," Kutkin smirked, "we are here, now. Why?"

Vostrokov smirked, "so be it." He lay a briefcase on his table and opened it. "This is a favor for a friend."

"A favor? What kind of favor that he cannot ask me himself?"

"My friend has business he is attending to back home. We worked together back in the day, but since the Soviet Union fell apart, he quit the Committee and has gone back to his native country."

"The man is not Russian?" Kutkin was immediately not trusting.

"Russian or not, he was a dear friend. He asked me to find a man with your skills. He can pay a lot of money. Perhaps you could retire."

Kutkin chuckled at the idea, "I would never retire. Tell me the name of your friend and what he offers."

"He would prefer to remain anonymous."

"His name. Or I walk away now."

Vostrikov shrugged, "Valeri Alexandrovich Zelenko is a very dear friend of mine. And he only wants the best. You are the best Vladislav Gregorovich."

Kutkin smiled at the compliment. "And what is it that I am to do. Who am I to find for your misbehaving revolutionary friend?"

Vostrikov pulled out a folder and laid it open before Kutkin. On the top were color photographs taken from an FBI file. It was a woman with raven hair and green eyes, eyes that glared back at the camera with a shocking fire. "How is your American English?"

"Fluent. Unaccented, at least not what they can detect. Who is this woman?"

"She owes Zelenko a small fortune, weapons. She took delivery of them in Ensenada, Mexico fifteen years ago, then she disappeared without paying. Only recently has she been seen again. She is not to be killed. You are to find her and take her to Zelenko."

"What is her name?"

"God only knows by now. But when he met her, she was named Sarah Connor."