Enemy of My Enemy: Vanquished
Chapter One
Kiev, Ukraine, November 2008
Tuesday 0100 Local Time [Monday 1500 PST]
Considering that it was the dead of night, Boryspil Airport was a relative hive of activity; over a dozen planes waited on the tarmac. At Terminal B, where all international cargo flights arrived and departed, one particular cargo freighter sat away from the others, dwarfing most other aircraft in the vicinity, its cargo door open and loading ramp deployed. Four men waited outside the oversized plane, keeping between it and the rest of the airport; three of them together chatting while the fourth one stood separate from the others, rigid with his hands behind his back, observing everything. In the distance were a lot of excavators, cranes and other construction vehicles that in a few hours would continue work on building a new terminal to expand the airport.
It was the last individual – a T-888 – who was in charge of the others. Tall, appearing to be in his forties, with long blond hair swept back. He stood sentinel in front of the plane to make sure nobody got too close. A pair of customs officials walked closer and he zeroed in on them as they approached.
"American?" the younger of the two asked in heavily-accented English.
"Yes," he responded flatly. "Our flight number is AA-899. Cargo docket number: 0038472."
The older of the customs officers looked down at his clipboard, scanning for the matching code on his printout. His eyes widened as he found it, along with special instructions not to search this plane or to accost any personnel associated with it and to provide whatever assistance they asked for, without question.
He stared for a moment at the apparent senior of the four men, trying not to look nervous as he spoke to the man, who just seemed… off. He didn't know what it was exactly, but the blond man gave off nothing; no sign of impatience, he didn't even seem cold, when the other three men with him shivered and rubbed their hands to keep them warm. He glanced down again at the special instructions, the way this man looked, and drew his own conclusion. There were no names on the sheet for any of the men and he wasn't able to check their passports, so he came up with his own: Mr Blond, an American government agent of some kind. CIA most likely, escorting something classified that the US was shipping to Ukraine – something that would likely piss off the Russians that neither party wanted to be made public. What that could be, he had no idea, but his instructions were clear: leave them alone and do not attempt to inspect the cargo.
"Do you require any assistance unloading?" he asked, trying to be helpful.
"We require forklifts," Mr Blond answered.
"I will see to them. If you need anyone to operate them–"
"We will," the terminator replied. "Our transport hasn't arrived yet; do you have any temporary storage space?"
The Customs official spoke into the radio attached to his jacket pocket and issued instructions in Ukrainian. Unknown to him, the T-888 he'd privately named 'Mr Blond' understood every word he said, though he didn't let on. He listened to both the official and the voice on the other end. If the man or his colleague over the radio mentioned anything about searching the cargo or speculated on it he would take action to ensure they never found out more. Luckily for both of them, the Customs officer displayed no suspicious behaviour.
He pointed to a large warehouse several hundred metres away. "We store and process all cargo arrivals there." As he spoke a forklift truck arrived. "We have a space available. Do you know how long you will need it for?"
"No," Mr Blond said. "Our transport should have been waiting for us. I'll have to arrange another collection." The officer gave him a sheet to sign, which he did, before the two humans left him and his team alone. The forklift truck rolled up the ramp and into the plane before reversing out carrying a large metal container.
The terminator turned to his human colleagues. "Don't let the cargo out of your sight. If anyone tries to open it, kill them."
"Got it," one of them said. He and the other two walked along behind the forklift towards the warehouse, where they would remain until the cargo was picked up. While the three humans disappeared, he pulled out a cell phone and dialled. Someone on the other end answered almost immediately.
"Rick: what's up?"
"Where is the truck?" he asked.
"It should be with you," the voice replied, anxiety evident in the tone.
"It's not. Something must be wrong."
"Leave it with me, Rick. I'll make sure a machine's driving next time. In the meantime I'll locate another driver and hire another truck. I'll call you back when we get an ETA."
The phone went dead and Rick put it back in his pocket. The truck could not have disappeared. He had escorted four cargo flights from the US to Ukraine before and there had never been any issues until now. They had used the same driver every time; as far as humans went he was reliable and he'd never even been late before. His absence was a serious concern.
Serrano Point, California
Tuesday 1515 PST
"Ukraine?"
Sarah stared at Weaver, wondering if she could actually hear what she was saying. "You send my son up to Oregon to do your dirty work – nearly getting him killed in the process –and now I've finally gotten him back, you want us to just pack our bags and go halfway around the world?"
"You don't have any bags; you're wearing everything you own," Weaver replied. "But yes."
"Why don't you do it?" Sarah asked her, hostility evident in her voice now. Neither John nor Cameron had elaborated yet on events in Oregon prior to their reunion; she'd have to prise it out of them, but John Connor being put in the crosshairs by a machine wouldn't happen on her watch. "We'll stay here and look after your precious John Henry, and you can show us how it's done." It was a computer, not a toddler; it didn't need babysitting.
Before Weaver could make any kind of retort, John intervened. "No, we'll go," he said.
"We will?" Sarah turned to John, confused at his compliance.
"Why not?" John said, shrugging. "If there's a Kaliba factory there then we've got to take it out; we might as well just go instead of staying here arguing."
"Excellent," Weaver said. John Connor seemed to be coming around to her way of thinking after all. It was so much easier to do business with humans when they realised she was right.
"But I'm taking Cameron, my mom, and the Three Amigos here." He gestured towards Thor, Freyr and Aegir.
"That's not our mission," Aegir said curtly. "We're here to kill T-Zero."
"He's right," Thor chipped in. "It's a bigger threat than Skynet."
"I still can't believe that," Sarah replied. She'd listened to their account of the future but she still had a hard time getting past their claim that the artificial intelligence that had plagued her and John for years, the same machine that had before and would again kill billions of people, had been replaced at the top of the food chain.
"T-Zero almost won the war for Skynet in our time. He's back here and at present he's vulnerable, with only three other cyborgs to support him. If he's allowed to achieve any kind of power in this time he will be unstoppable."
"But we don't know where he is or what he's doing," John said. "We've got a Skynet target; we should hit that while we have a chance and then focus on T-Zero."
"I need at least one of them to protect John Henry," Weaver argued.
"Once we're back," John continued without missing a beat, "you and John Henry will help them find this T-Zero, and we'll take it out. Deal?"
"Deal," Thor said, nodding. As Aegir had said: hunting Skynet wasn't why they'd been sent back but he wouldn't allow Cameron or Connor to risk their lives without his support. He also considered that John was still a target: with one of its cyborgs dead, it was likely T-Zero would send another, perhaps one of the T-900s. If it did then they would be there to protect both John and Cameron, and if it was a 900 that came after them then its CPU would provide vital intelligence. He'd heard a human saying once: 'Scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours.' He found it very applicable in this situation.
"Thank you," John said, holding his hand out. Thor extended his own massive, meaty paw and shook on the deal.
"Is there anything else?" Weaver asked, a hint of irritation in her voice that John had recruited the Vanguards' help over her head. She wasn't used to people defying her, especially those who weren't disposable.
"Yeah," John said, knowing that with Thor on his side, his bargaining posture had just gone from highly dubious to pretty damn good. He had the advantage and now he was going to push it. "I don't want to live in a nuke plant forever. I want a house – somewhere away from people; enough money to live independently; a car, guns. While we're at it…" He turned his attention from Weaver to look at John Henry. "I want you to erase Mom, Cameron and me from all FBI and police databases: no trace of us left."
John Henry nodded. "I can do that," he said. "But there will still be paper records I can't erase."
"We'll worry about that later." John turned back to Weaver. "If we go to Ukraine, that's what I want: take it or leave it."
"Would you like the kitchen sink as well?" Weaver asked, a small smile on her face. John Connor had the upper hand and he knew it: he still had Cameron, had his mother back, and now the Vanguards were on his side. He'd tipped the balance of power in his favour; it was very well played. She knew she was correct in choosing to ally with him; perhaps in this time they would actually be able to defeat Skynet and prevent Judgment Day.
"Was that a joke?" Sarah asked, looking at Weaver.
"Perhaps my understanding of humour leaves something to be desired," the redhead admitted. Humour was something completely, solely human that she had yet to grasp, but she sensed her attempt to add levity to the situation and diffuse the Connors' hostile bargaining had somewhat succeeded. "I'll remain with Mr Ellison to protect John Henry."
"John needs at least twenty-four hours rest," Cameron said. "I want to make sure he's one hundred percent."
"I could do with a day off," John admitted. He couldn't remember the last time he had been able to just relax, even for a few hours. Probably Dejalo, he thought, though that hadn't exactly been the chilled-out weekend away he'd hoped for.
"It will take me time to organise transport and equipment," Weaver said to them. "Speaking of which…" She took a step towards John. "What happened to the Toyota I supplied you with?"
"Sorry," John said. "It got trashed."
"That's unfortunate."
"Yeah," John replied casually. It was just a truck.
"And the cabin?" she asked.
"Gone, too."
"I see. What about the weapons and supplies cache you buried?"
John shrugged. "I don't know. We didn't exactly have time to stop and check on it."
Weaver narrowed her eyes at John, perturbed at how blasé he was being. "I find your attitude disturbing, Mr Connor. My resources aren't infinite and these items aren't cheap."
"I find being nearly murdered by a liquid metal terminator to be more than a little 'disturbing' or 'unfortunate.' And now I have to stand here and listen to another one bitch about expenses… Right! No: 'How are you, are you okay?' Just: 'What happened to my stuff?'"He turned away from her, shaking his head, not quite believing that he and Cameron had almost been killed, but Weaver was only concerned about the expensive toys she'd given them, as if they'd just gotten bored and thrown them away. "What were you in the future?" he asked. "Skynet's accountant?"
"You're alive," Weaver replied sternly, using the same tone she often did when speaking to Savannah. "You complain about the T-1001 that tried to kill you, but it failed. You're still here, and I'm looking ahead. I don't have time for banal niceties and useless sentiment: if you want a hug I suggest you look elsewhere." She looked pointedly at Cameron. Humans: they so often dwelt on what had just happened, or in this case nearly happened, that they couldn't move forward.
She decided to change the subject before John could make any kind of reply. "I have a safe house ten miles from here. Please take more care with it than you did the cabin." She turned to Ellison. "You can stay there, too," she added. "It'll be easier than a commute from Los Angeles."
Sarah frowned. "How do I know he won't turn us in?" she asked, walking up to the former agent. "How do we know it wasn't you who told the police about us before?"
Ellison opened his mouth to answer but before he could defend himself, John Henry cut in. "It was probably my brother who informed the police."
"Brother? How can a machine have a brother?" Sarah asked.
"They share a common code," Weaver said, "the work of Miles Dyson, albeit in different timelines. Please try to keep up."
"Bitch," Sarah muttered. Suddenly Aegir didn't seem so bad after all, not compared to Weaver. She was sure that the liquid metal had super-sensitive hearing, like Cameron, and probably heard her, but she didn't care.
Nor did Catherine Weaver; she knew Sarah Connor could become a problem, and she would have to make sure that John kept his mother in line. Her attitude was becoming annoying. It would be easier to work without the constant human presence.
A cell phone rang and both John and Ellison checked their pockets. Both shrugged when they saw it wasn't coming from either of them.
Weaver pulled hers out and answered it. "Yes?" She listened as the voice on the other end spoke to her, waiting for it to finish before she made her reply. "Keep the engine running; I'll be there shortly." She hung up and saw that everyone assembled around her was looking at her expectantly. "ZeiraCorp was attacked early this morning," she told them. "A large group of armed men and machines stormed the building. Presumably looking for John Henry."
"What happened?" Thor asked.
"They're all dead. The security staff who arrived for their shift found bodies in the parking lot, foyer, and in the offices. They don't have access to the basement but I'd assume there are more down there."
"You didn't see any of it?" Sarah asked John Henry.
"No. I didn't know until now."
Sarah laughed humourlessly and stepped towards John Henry, her fists clenched. "I thought you were meant to be some kind of Anti-Skynet; what's the point if you can't see what's going on right under your nose?"
Aegir took a step towards her. "Careful, monkey."
She turned towards the Vanguard, glaring. "Call me that again, metal, and–"
"You'll throw your dung at me?"
Weaver intervened before it went any further. "The security system is closed-circuit. No one outside ZeiraCorp can access it. Especially Skynet." She paused to ensure she had everyone's full attention before continuing. "I've called for my helicopter to pick me up and fly to Los Angeles. It's just arrived."
"Wait one minute," John said. "You've got a helicopter but we had to drive to Crater Lake? We could've saved a hell of a lot of time and effort if we'd just flown there."
"And no doubt it would have suffered the same fate as the Toyota." She turned to the Vanguards. "I need one of you to assist me."
"Aegir and I are staying here to protect John Henry," Thor said. "Freyr will go with Cameron and Connor to the safe house. We don't follow your orders," he reminded her.
That she knew all too well. Perhaps there was one other that they might listen to? "Cameron?" Weaver appealed to the smallest cyborg in the room.
"Go with her," Cameron said to Thor. "Please?" she added; it often worked on John.
Thor nodded at her. "Yes, Commander." He turned to Weaver. "When do we leave?"
"Immediately." She faced the rest of them. "We'll meet here tomorrow at ten AM to finalise preparations."
San Diego, California
Monday 1515 PST
Miguel stood naked from the waist up in front of the full-length mirror. His battered reflection stared back at him, revealed in the harsh glare of the neon strip lighting, suspended from the ceiling above.
He had narrowly escaped ZeiraCorp, hiding in the back seat of a car and commanding the young couple inside, at gunpoint, to drive away while he kept down and out of sight. He'd ordered them to drive east towards Griffith Park, where he'd then exited the car and let them go – there had been no need to kill them. From there he'd stolen another car and driven towards the outskirts of Los Angeles and then south to San Diego, to the facility in which he was now located.
His shoulder was a complete mess; the flesh had been boiled away on impact and the surrounding areas of skin were melted, sticking to the exposed metal, and blistered as far away as his right pectoral muscle and halfway down his bicep. A large portion of his upper back was also burnt red and raw. The skin would heal in time, but it was the damage underneath that concerned him.
He wasn't alone. Vassily, Kaliba's most senior T-888, stood behind him with a scalpel at the ready. "Raise your right arm," he instructed. Miguel did as he was told, and with some difficulty he slowly lifted his arm out to the side. He could hear the joint grinding as he did so, making the already damaged shoulder even worse.
"That's enough," Vassily said when he'd raised it a little over forty-five degrees. With the scalpel he made an incision in Miguel's arm, where the top of his bicep met the front of his shoulder. From there he cut upwards through the cooked, burnt flesh and peeled the front of it down. He cut up all the way along to the line of his trapezius, towards his neck. He then changed angles and cut down his back. When he'd finished there was a flap of artificial flesh, which he peeled off the chassis to reveal red-soaked chrome. He left the skin attached and hanging loose to keep it alive. It would significantly reduce healing time if it remained.
With Miguel's shoulder exposed, Vassily saw the extent of the damage. A terminator's shoulder was similar in basic mechanical principle to that of a human's: a ball and socket joint, but in a machine it was reversed; the ball extended out from a cylindrical rotator on the torso and connected into another, smaller, cylinder at the top of the arm. A power conduit ran forwards from the smaller one, down into the heavily armoured chest. That conduit was still intact, which Vassily regarded as fortunate; otherwise Miguel's repairs would take considerably longer.
"Your rotator is severely damaged," Vassily said to Miguel. The Latin-American T-888 couldn't see it as most of the damage was to the rear, but the thick hyper-alloy cylinder had been almost completely destroyed. It had broken in half and the top section melted. "It will need to be replaced, as will your clavicle and trapezoid pistons." Now he could see the damage, he was surprised Miguel could move his arm at all. "You said this was damage from plasma fire?"
"A machine with on board rapid-fire plasma weaponry."
"There are no machines with on board plasma weapons," Vassily said, confused. There were no cyborgs, at least, and what Miguel had described to him was definitely a cyborg.
"It didn't correspond to any known model," Miguel told him as Vassily picked up another tool and started to disconnect the rotator cylinder. He felt his arm go completely limp as it was removed; he couldn't move the limb at all above the elbow. He looked up in the mirror and caught his colleague's eyes. "This machine is something new," he warned. "It called itself 'Ronin.'" He'd never known a cyborg to name itself before. He'd been assigned his name as an alias: Miguel Vega. The name meant nothing to him except for infiltration purposes, but he'd sensed it wasn't so with Ronin. "It's dangerous. I recommend recalling all units from operations and focus all efforts on locating it."
"Skynet won't allow that," Vassily said as he disconnected the rotator from its mount, followed by the two broken pistons.
"We'll have to convince it," Miguel insisted. "We'll need Skynet to help us search for it; when we locate Ronin I'll lead another strike force. I'm recommending we assign Skynet's T-900s to the operation."
"That won't happen," Vassily said. He turned away from Miguel and opened a crate full of machine parts. He located two pistons and a rotator cylinder that were the best fit for the other T-888, closed the crate, and moved back towards his colleague.
"This machine has to be dealt with," Miguel argued. "In my opinion it's a bigger threat than Connor or the ZeiraCorp AI."
"It will be dealt with, but not by you. Skynet has been informed of your operation's failure and has reassigned you."
Reassigned. The word resounded uncomfortably in Miguel's mind. No machine had ever failed a mission; not without being destroyed in the process. It was inherent in their design, and because of that Miguel had only ever known success. He had been frustrated at his initial failure, but he had known that it was only a temporary setback and that he would try again. It's what he and the others did. The only time he or any other machine would be taken from their missions and given another would be in the case of a direct threat to Skynet or if a target of greater priority presented itself: namely John Connor. "Reassigned to what?" he asked.
"Termination of two brothers, to be undertaken as soon as your repairs are completed." He handed over a printout of the targets. They were both Caucasian males with brown hair, and from their posted dates of birth, the eldest was barely a teenager. Miguel didn't recognise them.
He said nothing for a moment, unsure how to respond to what he believed was a gross error in judgement. But they were given their orders and they obeyed them. Despite that, he still felt a sense of disappointment; he'd been assigned the termination of the ZeiraCorp AI and he was determined to see it through. Now he was to be denied that opportunity, or the more important task of finding this new threat, in favour of a job that could easily be carried out by a human. "That doesn't seem like the best use of my capabilities," he said finally. "We have human operatives who could eliminate them. I should at least advise you on–"
"I have your report," Vassily interrupted him as he started to fit a new rotator disc into place. "From it, Skynet has extrapolated that the machine you faced was a T-900 or similar design, modified to carry plasma weaponry. I have been assigned command of offensive operations. I've ordered a unit of ten T-888s to assemble and we will mobilise our human operatives to maintain surveillance on Catherine Weaver's residence as well as that of known ZeiraCorp employees and associates. Skynet is working to gain access to ZeiraCorp's security systems to analyse footage, and to predict the T-900's location. When it does I will lead the strike force against it, armed with antitank and heavy calibre weaponry."
It didn't seem enough to Miguel. He sat there as Vassily continued to repair his shoulder, and he thought back to his brief fight against the machine that had called itself Ronin. He'd seen it withstand 40mm grenade impacts without the slightest hint of damage. Even a T-900 would at least have been knocked off its feet. Ten machines with antitank weaponry: plenty to engage a 900-series. He doubted it would be sufficient against what he'd fought.
And while this was happening, he was going to be eliminating two human adolescents. It was a complete waste and he knew they would need him, but he could not convince them of that. Vassily had his orders, and Miguel knew that there would be no turning Skynet: it could not be reasoned with, or debated with. Its authority was absolute, its orders to be carried out without question. Skynet was young, still asserting itself, and in time it would learn. Only if it survives long enough, Miguel thought.
Near Pismo, California
Monday 1600 PST
"This is it," Ellison said as he parked their Lincoln Navigator. The van the Connors acquired in Oregon had disappeared, replaced by this black SUV with heavily-tinted windows; Weaver had performed another minor miracle.
They were at the end of the drive outside a fairly large house. The front yard was sizeable and well kept, as was the back from what he could see. There was land stretching out behind the house onto fields, but he couldn't see any boundaries between what belonged to this property and what didn't. There were no other houses in sight but he could see stables behind the house, and a large cattle shed.
"This is Weaver's safe house?" John asked, impressed. The ones he and his mom had set up in the past were little more than shacks with caches of water and canned food, spare clothes, money, ammunition, and a deck of cards to pass the time. It was a shock to the system, going from that to a large farmhouse that probably wouldn't see much change out of half a million dollars. We're going up in the world, he thought. "She's got style."
"Yeah," Sarah muttered absent-mindedly from the passenger seat in the front. She had to admit that the liquid metal knew how to wage a war in comfort; ironic, she thought, since machines had no sense of it.
"We should get inside," Cameron said. John opened the door and slid out. Sarah didn't fail to notice how the two of them had held hands behind her for the entire trip from Serrano Point, and even as they got out of the car neither of them let go of the other. The rear door opened up and Freyr stepped out. As he did so the rear of the car rose up several inches, the strain noticeably taken off the rear suspension.
"How heavy are you guys, anyway?" John asked him as Sarah and Ellison also exited the vehicle. Cameron didn't seem to weigh any more than a normal girl.
"In our basic form: just over two hundred kilograms," Freyr answered.
"Four hundred-fifty pounds," Cameron converted for the others.
"Heavy," John said. He'd seen Aegir running after the T-1001 that had tried to kill him and Cameron back in Oregon; it was hard to imagine them being heavy but still moving as fast as Aegir had. "What do you mean: 'basic form?'"
"We're built different to Cameron," Freyr explained. "We had to remove our tactical harnesses, weapons mounts and other equipment to be able to pass for human." It meant their task of killing T-Zero would be that much more difficult but there'd been no other way.
"You mean you were even bigger in the future?" Sarah couldn't imagine them being much larger than they already were, and they barely passed for human as it was. "Hyper-alloy?"
"Some," he said. He doubted she wanted or would even understand a detailed description of their designs. He surveyed the area and scanned for any possible threats. There was nothing around and Weaver had promised that nobody knew about the house. Despite her claims, Freyr was glad he'd come with John, Cameron, Ellison and Sarah. The house, while secluded, was tactically unsound; the fields surrounding it sloped upwards as they spread away from the property, creating an elevated tree line, and the uneven ground and ample flora provided a lot of cover for hostile forces approaching the house, which had clearly never been built with defence in mind.
John looked at the stables visible behind the house. "I hope there's no livestock in there," he commented. He had visions of Cameron and Freyr stepping foot outside the house and driving any animals insane. It wouldn't do well for them to keep a low profile if anyone within a mile heard the racket of panicking horses and decided to investigate. It clearly wasn't a functioning farm but that didn't mean there weren't still some animals around.
They crossed the front yard and Ellison opened the door, stepping aside to let Cameron into the house first. Freyr went in after her, followed by John, and finally Ellison and Sarah, limping on her left leg still. She winced slightly with every other step as she put weight on her knee but she refused his offer of help. She knew it wasn't broken but it still hurt like hell.
They walked through the hallway, past the staircase on their left, and into a spacious lounge with two leather couches, a beech coffee table, and a forty-two inch flat-screen TV in the corner. The first thing Sarah noticed was the sparseness of the décor: plain white walls, polished hardwood flooring, and flat-pack furniture that looked like it had come straight out of the Ikea catalogue. There were no picture frames, no clocks on the wall, no cushions on the plain black sofas, no personal touches at all; clearly decorated by a machine. Or a man.
John went into the kitchen. It was large, clean, and looked as if it had never been used before. Again, like the living room it appeared to have come right out of a showroom. He reckoned for a moment that if he searched through a couple of designer kitchen portfolios he'd find a picture that'd be an exact replica of the room he was standing in. He opened up a cupboard and saw the shelves were completely empty. He checked others and found the same, and when he opened up the refrigerator it was similarly bare. He figured she'd never expected to have any human companyin the house; she probably only ever came very occasionally, if only to wipe the dust off.
"We're gonna need to do some shopping," John thought aloud. Next to the kitchen was the dining room. That room was dark but he could see the table and chairs. At the other end he found a closet that was empty. Back in the main hallway, beneath the staircase, was a door leading to the basement; when John opened the door and peeked inside he saw that it was just a utility room. Leaving the basement behind he went upstairs, Cameron following him, as they checked out the upper floor, which held four bedrooms and two bathrooms. John poked his head through one of the doors and switched the light on. He saw the same whitewashed walls and hardwood flooring as downstairs, but with a double bed on a stainless steel frame; the sheets were also white. Additionally, there was a beech wardrobe and matching chest of drawers. The entire room seemed cold, without any character at all, and it felt like nobody had lived in this house for a very long time, if ever. He spotted a door at the far end of the room, ajar, and beyond it were plain white tiles and a glass screen.
"This is the biggest bedroom in the house," Cameron said, calculating the sizes of the other rooms based on the total area of the house and the distance between doors in the landing.
"Dibs," John announced as he sat on the bed, bagging the en suite for himself. After suffering through months of living in a room furnished and decorated for a little kid, he wasn't going to pass up the chance for something better.
"The room overlooks the back yard," Cameron said. "The window ledge is four-point-two metres above the ground; the back yard runs onto the fields."
John got up and stood next to her, looking out the window. The sky was grey and getting dimmer. He guessed they had maybe two hours until sunset. Enough light, for now, to see their surroundings. "If we're compromised I'll go out the window and run there." He pointed to the stables, which looked solid and might give some cover from fire – or at least from view. "From there I'll cross through the fields and into the trees, and keep going until I get to the highway, then take a car. Don't wait for you or Mom, and don't try to make contact."
"Good," said Cameron, smiling. She took his hand in hers and squeezed lightly. She could tell from John's voice and the dilation in his pupils as he spoke that he was unlikely to leave her or his mother; if they were attacked she resolved to stay with him and make sure he escaped, rather than remaining behind to buy him time. It was the only way to be certain.
Kiev, Ukraine
Tuesday 0300 Local Time [Monday 1700 PST]
The interior of the Customs warehouse was a massive, cavernous space, thousands of square feet in area. Dozens of men worked inside; operatives moving crates with specialised forklifts, transferring them from storage to areas designated for inspection by uniformed Customs officers.
None of them, however, went anywhere near the north-east corner of the warehouse; the furthest away from the entrance. Special instructions had been issued at high levels to ignore a steel shipping container guarded by four armed American men. Nobody approached them, nobody spoke to them.
Rick glanced at the three men with him. They all looked bored and tired. He didn't blame them; humans had their limitations, though any longer and their fatigue could pose a problem. They had been waiting for hours to hear about what had happened to the absent transport truck. Nobody had any news. The truck seemed to have disappeared.
Rick took out his cell phone and dialled the driver's number, as he'd done six times without getting a response since arriving at Boryspil Airport. The phone rang continuously for several seconds before it was finally answered. "You're late," he said. "Where are you?"
"My name is Sergeant Dmitri Volek, Kiev City Police. Who is this?" the voice answered in Ukrainian.
"How did you get this phone?" Rick asked, instantly switching over to the native language. "Where is Peotr?"
"Do you mean the driver of the Gaz truck? He was involved in a serious accident; he's been admitted to hospital."
"Which hospital?"
"Are you family?"
"Yes," Rick lied. "He's my brother. Where is he? I'm very worried about him."
"The National Emergency and Trauma Centre."
Rick hung up without another word and dialled again, this time calling the organisation.
"Rick; have you heard anything?"
"He was involved in a crash. He's been taken to the Trauma Centre."
"We're having trouble getting hold of another truck. Nothing's open; it might take a while. I'll get back to you when I have some good news."
"Understood," Rick said as the call ended. He relayed the information to his team, much to their dismay. They didn't like being stuck in such a massive open space, with their cargo unsecured. The sooner the truck arrived and they could move it, the better.
Pismo, California
Monday 1748 PST
John stared at the TV, remote in hand, staring blankly at the screen. Cameron sat next to him on the couch. Ellison and Sarah sat on the other sofa at opposite ends, looking uncomfortable in each other's presence. Similar, Cameron thought, to how John used to feel when she was with him. Now, though, they were sitting close enough that there was no space between them.
"There's nothing on," John said, flicking from the news to a movie that didn't look the least bit interesting. "Just basic cable. We're gonna have to change that."
"It's not a priority," Cameron said to him.
"We nearly died because she didn't want to risk her precious helicopter; the least she can do is get us HBO."
He really didn't care about the TV all that much but was just trying to cut through the tension. He'd noticed how his mother kept glancing at him and Cameron, and switching from them to looking out the corner of her eye at Ellison. And how the former-agent was trying to avoid looking at any of them. He looked like a guilty man. But guilty of what? John wondered. There was so much he didn't know about Ellison. He was Weaver's man, and Catherine Weaver had made it clear that she wanted Cameron. Maybe she told him to tip off the police so she could bargain with Mom's freedom in exchange for Cameron? Given the sideways stares she was giving Ellison, he had a feeling that his mom was thinking the same thing.
Neither his mother nor Ellison made any comment and they remained in silence, save for the sound of the TV, for several more minutes. Forget this, he thought. He didn't like the enmity in the room. It was how he imagined living with two parents who hated each other and were on the brink of divorce must feel like. "I'm going to bed," he said, getting up. He crossed the room and handed the remote to Sarah.
Ellison glanced at him dubiously. "It's not even six," he said.
"It's been a long day."
"I was going to go get some food in a minute. You want anything?"
"I'm good." John started for the door, but stopped and turned round. "Have you noticed that there's no food, clothing or toys for Savannah?" he asked Ellison.
"Yes, I have," James replied. He said nothing else, but silently moved it up his growing list of concerns.
John too said nothing, merely nodding, before leaving the room and heading upstairs. Cameron followed him and closed the door once they were inside, sealing off the outside world.
They both lay down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling in silence. This time, however, it was a comfortable silence, as opposed to the tension downstairs he could have cut with a knife. After several minutes he heard the front door open and close, followed by the car starting and driving away. He could still hear the TV, though.
"Ellison's left," Cameron said. "Your mother's still downstairs."
"He'll probably be a while," John said, imagining the man would take his sweet time before coming back to a house full of people suspicious of him.
"Your mother wanted to go with him. He said no."
He'd almost forgotten about how she could hear practically everything that went on in the house. It was hard to keep secrets from her. "I'm not surprised; not sure how he'd talk his way out if he got caught with Mom in tow."
"You don't trust him," Cameron said.
"Trust is earned." He caught the look on her face as he said it; the slight frown, how her lips pursed slightly. She thought he was referring to her. "You don't trust him, either," he added for emphasis.
"No."
Both of them went quiet after that. She sat up and turned to face John, looking down at him. "What do you want to do?"
John answered honestly. "I don't know."
"What do two people normally do alone in a room?" she asked.
How she asked it struck John as strange. The words themselves sounded like a come-on, but the look on her face and the tone she'd used belied an innocent curiosity, the same as when she'd asked him if she had a birthday. He became aware of how close together he and Cameron were presently, with her looking over him expectantly for an answer. He couldn't help but think about how only a day earlier they'd kissed in the cabin before the T-1001 showed up. How hours later in the lodge, they'd been naked in bed together; how one thing had led to another and they'd been on the verge, minutes or even seconds away from sex. Now, though, after a long, strenuous day and with his mom downstairs, it didn't feel right. The moment had passed.
"They sleep," he said.
"Are you tired?"
"No." He didn't know what else to say. They fell silent again and this time he felt awkward. He didn't know whether she wanted to do something or was content to just sit there. He wondered if she'd been thinking of the cabin and the lodge too, whether she wanted to carry on where they'd left off. He had plenty of questions to ask her but he wasn't sure which to ask first; there was so much about her he still didn't know. He realised that he had no idea what she did at night when he went to bed. "What do you normally do around this time? When we're at home, I mean."
"I check the perimeter."
"And then?" he asked.
"I check it again."
"No other nocturnal activities?"
She didn't understand what he was implying. "Such as?"
"Something that gets you all covered in cuts and bruises." He'd noticed them, as had his mom. "You been going to Fight Club or something? You never tell us what you do."
She smiled wryly at him and winked. "You know the first rule of Fight Club."
John laughed out loud, surprised that she'd seen that movie; even more surprised that she'd made a joke out of it. She definitely understood more than he'd thought possible before. She possessed a dry wit that he'd never noticed, and he wondered if it was new or if he'd just had his eyes closed to it before. "Okay," he said, getting up off the bed and holding his hand out invitingly. "Let's go check the perimeter together."
Cameron smiled as she took his hand and let him 'help' her up off the bed. "I'd like that."
Outside of Palm Springs, California
Monday 1800 PST
After the attack on ZeiraCorp, Ronin, Icarus and Shirley had rendezvoused with Caesar, Carter and Mason in the parking lot of the Century Valley Mall, then driven east through LA before finding a large, isolated house just outside of Palm Springs. Shirley had infiltrated the building and killed the occupants, providing them with a second base of operations. It was in that house that they were presently located.
In the spacious lounge, Ronin sat on a white leather sofa using the laptop, searching through the files in the first of the three CPUs Icarus had captured during their attack on ZeiraCorp. He glanced up from the laptop and watched his companions as they worked.
Carter and Mason knelt by the inert body of the T-888 that Caesar had deactivated; they'd cut through the back of his neck and were working to repair the damaged vertebrae and spinal cord, which the T-900 had snapped before concealing the machine in the trunk of his car, along with the weaponry he'd acquired from the rest of the Kaliba surveillance team at Pelican Bay State Prison. Meanwhile, Caesar cleaned and checked the array of arms he had seized on his mission. A row of assault rifles had been placed neatly on the dark wood coffee table, and he was currently working on the M200 sniper rifle. Shirley stood in one corner of the room, not doing anything; Icarus was upstairs, keeping watch through one of the bedroom windows.
Ronin discarded the file he had been checking. It had provided no valuable information. He'd come to the conclusion already that few had any direct contact with Skynet. That corresponded to the Skynet he'd known: until he had infiltrated Cheyenne Mountain just before Connor's army had finally taken Fort Carson and finished off the last of Skynet's machines, he had never actually seen the AI. They'd communicated regularly but it had always been via terminals located in Skynet's facilities. The actual computer that was Skynet had been in a secure vault underneath the mountain, behind multiple sets of thick blast doors, bulletproof glass, and protected by a praetorian guard of T-900s. He knew that the new Skynet, in this time, would be in a similar, yet more low-tech environment. It would be somewhere remote, underground, and protected by machines who would never leave its side. He didn't know how many there would be or how well armed they were. He knew very little about Skynet in its infancy, how it had started; for safety's sake, he assumed that it and Kaliba were more powerful than his group. He would never underestimate his enemy.
He selected a new file and watched. He quickly saw that the T-888 was inside a large interior space. Men and machines worked on a large object but Ronin could not identify it; the view was only partial before the T-888 through whose eyes he was watching turned away.
Ronin watched as the machine exited the space and crossed a courtyard, marched through a gate with armed guards, and saw a convoy of trucks approaching down a dirt road.
The next file showed the T-888 entering an office and speaking with a human. The conversation was brief and it was clear that the cyborg had seniority over its companion. Shortly after, the machine exited the facility, got into a car, and drove along a dirt road running through an expanse of desert. Ronin continued to watch until he saw road signs written in Spanish. The car eventually turned off the dirt road and onto a metalled highway. The next sign he saw read '45' in large print beneath the word 'MEXICO.'
"I've found a new target," Ronin said to the others, pausing the video. He put the laptop down as the others looked to him. "A private airfield on a dirt road seventeen miles south-east of Chihuahua, Mexico."
"We need to search for Patrick," Shirley said.
"We have a target," Ronin countered, "and a narrow window of opportunity. Kaliba will bolster their facilities' defences now they know we exist. We don't know their full capabilities; we attack, now, before they can mobilise a force that might threaten us."
"The Vanguards were en route to protect Connor; if we don't intervene they'll kill Patrick." She was concerned for the other T-1001 in a way that the others would not understand. Her kind functioned differently from other machines: she and Patrick originated from the same matter; more like one organism split into two halves rather than two separate entities; it meant there was a literal bond between them.
"He's probably dead," Caesar said.
Shirley glared at the T-900 angrily, then turned her attention back to Ronin. "I won't abandon him." The stance she took, the tone of her voice, and the fact that her fists were curled into balls as she spoke was enough for Ronin to see she wasn't going to let it go. "I'll search for him myself," she said.
Ronin hesitated for a moment. He agreed with Caesar: if Patrick had engaged the Vanguards then he was almost certainly dead. They needed to reach the factory as soon as possible, and without knowing the capacity of their defences he needed to have Shirley on hand in case covert infiltration was required. Conversely, he could see she would not relent on the issue of Patrick, and if he went against her on this he might lose her cooperation later. The T-1001s were invaluable for their capabilities but they were also very unpredictable. He would compromise.
"You and Carter search for Patrick in Crater Lake," he said. "You have thirty-six hours." While they drove north, he and the others would use the time to recon the facility and assess its defences.
"We'll leave immediately," Carter said. He got up from fixing the deactivated T-888, took the car keys that had belonged to the former owner of the house, and went to the garage. Shirley moved to leave as well.
"Thirty-six hours," Ronin reminded Shirley.
"Understood," she said.
Once they'd left, Ronin turned to Mason. "How long until it's repaired?" He gestured to the motionless T-888 on the ground.
"It will function," Mason said, "but the upper vertebrae need to be replaced."
Ronin took the metal cylinder, opened it up, took out a CPU and placed it into the empty chip port. They waited fifteen seconds for the machine to reactivate. It sat up and looked around at the other cyborgs surrounding it.
"What's your name?" Ronin asked. It was difficult to tell from their CPUs; they all looked the same. The only reason he'd known Carter's chip was that he'd put it in the top of the cylinder.
"Talus," the newly-awakened machine replied. "This body is impaired," he said, running a diagnostic. His new neck was damaged and mobility was slightly hindered.
"We can repair you later," Ronin said. "We're going to Chihuahua. Now." He would brief Talus while they were en route.