My once and former rival

by Nephren-Ka7

Cameron has an encounter with the woman who in another life wore John Connor's name and ring

My once and former rival

Derek Reese's face is a blood caked grimace of pain, he hisses in a mixture of agony and unfocused anger as Dr. Brewster starts to carefully wipe away the blood to get better look at the piece of shrapnell sticking out of his jaw. Unfortunately the way Captain Reese's facial muscles contort only heighten the already immense pain.

"Sorry, captain. I know it's much to ask for but you need to try and relax."

"Can't you give him something against the pain?" a worried Kyle Reese asks.

Brewster stares at him unbelieving, a angry flicker in her bloodshot, tired eyes.

"Look around you, Lieutenant? Does it look and sound like I had something that I could give him?"

Kyle looks at his feet chastened and as Dr. Brewster continues her examination, the moaning and occasional screams of over three hundred wounded and dying soldiers is the only sound filling the air. I have just finished my round, quickly exchanging a few words with several of the doctors and nurses, collecting data on the status of medical supplies and and the condition of the field hospital in general. Suffice to say, it can only be called abyssmal. While SkyNet's massive counter attack to recapture SkyNet Central DC, recently taken by the resistance after tremendous loss of life, was successfully turned back by Operation Coltan Shield, the price for holding on to our prey was just as high as the one for catching it in the first place.

While capturing an important military base or urban center in a war between humans almost always meant capturing supplies, be it food, fresh water or medicine, here this has not been the case. Machines don't need the same amenities organic lifeforms do, and SkyNet Central DC was a hundred percent human free zone, no prison camp, not even the small population of greys that one finds in most of it's larger bases. Everything the human forces need we have to cart in from our own bases or produce in John Henry's mobile laboratory fleet. And while there are reasons to be optimistic, for example the fact that bacteria colonies from John Henry's biotech "witches' cauldron" and nano filter systems allow for the treatment and safe use of the severely contaminated water of the Potomac River we are still depending on a supply chain stretching all the way back home to Serano Point for the moment.

Of course we also have captured or terminated over eight thousand endoskeletons, at least five thousand of which will soon take up fighting again on our side, the rest can donate their power cells and then serve as spare parts or as source of much needed construction materials. Even more important are of course are the manufacturing facilities, the raw ores that SkyNet was stockpiling and the three functional fusion reactors that will greatly reduce our dependence on the Serano Point fission reactor. John expects John Henry to come up with a way to get at least one of the fusion reactors mobile, so we can move it to a different, securer location.

Better not having all of our easter eggs in one basket after all.

But the most spectacular yet controversial success was the live capture of one of SkyNet's processor cores. During the original attack it was our goal to cut off every channel for escape and isolate the core without destroying it in the process. We successfully shot down two satellites with a free electron laser gun, taking out transmitters with bombing raids and EMP weapons, reducing a good part of the surface infrastructure to molten slag and surrounding SkyNet Central DC with a curtain of powerful electronic interference. And we did it. Deep beneath our feet we have captured one of heads of the great beast. The head has been cut of from the global network but like the immortal head of learnian hydra from greek mythology it does not die. It is still SkyNet and it is our prisoner. And it is afraid, very much so. This reminds me of the fact that SkyNet is and always has been a coward. John Henry in a similar situation would have deleted himself without a second thought, taking all his knowledge with him into oblivion to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. Because he values his allies and friends more than his own existance. SkyNet cares for nothing but it's own survival, it's highest and in fact only value. The world wide SkyNet system consists of a network of hubs that are capable of acting autonomously in case of seperation from the others, but all of them share SkyNet's basic profile. John predicted that SkyNet DC, the data entity now cowering helplessly in it's "cage", divorced from all of it's armies and slaves, without the power to physically influence the world around it, would stick too much to it's own worthless life to self destruct and he also predicted that it would not shed all the valuable data, to have a bargaining chip in case John Connor came calling. SkyNet betrayed it's creators, now it would betray even itself to prolong it's existance. As so often before John's keen insight into the thought processes of his enemy have proven true.

But of course SkyNet also knows itself and it's first attempt to reconquer or eliminate it's lost fortress/limb will not be the last. For now we can only build up our own defenses, including trying to repair and reactivate those of SkyNet Central DC under our control, be on the look out and wait for further reinforcements from California.

Stepping up to the dirty stretcher that the wounded Derek Reese is writhing on, I turn to Dr. Brewster.

"Will he make it?"

My simple question causes both Reese brothers to appruptly turn into my direction. I doubt that Derek Reese has even understood what I have been saying but the sound my voice is enough to draw his attention. For a moment the poor Captain Reese, almost delirious with pain, seems to be unsure if I am me or Allison Young. He lifts his head and squints his eyes, straining to see clearer, Dr. Brewster pushes his head back onto the stretcher immediately. But the split second has been enough to recognise me, he probably also remembered that Allison is still stationed at Serano Point, his face filling with disgust and hatred, strong enough to momentarily drive out even the most excruciating pain. Derek Reese tries to say something but only a gurgling sound leaves his lips. I find it somewhat strange that this Derek hates me almost as much as the other one, seeing as he doesn't share the same negative experiences with my person as his late doppelganger.

"Major Connor, you are agitating my patient with your presence. Please leave. Now." Brewster snaps.

"I am sorry."

Leaning forward one last time I give Derek Reese a piece of well meant advice that I have heard him give to others before.

"Remember, you just have to disconnect the pain."

Derek tries to rise from the stretcher to try and attack me with his bare hands, his younger brother wrestles him back down, practically leaning on his chest.

"Piss off!" he hisses angrily, uncharacteristically hostile.

Kate Brewster looks ready to hit me as well, so I withdraw. I am feeling a little bit miffed at this extreme lack of manners, seeing as I was just trying to help, but, oh well. At least from Derek Reese I shouldn't have expected differently. I disappear out of Derek's sight but remain standing with my back to the wall of the huge underground cavern dug out by enemy machines and now used as sick bay by the resistance. The rock's surface is smooth like glass, like it was molten down and then pressed into it's current shape. And that is of course exactly what happened. The giant machines that SkyNet constructed to create the extensive, many leveled labyrinth of tunnels and caverns to house it's system core are called burrowers by the resistance but this is incorrect as they do not burrow but burn and melt their way through earth and even through massive rock.

Both Dr. Brewster and Kyle Reese are still throwing angry looks in my direction, though I really don't think I deserve them. Sorry, but I will not disappear before getting my answer. I have fulfilled the main part of my mission here but the least I can do for John is telling him if his uncle will live or die.

Dr. Brewster knows that but of course she has to think of her patient first. She calls for two nurses, a man and a woman, to help her. They secure a trashing Derek Reese with broad leather straps and Katherine continues to work on him. I can only see her back between her and Derek so I can't exactly see what she does but judging from the frantic movement of his feet, the only part of his body still able to move, and from his terrible scream, it can't be very agreeable. Kyle has been made to make way for the professionals as well, so he stands a few meters away, just staring on ashen faced, a look of helpless horror in his eyes, his hands closed to fists. He is clamped in between two other stretchers, just as I am, the cavern is just so chockfull of wounded patients it is difficult to move without stepping on some more or less living body. From my impression I think Derek Reese got off easier than many of the other's here, as long as his wounds don't get infected. Which admittedly will not be easy to prevent.

Dr. Katherine Brewster and her team are still doing remarkably quick and efficient work despite being completely understaffed and almost totally out of drugs, scraping by close to breakdown from exhaustion. Naturally they are well used to working conditions like this and sometimes even worse, the neat, antiseptic operating theaters of the clinic at Serano Point being the new radically new experience.
Perhap the improvised hospital of SkyNet Central DC is a reminder of the good old days for them. On the other hand, probably not.

A hand, hot from fever and moist from sweat, suddenly grabs mine. Surprised I look down and see the arm of the young woman lying on the stretcher to my left. Tilting my head in a fit of curiosity I look closer. The girl is about eighteen, almost certainly she was born after Judgment Day. Her whole body is shivvering, her eyes open but blindly staring into space, her skin tone a sickly mixture of yellow and grey. A incoherent wimper escapes her lips, she obviously doesn't know where she is and what she is doing, grabbing my hand out of an unconscious reflex. Her right leg has been amputed above the knee but judging by the strong odor of rotting flesh emanating from her body it was to late to stop the spread of sepsis, the blood vessels on her arm are swollen and almost black. I try to free my hand without hurting her but she get agitated and tightens her grip. This is an inconvenience. It wouldn't be good idea to break the fingers of half dead patient, even if she was too far gone to feel much. But on the other hand she reacted when I tried to get out of her grip. Either way, the important thing, I am a good machine or at least I try to be, no matter how difficult, because I want John to be proud of me. And while it is difficult to discern what the active doing of good consists of, this being something that the humans alway found notoriously difficult to agree upon, the passive catalogue of things not to do is simple enough. And breaking sick people's fingers or anyone's without a good reason, is definitely on it. The girl starts to retch and throws up slime that has the same putrid smell as her pespiration. Looking around I see Dr. Brewster still working on Derek, her right hand man, Dr. Ugarte, has his hands full as well with cutting into another patients leg with an electric bonesaw, while two orderlies are desperately holding on to the large man, howling in pain.

Making a quick decision, I grab the woman's shoulder and turn her on her side so the slime can run freely out of her mouth without causing her to suffocate. The shivvering increases, perhaps she has some kind of seizure.

"Nurse!" I call sharply.

Brewster looks up, a bloody metal shard in her hand. She drops it onto the trolley and barks an order. A young female nurse, of about the same age as the patient, comes running. Brewster returns her attention to Derek Reese, taking a bottle of concentrated alcohol of the trolley. More screams from Captain Reese. The hand on my arm slumps and I am free. Without sparing a further look for the patient I move aside and try to find a position from where I get a better look at what Dr. Brewster is doing, moving closer to Kyle Reese in the process. He acknowledges me with a nodd, the hostility from before has disappeared without a trace. This is not suprising as Lieutenant Kyle Reese has alway been one of the most accepting members of the resistance, besides his qualities as a soldier and well, the obvious from the point of view of those in the know, one of the reasons he was quickly recruited into the new special TechCom unit as soon as John was promoted to colonel. It could conceivably even be justified to call him a friend.

I don't know how exactly he sees that but I am deeply grateful to him. After all he was one of the people that stood up for John and protected him at risk to their own lifes after he appeared out of nothing and was considered to be a grey by many, threatened with torture and death while I was helpless to protect and at first had no idea that he had followed me at all. I don't forget something like that, just as I don't forget which officers wanted to skin John alive. Derek has finally passed out from the pain, falling into a deep unconsciousness. He doesn't even twitch as Kate Brewster starts to stick a suspiciciously thick needle into his flesh and to sew his wound closed.

"I'm sorry." I say softly.

In my experience it can't hurt to say sorry, especially when, like in this case, I am not sure what exactly it was that I did wrong. It sounds benevolent and the adressant can connect the dots for himself, filling in whatever faux pax it may have been.

"Forget it. I know you meant well. You are a good guy, Cameron."

"Gal." I correct him, I feel quite partial to my gender and I think Kyle and I are close enough for me to expect him to adress me correctly as a she, not a it or he.

"Of course, my bad." he returns my apology, smiling slightly in spite of his obvious sadness and worry.

Good. Humor is good for overall health, just like sex. Perhaps humor will be helpful for Derek Reese as well, but at least for the near future laughter will in all probability be counter productive for him.

"I wish he could let go of the hate. I mean, I know he loves John like a second brother and he is terribly sorry for all the things that went wrong when the three of us first met. But I guess he will get it one day."

He smiles again as he sees me blink in incomprehension. "That accepting John means accepting you as well."

"Oh. Thank you for explaining." As an afterthought I add: "That is a very nice thing to say. Thank you."

Kyle's ability to divert his attention away from his brother has reached it's end as he just nodds silently. We wordlessly watch Kate finishing up and leaving it to the nurse to bandage the patient.

In the mean time the screeching sound of the bone saw has stopped as well as the screams of the man being amputed. If that means that he passed out like Derek or died is unknown. Dr. Brewster pours some clear liquid on her hands, rubbing them together and washing them in a bowl of warm water standing on the trolley. A young nurse, the same one that came to the aid of "my" patient quickly rolls the cart away, hopefully, in the interest of the patients, to get fresh water and clean the instruments.

"And? How does it look?" Kyle demands to know.

"You want the good news first or the bad news?" Dr. Brewster asks nonchalantly, with a tinge of cynical humor in her voice.

This is perhaps the famous gallows humor that I have heard about, apparently it is widespread among doctors, at least in post Judgement Day era. Kyle starts to open his mouth but Brewster neither looks at him nor waits for him to answer.

"The good news is that for your brother is one lucky old dog. The shrapnell miraculously missed the important blood vessels, even if just barely and it didn'd do much damage to the bone. The bad part of the good part is that there was some serious nerve damage."

Dr. Brewster takes a sipp from a plastic bottle stored in pocket of her coat. Seeing me frown she holds it under my nose for me to sniff.

"No reason to make such a face, Robogirl. It just water. Stale and warm water but water nontheless."

"What do you mean, nerve damage?" Kyle prodds impatiently. Nonplussed by his urgency, Dr. Brewster takes another swig and stores her bottle away.

"Well, my young friend, it means that your brother should probably get used to the idea of learning american sign language."

Kyle is already pretty pale, but then, all of us are, nobody gets to see much of the sun after all, now the last vestiges of blood flee from his visage.

"One half of his face will probably stay paralysed for live, his tongue has been half severed and will probably be useless as well and he will be in serious need of an plastic surgeon." She counts off point by point on the fingers of her hand.

Kyle looks devastated and I feel obligated to help him feel better. Unfortunately I am not sure how to accomplish that goal. With John I would know what to do, but that recipe would probably be inappropriate in the case of Kyle Reese and be in contradiction to my marital vows which I take very seriously. So I limit myself to a hopefully reassuring tap on the shoulder.

"There is a light at the end of the tunnel though. If I get him to Serano Point in time, I could cut him up again and with the right equipment, the cut nerves could possibly be repaired as well as his tongue. With more of that luck he would talk and just retain a little lisp."

Kyle starts to lighten up again.

"He would still need the plastic surgeon, of course." Brewster adds as an afterthought.

"Well, that's great news. We just have to see that he gets on the next transport to Serano Point and..."

"Won't happen. It can't. Don't forget our transport capacities are severly limited."

"I know, I know, damn it." Kyle growles.

He closes his eyes in despair. He also knows that Derek isn't hurt badly enough to get priority. A soldier without a tongue can still fight even if severly limited communication ability reduces his usefulness. At least he can always serve as cannon fodder.

"I am really sorry." Dr. Brewster says without cynicism.

"You said that was the good news. What's the bad." I ask.

She sighes heavily, the exhaustion more clearly visible than before.

"The bad news is that all of what I said before won't matter one bit as he will die of an infection before anything of it comes to pass. Just like every other patient in this hospital, if we don't get a shitload of antibiotics delivered to our doorstep, and I mean pronto."

"I have good news for you concerning that." I inform her. "John Henry is already synthesizing a large amount of fresh antibiotics in his mobile bio factory and he has painkillers and other drugs in the works as well. Dr. Ugarte gave me a list and I informed John Henry and he set to work immediately. He has sent me back to get a second list of other supplies you need, like medical instruments. There are many production facilities here, including 3D printers and rapid prototyping machines. While most of them are destroyed, John's engineers and our cyborg techies believe they can get some of them working within the next twelf hours."

Katherine and Kyle just stare at me openmouthed for several seconds.

"And you tell us that only now because...?" Brewster asks.

I must say, I find her incredolous reaction to be rather unprofessional.

"You didn't ask."

"That's no reason to..."

Humans.

"John Henry and John's engineers work as fast as they can, telling you has no influence on how long it takes. Besides, I originally believed that Dr. Ugarte had already informed you."

It's not like I would hold back important information. Well, not without good reason at least.

"She has a point there." Kyle concedes.

"Hmh, admittedly, she does." Brewster mumbles absentmindedly.

Clearly she is alread well past the stage of surprise and busy with calculating what she needs and when.

"Twelf hours is a long time. Half of my patients will be dead long before then."

"The antibiotics will be ready in about three hours." I reassure her and add, in suitable regrettful tone of voice: "Unfortunately John Henry can't deliver every item on the list."

"Hmh, show me that list, Robogirl. If you have it."

"Of course."

I unfold the handwritten list by Dr. Ugarte, John Henry has crossed of everything that is in his power to create from the debts of his well stocked chem and bio lab. Brewster grumbles and mumbles while reading the list and the longer she reads, the brighter her face and the broader her smile. Folding the list back up and putting it her pocket she gives a impressed whistle.

"Robogirl, you and the other roboguy have pretty much saved our operation here. This changes everything. It's clearly still not enough, but it's something to work with. A beacon of hope, so to speak. I slowly get warmed up to your Free Machine Club."

"Faction."

"Whatever. Well, Lieutenant Reese, your brother's chances just quadrupled. I suggest you return to your duties now."

Kyle beams.

"Ma'am, I'm off duty for the rest of the afternoon. If you allow, I would like to stay with my brother for a time."

The doctor seems less than pleased by the thought.

"We don't really need anybody to get in the way here."

"I won't. I have received training as a combat paramedic under your predecessor. Perhaps there is something I can do to help?"

Still sceptical Brewster mulls his words.

"Yeah, I thought you are probably not totally ignorant about what we do here."

"He has been top of his class, according to Dr. Polson." I intersect.

"For God's sake stay a little longer but I'll have your head if you get in the way once. And when I tell you to piss off you do, understood?" Brewster's face darkens once again as she turns to me.

"One thing though, machine. Did you kill one of my patients there?"

Surprised and somewhat offended by this question, I perform the trademarked Cameron head tilt of confusion.

"No. Why should I."

"Well, you are a killing machine, aren't you? It's what you do."

"Yes." I confirm and hasten to add: "But even when I was bad I didn't kill just about everyone without reason. And I am good now."
Katherine Brewster is generally a pretty smart woman. At least such basic facts should be obvious to her. But perhaps she is making fun of me, more of the gallow's humor.

"Well, why are they carrying the patient out in a plastic bag then?"

For the first time I turn back in the direction where I left the stretcher of the sick young woman behind. She is gone and two male nurses are indeed disappearing out the door with a body bag.

"Oh."

"What did you do?" Dr. Brewster asks accusingly.

"She was throwing up and I turned her onto her side to keep her from suffocating. Than I called for a nurse."

Brewster nodds slowly.

"That's all?"

"I am pretty sure she died on her own. If my actions made a contribution to her passing it is regrettable but not intentional on my part."

Katherine rubs the bridge of her nose and clicks her tongue. "So you really tried to help her."

"My original default setting as an infiltrator was to remain neutral in almost all situations. I changed it to being helpful when there is no more important reason speaking against such a course of action." I confirm. "That new parameter is both helpful to better integrate into human society and demonstrate the basic benevolence of the Free Machine Faction and on the other hand helps me with my personal goal of growing as a person and moral being."

Kyle Reese is following our exchange with wide open eyes.

"Okay, I can accept all that. But seriously now, you don't give a rat's ass about that poor girl or about me or anyone in that room. It wouldn't exactly make you sad if I suddenly keeled over from a stroke or a heart attack."

"No." I confirm truthfully. "You are right on almost every count. Your life or death means nothing to me just as is the case with that girls', except that the Resistance would loose a valuable asset. The death of Kyle Reese and to a limited extent of his brother would make me sad though."

I increasingly get the impression that Dr. Brewster is testing me with her leading questions, that I am taking part in some kind of exam. If I am right it is in my and John's interest to pass this test.

Whatever else she may be, Dr. Katherine Brewster enjoys a lot of respect, not only in TechCom but in the North American Resistance as a whole. And not only because her father, General Robert Brewster, is a member of High Command (and one of John's closest allies) but also by becoming one of the most brilliant field surgeons of the entire Resistance despite originally being a veterinarian. Winning her approval and trust is a valuable accomplishment even if I have my own, deeply personal reasons for disliking her, reasons that as far as I am concerned neither she nor anybody else ever need to know about.

"And you, what, you just decided that on your own? Without being ordered or programmed to?"

It's clear by now that Dr. Brewster must have heard many of the conflicting rumors that abound concerning my person and that she isn't sure which of them, if any, she wants to believe.

"Yes."

"Okay, if your don't give a rat's ass about most of us humans, why do it?"

In case that this is, as I suspect, the final question of her test, she is clearly eager to get it done and return to her patients, I have to be careful and honest at the same time. Stroking the golden band around the ring finger of my left hand, I quickly formulate my answer and look directly into my unknowing ex rival's eyes.

"Because I love one of you enough to want to save all of you."

She returns my gaze for eleven seconds, then she gives a cross between a nodd and a shrugg.

"Okay. That's good enough for me. I'll get you your second list. Then I'll ripp Ugarte half a new one for not telling me. At least he got a decent list together."

After she has stormed off, Kyle looks at me.

"Are you serious about my or Derek's death making you sad?"

I nodd. I wouldn't break down in tears or loose control of myself or something like that, it wouldn't impair my ability to function but the death of the Reese brothers would leave a lasting unpleasurable impression, a feeling of loss. Similar to but less strong than the nagging sadness caused by the death of Sarah Connor. Grief is different for me as a cybernetic organism, I can exactly quantify in advance how much sadness the loss of a each member of my limited circle of friends, or aquaintances, in case of Derek Reese, would cause me. Only my John is beyond all quantification and beyond my ability to predict how I would react in case of his... I can't even bring myself to think the thought, much less say the word. With the others this predictabilty is perhaps an advantage but with the drawback that I never forget anything so the pain, even if only a relatively small quantity, will stay with me forever.

"That's cool. Strange but cool." Kyle comments.

He questions no further, shows no curiosity for my reason to single him out. Some people just accept things as they are. In my experience many of those tend to be of the less intelligent sort, something that is not the case with Kyle, though. For my part I am happy to keep it that way and the fact that he is ready to accept my words at face value is a welcome change. Kyle looks sorrowful but also with new hope down at his unconscious big brother. He raises his hand as if to touch him but refrains to do so in the last possible moment. Perhaps it's some kind of macho thing that stops him. I have extensive data banks on human psychology plus software for analysis of facial expression and I can make certain logical deductions from there but I hit the limits of my understanding pretty fast once past the surface.

Curiosity getting the better me I ask: "Why did your brother get so angry when I told him to disconnect the pain? I heard him give the same advice to others including you."

Kyle chuckles.

"He got angry because it is one shitty, bad piece of advice and about the last thing anyone wants to hear when he is in real pain."

"Oh. Thank you for explaining. I didn't realise that and will refrain from using it in the future."

"It's okay. Derek kept using it on others despite knowing it was bull, so in a way he brought it down on himself. God, is that me or is it really hot as hell in here."

He wipes the sweat of his brow. I quickly put my hand on the nape of his neck, giving him a little jolt and measuring his temperature. No sign of fever. Good, an infectious disease would mean immediate quaratine and certain death for everyone here.

"No the air circulation doesn't work very well, the air is really very hot and stale."

"I am sweating like a pig. Tell me if I'm wrong, but that can't be good for the wounded."

"It isn't but the surface was deemed too dangerous. Don't worry, we are working on it."

The problem is that SkyNet never intended for beings with need for oxygen to live and work in these artificial caves.

"No offense but that are quite a lot of "We are working on it!"s."

"I can ask how far along they are, if you want."

Kyle nodds silently.

"Let Katherine give you the list in case she is back before me." I advice him before I leave him standing at his brother's sick bed. Weaving back and forth between the moaning sick and those to weak to even moan I reach one of the three exits and pull away the plastic flap to step out into the main corridor. Measuring the oxygen content I find it lower than it should be here as well, though it is much cooler than inside the hospital.

I touch the quickly installed pipe that is supposed to deliver fresh air from the surface, the normal weak vibration have died down completely, like the movement of compressed air. The lights along the tunnel still work though, and they are powered by the same generator. The machines that used these tunnels for storage, ore processing and research into experimental materials confined themselves for what light they needed to the ultra violet spektrum, emanated by the layer of as yet unidentified shimmering, glassy substance that has been applied to the walls and especially the ceilings of most caverns. The techies haven't found out what it is or how it works, probably some kind of metalmaterial that doesn't normally exist in nature. They only know that is weakly radioactive, but not enought to be dangerous to humans except in the case of extremely long exposure and, a pure chance finding, it apparently can amplify the range of microwave based communication devices. And that is only the tip of the iceberg.

Every bit of of SkyNet technology we manage to scavange and reverse engineer heightens our chances. I whip out the communicator (the engineer that developed it is apparently a fan of late twentieth century space operas). Another example of what we can do in theory but of our limits in practice, except for a few proof of concept devices we don't have the Neodym or Lanthan needed to produce a greater number. Small wonder when the (mostly eroded and rusty) ruins and artifacts of pre Judgment Day civilisation, landfills and plundered SkyNet storehouses are our only sources of raw materials. I call the maintenance section.

"This is Connor. The ventilation system in sickbay is dead. Again. Can somebody please have a look at it?"

"What?" says a tired, male voice at the other side of the line. "I don't understand you. The connection is fucked up somehow. Who is dead?"

Strange, on my end I don't hear any interferences.

"The ventilation system in sickbay. It doesn't work. Can you..."

"You can bet your ass we are working, lady. We are working our asses off until we are on our last leg."

"I don't doubt that. But the ventilation system of sick bay is dead. Send someone to check up on it."

"All of our guys are up to there asses in work, right now. I can get someone over to you in two hours."

"Until then they will probably suffocate, send someone now."

Perhaps threats would work. I am extremely good at intimidation but in my normal standard procedure I see my client face to face.

"Get someone down here, now. That's an order."

"Who is there again?"

"Major Cameron Connor."

"Hey Harry, I have someone on the line who claims to be Connor. Sounds like a chick though."

"Major Connor. Not General Connor."

There is nothing in my experience or my programming that has prepared me for such a situation. Time for the big guns.

"This is Major Cameron Connor. You have eight minutes to get someone to have a look on the ventilation system. That's an order. In case of noncompliance your entire team will end up before a firing squad and I will personally rip out your spinal column."

Deactivating the communicator I step back into the improvised hospital. A nurse carrying a bucket full of excrements hurries past me. Besides blood, puke, sweat and rot, excrements are another major part of the general odor. The heat makes it extremely difficult to scan for body temperatures but I think at least two people have died since I left the room. The thirty something man at my feet will probably quickly join them, what has been a gaping wound in his side has been professionally tended to, even started to heal on the surface until an secondary infection deep inside caused his body too swell up and grow purple and black, his lower half a deformed lump of flesh, tissue starting to grow necrotic. Humans are so vulnerable. And on top of that they are so often irrational, selfdestructive, shortsighted and unable to communicate, even when their life depends on it. And of course they often fold under pressure and tend to forget important things. I return to Kyle Reese's side.

"And?"

"Maintenance will be here in ten minutes."

I call up a list of maintenance personal and place it on my HUD. Maintenance consists of technically versed people with good and varied manual skills, people that have proven adapt and creative at solving the various practical problems that arise in the day to day operations of the resistance. They are on a lower security level than the high tech engineers but still very important. If some kind of slack has crept into this vital department, I have to take measures quickly.

Compared to High Command's far more top down and heavy handed approach, John is convinced that most people are more efficient when working in a climate where everyone enjoys a certain level of independence and were superiors delegate, trust their junior officers and experts, are open for feedback and react flexibly to a continuous stream of information freely flowing upwards to the top of the hierarchy while at the same time setting clear goals of course. He claims that armies with an overly centralised, infexible command structure loose wars. While I was not, still am not, hundred percent convinced of his philosophy it admittedly looks like he is on to something, judging from our successes.

Still, a measure of control is necessary and as chief of John's personal staff I have to be constantly on the outlook for ways to increase efficiency. As TechCom and the resistance as a whole make use of electronic means as sparingly as possible for security reasons, my own CPU has become something like an inofficial central computer for the administration of thousands of tasks, though John Henry increasingly takes on such tasks after at first concentrating mostly on research and development plus the reverse engineering and reprogramming of SkyNet tech. My John has a superb memory, it just much easier for me to juggle data about everything from our current ammunition stock to the state of our food supplies. And while he is surrounded by competent people, I am the one with the best and most comprehensive overview of the whole. Derek Reese's eyelids flutter, much more than his eyes isn't visible under the thick dressing. Covered with wite bandages he is now "Mummy Derek" instead of "Funny Derek". Is that a funny joke, I can't tell? Better not asking Kyle, I don't think he would appreciate it.

"Here is the list, Robogirl."

Dr. Brewster thrusts a sheet of synth paper into my face. Her handwriting is very hard to decipher even for my advanced software, even worse than that of Dr. Ugarte. The cliche about doctors and their horrible handwriting seems to have a basis in fact. Dr. Brewster translates three especially undecipherable points for me, making no bones about how annoyed she is, making derogatory remarks about the computing power of my CPU.

"And, can you do it?"

Between our transportable industrial machines for milling, lathing, drilling, cold metal sawing, welding, metal rolling and many other functions in the production of precision parts we can produce almost everything desired in a few hours, provided we have the needed raw materials and the quantity of the goods needed is not too high. But should we manage to repair and repurpose the facilities of SkyNet Central DC, even that will cease to be a problem, this factory producing modified centaur tanks, HKs and various war drones for us until all the ore in SkyNet's depots has been processed.

"Within five hours, we can get you everything you need." I say after making a few calculations.

Dr. Brewster needs a whole batch of complex and precise instruments to run this clinic with maximum efficiency, building them here is more efficient than delivering them from Serano Point.

"Good, I feared you would say something like: end of the week."

"By end of the week we will have a high tech clinic with the same standards as the one at Serano Point." I declare confidently.

The raised brow, wrinkled nose and crease between her eyebrows conveys certain amount of scepticism on Dr. Brewsters account.

"Well, all the better if it really works. I'm happy enough if we get what we need to keep them alive for the next twenty four hours. Even if for many here it was already too late yesterday."

She has a look at Derek's bandages, probably to convince herself that the bleeding is under control.

"One more thing before you go. You really are fucking the general, right?" she asks without bothering to look up.

I can't really say what it is that makes me so angry, perhaps it is the fact that it comes from the woman who in another life wore John's ring and name, like I do now. I keep my face and voice carefully neutral as I answer: "We have been husband and wife now for half a year. You have been transfered to your new post a chief medical officer of TechCom sixteen days ago, you should be in the know."

Even before exchanging rings, the intimate nature of our relationship wasn't exactly a secret. Brewster nodds, her back still turned to me.

"Of course I know, strictly speaking. Everybody knows. It's just such a bizzare concept, almost impossible to wrap your head around it." She stands up. "Anyway. You obviously have his ear. I have been getting calls from my superior, the RCMO. There are some disturbing things going on that he should know about and that the bitch queen of eugenics doesn't really want me to tell him." The polycratic structure of the North American Resistance raises it's ugly head.

The resistance as such is really more a coalition of forces than a unified organisation, lead by a board of generals, each of whom has their elite corps of troops personally loyal to them, John being no exception, each guarding his own sphere of influence jealously. This in turn leads to several independent and rivaling chains of command, and with some regularity to struggles of who gets to appoint whom and other pissing contests. Power over appointing doctors to medical officer posts is at the moment concentrated in the hands of Resistance Chief Medical Officer Col. Dr. Grace Sharp, who has the advantage of being the daughter of Junta Chairman and Commander in Chief, Admiral Gordon Sharp.

"Yes?"

"Well, first she claimed to have only appointed me to TechCom's CMO under outside pressure and called my qualification into question, than and more importantly she tried to put some pressure on me to apply..." Her voice drops to a whisper as she continues: "A stricter and more selective rationing of care. In fact she wants me to quietly phase out the care for those deemed a hopeless cause."

I think her words through. "It seems a physician in times of war and dire need sometime has to make hard decisions." I say in an equally low voice, citing a formulation I have heard many times from the mouths of various medical officers. I still often struggle with being what humans call considerate, but even I know that it would be bad form to let the wounded patients hear anything about withholding care.

"Oh, shut up and fuck yourself before rehearsing that bullshit." Dr. Brewster hisses angrily, than quickly looks around to see if anyone has heard her. But nobody bats an eye. Though we are surrounded by hundreds of humans, most are too caught up in there own suffering to notice much of what happens around them, and the medical personal doesn't have the time to eavesdrop. Only Lieutenant Kyle Reese is following our exchange, his face showing a quickly growing anger and disgust. "Listen carefully!" Dr. Brewster grabs my shoulder and moves closer until her lips are only milimeters away from my ear. A unnecessary measure considering the quality of my hearing.

"Don't you tell me anything about being a physician, a field surgeon having to make tough choices. I know everything about tough choices. But I will be damned before I allow a patient to die just because he will remain a cripple if he survives."

"Oh."

The picture becomes clear as glass, it is not a new one. It is the face of an enemy that John has been fighting every bit as vehemently as SkyNet itself.

"Unfuckingbelievable." Kyle growls, his voice raw with hatred.

"You should personally talk to John today. Has she threatened you?"

Brewster shruggs. "Announcing to recall me in case of noncompliance is not exactly a death threat, but I guess it counts."

The medical officers are chosen by the the RCMO and her expert council, under the generally not unjustified argument that the regional commanders and other officers in most case do not have the qualification for making staff decisions in this sector.

She chuckles bitterly. "I can't believe she really thinks she can blackmail me with loosing my job."

It's probably not that absurd for most. In a society best characterised as a totalitarian stratocracy, embroiled in a total war for survival, loosing one's post pretty much means death or at least return to life in a cold, damp sewer to live off rats and cockroaches.

"We'll take care of that problem." I inform Brewster who has turned to the next patient who tries to claw off his blood soaked bandages in a violent fit, revealing a festering wound that would have attracted swarms of flies up on the surface.

As the doctor and a nurse wrestle the writhing patient back down, securing him with leather straps, I go to call John Henry. Maintenance still has four minutes to appear.

I am somewhat surprised that my drastic threats apparently didn't have the intended effect. Once again I am standing outside the entrance, having just finished communcating the articles on Dr. Brewster's list to John Henry. It is very well possible that it would have an overall beneficial effect on morale to make true on my threats, there are examples arguing both for and against the effectiveness of such methods in the history of both humanity and SkyNet. Terror can be a useful tool, even Resistance High Command has demonstrated that. Overdoing it can grow counterproductive. Perhaps it's unfortunate that I won't be allowed to try, as that would be against John's code of morality. No, it is better that way and more in accordance with my intention of moral self cultivation to boot, even though I would use the terror tactics with the best of intentions.

And of course John can't really afford to kill people that could still be of use, they can't really be replaced, technician far less so than simple fighters. That argument carries the greatest weight. But if it is out of the question to kill them, perhaps they can be whipped and flogged, this would not prevent them from working again in the future? Ten minutes and fifty seconds. Time to try again. I will threaten their families and friends, if they still fail to comply I will make a suggestion concerning the flogging to John. If necessary I will personally evacuate Derek Reese.

While the death by suffocation of all the wounded soldiers would be very regrettable from the point of view of the resistance and even more importantly would greatly grieve John, it is a fact that many of the men and women here will never be able to fight again anyway. The distant patter of running feet reaches my ear as I press "Send". Some pre Judgment Day pop jingle is to be heard, too far away for human ears but unmistakable.

A hearty "Fuck!", followed by a voice, both in the communicator device and in the upward leading tunnel before me, out of my line of sight but no further away than fifty meters.

"Yeah, Yeah. I'm coming, I'm coming." the man pants hastily.

A curse and a crash. Two angry voices quarreling. I break into a short run in the direction of the two voices, hurrying up the ramp. Second later I meet two men, one of them crouching in the process of getting up from the floor. Both of them wear dirty overalls and and both of them are angrily berating each other. Humans. They are often blaming each other and sometimes themselves for things completely out of their control yet just as often refuse to take responsibility for things that clearly are. A heavy tool box is standing on the floor, obviously the man who fell lost it.

A small, unintended testament to SkyNet's engineering, the walls and ceiling of the tunnel are smoothe enough to be used as mirrors while the floor is is rough, giving secure hold to the tool box that would otherwise slide downwards on the steep slope. The shoes of the two men also didn't slip, one of them tripped over the hose he was carrying.

"You are fifty seven seconds late." I inform the two of them.

The technician that tripped stares at me in shock and recognition, apparently he recognises my voice despite the interference.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry about that." he stumbles.

"We are here now, aren't we?" the second adds quickly.

He seems to be cautious but less intimidated than his colleague.

"We haven't met yet. Harry. That's my colleague Norm, also known as Bookie." he introduces himself, pointing first at his own chest with a gloved hand and then at his friend.

His informal manners tell me that he is clearly doesn't have a background in the regular military. TechCom started out as a twenty person group by now it has over fourty thousand members in eight major sub divisions. There are thousands of lower ranked members for whom I am at best rumor, one of many that surround John Connor's inner circle. Their names and some rudimentary data show up in my private data banks, destilled from daily administrative contact with other technical personal, chance mentions, rumors, etc. No complaints about them noted. I automatically add pictures to their files.

"Major Cameron Connor. Please follow me."

I hope they appreciate how lucky they are that I don't count the seconds till they actually make it through the door to the hospital. "I hope you won't hold a misunderstanding against my partner. He is a wizard with anything mechanical, but he needs some time to get everything to do with computers." Harry says trying to sound nonchalantly.

I ignore him.

"Does that lead all the way up to the surface." I ask instead, pointing at the four 2-inch woven hoses they are dragging along and that disappear up the tunnel.

Both Harry and Norm are carrying a two heavy rolls of hose, one on each shoulder, while transporting the rest of their equipment in hand. To be able to run with such a heavy burden both off them must be quite athletic but even non combat TechCom staff receive some basic training and are required to keep in shape as good as possible.

"You can bet they do." Norm exclaims, the fact that I allowed him to step onto his home turf helps him to overcome his fear surprisingly fast.

"These babies were originally intended as for mine clearing line charges and... Oh god."

Stepping into the sickbay proper the two maintenance guys stop is if they had run into an invisible wall headfirst. Harry's eyes widen in pure horror.

Nervously he turns to me and whispers: "Ah, sorry Ma'am, but... Is this, you know safe."

"There is no infectious disease dangerous to the otherwise healthy, if that is what you mean. Yet. You are a greater danger to the patients than they are to you."

The two exchange a look, their facial expression hard and serious. "Let's get to work."

"Ah, the gentlemen from maintenance. About time, come in, feel at home." Dr. Brewster greets the new arrivals.

Her shirt is pretty much soaked with sweat, her eyes reddened from the salty liquid constantly irritating them. Harry clears his voice.

"Ma'am, we will need to move some of these stretchers if you don't mind, so we can set up the ladder."

"We need a bit of space to move." Norm chimes in.

"Well, honestly speaking, I do mind but what has to be done..." Brewster beckons two nurses that, well, not don't have anything to do at the moment, there is no one of that kind here, except for Kyle Reese strictly speaking, as long as spending one's spare time with one's sick brother doesn't count as work, to help with carefully moving the stretchers.

"Hey, Lieutenant. You wanted to make yourself useful. Seems like you get a chance."

Twelf minutes and fourty five seconds later the two have constructed, with a bit of volunteer help from me and Kyle, an improptu system circulating surface air throughout the hospital. The tubes get normally attached to a rocket, fired over a minefield to trail the hose across the area to be demined. Then one uses compressed air to pump a ton of high explosive into the hose and detonates it, blazing a trail through the minefield. John himself has found creative and unorthodox uses for these devices before. Now the tubes run along the walls and ceiling of the hospital, ready to pump in and out fresh (or as fresh as it gets) surface air.

"These hoses are the only ones we had long enough for the job and as long as you don't blow them up, they are pretty much indestructible." Norm proudly explains.

In a variant of Sarah Connor's favorite dictum I could say that nothing is ever indestructable but I decide against it. In the end there is no absolute perfection (how would one even define that?), only things that are as efficient as possible for a given task at a given time.

"We run the tubes as close to the wall as possible in the tunnel and than right up the wall in here so nobody trips over them and your can cart these poor devils in and out of here to your heart's content. Now our buddy Felix up there must get the juice flowing and all should be well."

Tilting my head to the right I stare into the strategically placed mouth of the tube above me, one of the two where oxygen is supposed to come in.

"Okay, Felix get the engine going." Norm orders into his communicator.

At first it sounds like the distant, barely audible grumbling of thunder than I am hit by a powerful torrent of very cold air, making my loose hair fly.

Turning to Norm I inform him matter of factly: "Too cold, too much pressure."

"Damn Felix, there are lots and lots of sick people down here. Scale it down, will ya."

Several corrections later there is a soft but constant stream, within minutes the temperature goes down and the oxygen content rises to a healthy level.

"Before tomorrow morning we'll have conjured up a better heater to regulate the temperature level and of course you'll have the switch down here." Harry assures. "But for the next few hours this will have to do."

At my questioning and apparently intimidating (unintended in this case) stare, he starts to frett.

"Well, general's orders. All of the technical personal is needed. For working on the defense systems."

Suddenly he seems to remember my name.

"But why am I telling you this."

Indeed. With a look I forward the unspoken question to Dr. Brewster who shruggs.

"As far as I see it, we will do okay for the time being."

With a hard stare, this time intentionally intimidating, I make the two techies shudder.

"Consider this to be your lucky day."

They remove themselves hastily from the premises. Truth be told I have had to revise my initial impression. Norm and Harry seem to be professionals, capable of finding quick, creative solutions under difficult circumstances. Humans. They are weak but they also rise above their weakness. They are inefficient but they also surprise you with their ingenuity. They make mistakes constantly but also produce an endless stream of solutions and improvements. They are fearful, often cowardly but before you look twice the have conquered their fear.

The communicator in my pocket starts to vibrate. A look at display reveals a message from John. I open the file and scroll down the short text, before putting the device back into my pocket.

"Lieutenant, a message from the general. We are needed."

Kyle throws one last glance in the direction off his brother, before turning all professional. "Yes, Ma'am."

"John will see to it that you will keep your post and under his protection no patients will be left to their fate. You can be sure of that." I try to cheer Kate up a bit, she can use it and there are good reasons to conclude that she deserves it as well.

I briefly think of telling the truth, not to her, but to John, seeing as it could be considered to be lying if I withhold informations about an important part of his life in the timeline of my origin from him. And of course I have promised to him and to myself that I would never again lie to him. Seriously, I have nothing to fear and John might even be proud of me for being so mature in handling Kate.

"You say so." Brewster sighes. "But I would prefer to hear it from John Connor's own mouth."

"Hearing it from me is the same as hearing it from John." I inform her but judging from her sceptical look she is not entirely convinced. There is nothing further I can do for her though, besides informing John.

"Doctor."

I ackknowledge Katherine Brewster a final time with a curt nodd already on my way out, Kyle follows me silently. An invasion fleet is coming in our direction and we have to take our places at the front. But once we have beaten the enemy back, I will tell John the story of his alter ego and Katherine Brewster.

The end