Chapter 2: Blank

The fight wasn't going well at all. The security had been a lone terminator, an early 800 series with what Cameron was able to identify as skin model 147, a middle-aged man with icy eyes and frosty grey hair trimmed close to the scalp. While the earlier 800s were not as intelligent or nimble as the later 888s, they more than made up for it with their hulking build and incredible strength. That strength had been sacrificed in the 888 for flexibility and speed, or in Cameron's case for ease of infiltration. They had encountered him patrolling the halls of the building, armed with a Franchi SPAS-12 shotgun and a Jericho 941 pistol chambered for a .45 caliber round. Both weapons made what a human might call a frightening sound when they were fired, and the projectiles were just as deadly as the weapons sounded.

Right now, the three humans and female terminator were in what Cameron took to be a storage room where the water this front company distributed was stored for bottling. They were taking cover behind one of the large tanks, which was leaking from three bullet holes. Sarah and Derek had only thought to bring pistols, though the ever-pessimistic Derek's choice had been a Mark XIX Desert Eagle. The .50 caliber action express round would put a serious hole in their enemy, and if properly aimed could even take out his chip, but none of them had been able to get close enough to do more than superficial damage.

Sarah shimmied around one side of the storage tank, followed by Cameron, while John leaned out and took aim. His SIG Sauer pistol popped off six rounds that stitched into the chest of his target, which was unable to return effective fire until the boy had gone to ground again. Cameron was relieved to find that the enemy machine did not focus on John, which meant that it was entirely unaware of who it was dealing with. Still, as an intruder into the T-800's domain, her charge was in no less danger. She reached back and grabbed his shirt, pulling him further into cover.

The thundering blasts of Derek's handcannon rang out with deafening tenor once, twice, three times before both the shotgun and the Jericho answered. The sound of metal hitting metal told Cameron that the return fire had come too late.

"Goddamm it," Sarah groused, "he was supposed to wait." They were trying to draw the terminator in, forcing it to waste ammunition so that it would be have to close. At this point either Derek could put a bullet through the right eye or Cameron could take it down with physical force. Derek only had two clips for the monster pistol, and he had already spent one in the first moments of the firefight, trading bullets for time. Given the capacity of the .50 caliber magazine, he only had four shots left. Cameron watched as Sarah stepped out, putting her Wather PPQ to work. Eight 9mm rounds found the T-800's head before it turned and opened fire on her. Its shots found empty space once more, but she needed to reload.

John fired twice before his weapon clicked impotently, and he ducked back with a curse. He, too, ejected his spent magazine and rammed another home. Though they had been hoping to save Cameron's nature as a surprise, it was time for her to act. She ran around Sarah, raising her Glock 17 as she moved. She put a half-dozen rounds into his chest and neck. She was in the open when he returned fire, and ball bearings from a shotgun blast caught her in the side. Her tactile sensors registered the damage. It was not severe. She rounded another tank and ran for her target. The kinesthetic sensors in her body combined with the tactical knowledge in her database and the automatic stabilization of her servos to keep the aim dot in her HUD right on her opponent. She squeezed off three more rounds on the move as the T-800 targeted her the shotgun with a single hand and fended off a barrage of fire from Sarah with the other.

Before he could raise his weapon to her, Cameron was on him, barreling into him with enough force to knock him over. They both went down, and the 800's weapons clattered on the floor. He reached for his shotgun, but Cameron's boots were nearer and so she kicked it sideways before she even bothered to stand. This was a mistake. The T-800 was on his feet before Cameron could get to hers. His cold blue eyes now glowed red as they scanned her and he discovered what she was. He grabbed her shirt in a cross-grip. Defensively she swept his hands away from her and thrust a boot heel into the side of his knee. The T-800s were not as quick as the later models, but they were sturdily built, and so the joint held. One of the massive paws balled into a fist and slammed into her delicate face like a wrecking ball, laying her out on her back. She was forced to roll out of the way of his stomping boot, and his foot crushed the clay tiles that layered the floor. Cameron started to push herself up, but was thrown by a vicious soccer kick to her side. She tumbled, rolled, and began again to struggle to her feet. Fortunately there was no damage to her endoskeleton.

The enemy metal snatched a fire axe from a nearby column and came after her with it. His first swing struck steel support, as did his second. His third swipe caught Cameron in the back with the pick, tearing through the white cotton tank top and ripping the flesh from the shoulder blade of her endoskeleton. Exposed metal slicked with red bionutrient glistened beneath her torn sheath, the ragged ribbons of the white shirt stained red with her false blood. She reeled from the blow, and the axe blade caught her in the cheek, cutting a long and ugly rent from temple to chin. The metal on metal contact threw golden sparks, but Cameron already knew that the damage was superficial. She would heal in a few days, though absently she found herself regretting not taking the earlier offer of a slice of pizza. Another swing came at her, but this time she snatched the axe's shoulder just beneath the head and yanked hard. The improvised weapon flew from her opponents hand and into hers. Now, she had something with which she could defend herself. She came at him, swinging twice into empty space. His bodybuilder's mitt gripped the axe handle and he brought his knee into it, snapping the wooden handle like a twig. Cameron was unable to adjust quickly and before she could rearrange her defensive posture, he lifted her up and smashed her into a water tank. The force of the blow punctured the storage tank and water came pouring down over both of them. The T-800 turned and launched her into the air. She flailed, turning end over end before crashing into a heap on the floor. Her gyros readjusted and she began to push herself up again, but he was already there. Lifting her by a wad of her tattered shirt and the waistband of her soaked jeans, he flung her again.

Cameron slammed into a concrete wall and slumped, barely aware of the gunfire that was raining out in her defense. She pushed a lock of her drenched hair out of her face, stood, and reengaged the other machine just as it had found her pistol and was raising it to fire. She gripped his arm and forced it down over her knee, reversing the elbow join with an audible pop. Her own free elbow slammed into the nose of her opponent, causing red bionutrient to squirt from his nostrils. He grasped her and lifted, flinging her into one of the cooling units. She crashed through in a shower of sparks and metal, falling through the refrigerator and down towards the floor, landing in the ankle-deep puddle their battle had created. She was about to stand, but as she did so, the cooling unit tore loose from its mounts and crashed into the puddle with her. Electrical conduit fell into the very same water she was laying in. Two-hundred and forty volts of electricity coursed through the water and into her metal limbs. Her HUD sizzled and went out of focus, icons and imagery went sideways and crumpled like paper on a writing desk. Her self-protective protocols activated and shut down her chip.

Cameron's world went dark.

X

Cameron's brown eyes snapped open. The start-up sequence must have finished, for she was again awake and alert. She immediately noticed that her HUD function was gone. She had only her standard infiltration vision, her human eyes. The read-outs and extra data provided by her HUD were absent. She tried to call it up, but nothing happened. She was lying on her back, not on her face like she had fallen. There were no sounds of battle around her. The ceiling looked different. Curious, Cameron sat up, immediately noticing the soft creak of a mattress beneath her.

Where was she? She estimated that the room was six feet by ten feet. The walls were cinderblock, painted white, and the floor was white ceramic tile that slanted down to a drain in the middle. The whiteness of the room's paint highlighted the dinginess. Dirt and stains blotted the walls, and black filth tinted the grout of the tile. Dents and scratches in the wall had been painted over, caked with latex acrylic to the point that the sharp edges had been blunted and softened. A head turn revealed the door, a heavy metal structure with a naked steel kickplate at the bottom. A single square window was fixed with shatterproof glass. A sliding slot was cut into the door midway from the floor. Over in the corner was a sink stand and a toilet, both porcelain that was once white, aged and begrimed by years of use.

She lay on wrought-iron twin bed frame with a thin, cheap mattress. Her olfactory sensors at once indicated that the mattress had outlived its designed lifetime, probably twice over by now. There was a thin, frayed sheet, a dingy comforter, and two well-beaten pillows, all of it white, or white-ish. She threw the comforter back to uncover her legs and discovered herself to be dressed in a set of white scrub pants with a matching long-sleeve top, surprisingly new and clean. Her feet were bare, but she noticed a pair of slippers next to the bed. When she kicked her feet off the bed and set them on the cold floor, she noticed that there was a single dark red-brown stain, obviously old blood, dried into the very middle of the sheet. She absently wondered whose it was as she checked herself for damage. Her sensors were registering none, but like her HUD they could simply be offline, so she felt around with her hands. Her flesh covering had obviously regenerated.

Shoving on the slippers, she stood off the bed and walked over to the sink to look in the mirror. The mirror, she saw, was behind a lexan window, apparently to prevent it from being shattered. But the familiar face copied from Allison Young stared back at her. There was no indication that she had ever been in a fight. The amount of damage she had accrued would take at least three days to heal.

John! Where was he? Where was Sarah? And Derek? If she had been offline long enough to completely regenerate her biological sheath, then something must have happened to them. She turned for the door. Pressing a hand against it, she expected it to open, so when she collided bodily with it, she wasn't certain what to make of it. She tested it. The door was locked from the outside.

Analyzing the hinges and the wall brackets, she determined that she would be easily able to kick it open. She brought a leg up with all her available force and wham! She was suddenly on her back on the floor. Her vision crackled a bit and she had a minor damage indicator, tactile only, on the back of her head. It was in her efforts to analyze the nature of the damage and failing that she noticed it, the intercom panel next to the door. It had a naked metal speaker cover and a red call button. Experimentally, she pressed the call button. A tone played.

"Can I help you, Ms. Phillips?" The voice may have been tinny through the old speaker, but she was able to recognize it as female, and estimated the age range between thirty-five and fifty-five. So, they knew her name here. Wherever this was.

"Yes," Cameron replied, "can you let me out?"

There was a pause, then "not right now, Ms. Phillips. You can come out in another… hour and twenty minutes."

"That's not acceptable," Cameron said, "I need to get out now."

"One hour," the voice was firm, "and twenty minutes. Then you can be out all you want." There was a static pop, and Cameron noticed a light on the speaker go out. Undeterred, she pressed the call button again. "Yes?" The owner of the voice was obviously losing patience.

"I need to come out now," Cameron told her, "it's urgent."

"It can wait," the voice snapped, "for eighty more minutes."

Cameron reminded herself that this woman controlled her freedom. She could not get herself through the door, and the woman was not going to listen to Cameron's pleas. She resigned herself to the wait, but she did need one more critical piece of information. "Can you tell me where I am?"

There was a long pause, but this time the voice came back patiently, and perhaps laced with pity. "Pescadero State Hospital. Where else?"

X

The eighty minutes did not pass peacefully. Cameron could not help herself but to be stunned that she was in a mental institution, being held for unknown reasons. Meanwhile, somewhere out there John and Sarah Connor struggled against a machine that would probably kill them. They were alone and outnumbered by Kaliba's forces. They needed her.

Terminators seldom do well in captivity if they are left active, and Cameron was no different. Unable to escape her cell, she began pacing the confined space like a claustrophobic leopard, her brown ocular sensors occasionally darting towards the door to scan for any change in status. While she was unable to run a complete diagnostic on herself, she was certain that she was ready to fight when and if the need arose. And her need to get out would be translated in full force to anyone who opened the door.

Per her programming, she began to process a plan to escape, but with a large number of her systems apparently offline and not responding to her commands, she was unable to run full analytical simulations in a multi-dimensional environment. She was also unable to call up any information in her library and could not access visual plans of the hospital or the surrounding area, though she was able to recall memory-specific data about the layout of the institution and that might prove adequate to navigate out if she needed. The orderlies were likely human and could be easily taken down with a few quick hits. Though the door had stymied her, they were probably did not have anything else out there that could contain a machine in full rampage mode.

…one pill makes you larger…

As she paced and planned, she became aware of something she was unable to explain. There was an ominous feeling surrounding her, a feeling as though she were on the verge of something critically important, though she had no clue what that was. She was not certain if the feeling was positive or negative, but she was very much aware of the pressure and finiteness of time.

…one pill makes you small…

The more she thought about it, the more it weighed on her and became obvious that something, something important was going to happen, and happen soon, but she could not say with any certainty what it was.

…and the ones that mother gives you don't do anything at all…

But it stood within her mind like a haunting of storm clouds on the horizon. Like a euphemism. And it, the it, made it all the more important that she get out of this cell and find John and Sarah.

...go ask Alice when she's ten feet tall…

She heard the lock of her door click, and the sound brought her to pause and attention. Still unable to perform a systems check, she readied herself for combat, the biological muscles beneath her cloned flesh tensed in preparation to fight. She locked her feet and had her arms raised as she watched with cold analysis and hot interest as the door swung open. And as a figure in blue medical scrubs stood in the door, she found herself staring at the face of Cromartie. His chilly eyes were locked right on her, and he had a dark shape in his hands that could only be a weapon. Cameron tensed to spring.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Cromatie shouted, raising the object, "back off, bitch." For whatever reason, Cameron stayed her hand. She glanced down at the weapon and realized that it was a cattle prod, one with enough voltage to knock her offline again. "You settle down, or I will use this," he assured her, his voice tinted with threat. Cameron could not help but be confused. The last time she had laid eyes on Cromartie, half of his face was missing. Sarah had shattered his chip with enough force to wreck a submachine gun. Yet here he was, in perfectly operational condition.

"You're dead," she told him, perhaps a small amount of her surprise leaked into her words.

"I know," he said to her smirkingly, "a church in some little town in Mexico." He gestured to his head, "half my face blown off. Buried in the desert next to a fence." He walked around her, and Cameron knew instinctively to stand still, "you tell me that every time I come in here. At least you have for the past six months."

Six months? Cameron could not remember being in this place any longer than since she had reactivated on the bed. But the way he gave her the amount of time, he had apparently known her and been dealing with her longer than even she was aware. Perhaps if she continued to play dumb, he would give her more information, and even let his guard down. "Six months?"

"Yeah," he nodded, "it never gets old. Now are you going to come along and play nice or am I going to have to give you the shock of your life?" Cameron was quiet for perhaps too long. She heard the prod crackle to life. Her olfactory sensors detected ozone. She immediately decided that compliance would be to her benefit.

"Okay," Cameron said, "but I don't know where to go. You'll have to lead the way."

Cromartie chuckled at her, "oh, no, missy. Nice try. Carter! Can you come in here a second? I need some help with Ms. Phillips."

The next figure to enter was the T-888 that Cameron had locked inside depot 37 over a year ago. His eyes were soft when they looked at her, and she noticed that he had a scar that ran down from his forehead, over his eye, and down his cheek. The scar was not old, maybe about a year based on its color. He shot Cromartie a quick glance before gazing back at Cameron. "Cameron, are you being trouble?" His voice was soft, and there was concern in it.

"Does the day end in Y," Cromartie sneered, "c'mon, her session's in five minutes."

"Just come on, Cameron," Carter cajoled, and he reached a hand for her shoulder. Just to remind him that she was not his friend, she jerked her body from his touch, but she walked out the door anyway.

As they walked down the cold, sterile hallway Carter led while Cromartie and his stun baton brought up the rear. Cameron noticed many different people walking by. All of them wore scrubs. Most were clad in white, like her, but several were in blue and had nametags. She tried to read names and barcodes, but the zoom function of her ocular sensors was not functioning properly at all.

Cromartie, obviously a professional antagonist, began talking about Cameron like she wasn't walking between them. "Carter, I don't know why you're so soft on this one. Especially not after she cut your face and locked you in a broom closet."

Carter let out a sigh, and Cameron was beginning to realize that these two machines were behaving very much like men. "She had only been here a week, barely any treatment at all. She was scared and didn't know what was going on." Cameron still wasn't sure for that matter what was happening or why she was here, but she must have been for a lot longer than six months. As they passed a bulletin board, she glanced at a calendar on it. From the x-ed out days, she saw that it was Saturday, August 30, 2008.

"Same day," she said aloud. It was exactly the same day that she and the Connors had gone on the mission against the Kaliba front company. But it was morning, she could tell that by the light streaming in from the shatterproof windows.

...And if you go chasing rabbits

and you know you're going to fall…

"You shouldn't antagonize her," Carter replied, "maybe she wouldn't throw you around so much."

Cromartie snorted, "maybe I wouldn't antagonize her if she didn't throw me around so much." She felt a palm smack the back of her shoulder, "you hear me in there, Small Wonder? I ain't your punching bag."

They came up to a t-intersection in the hall, and Carter had to step around a slow-walking patient. As he did so, Cameron caught a glimpse of her from the back, a Caucasian female with long brown hair wearing only a pair of black combat boots. She turned the corner and Cameron tried to follow her with her eyes, but instead she found herself looking down a long empty corridor. She stopped, confused, and tried to determine where the woman had gone.

…tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar

has given you the call…

Cromartie gave her a rough shove forward. "Keep moving, princess."

"What's down that hallway," Cameron asked.

"Nothing you need to worry your head about right now," her rougher guard said, "just keep walking."

…to call Alice when she was just small…

Carter stopped at another door, using his ID badge to open it, and gestured for Cameron to enter.

"Doctor Silberman, we have your next patient," Cromartie said politely, urging Cameron forward with a gentle nudgeat the small of her back. She walked into the room, which was occupied with a bolted-down desk and a couple of chairs. Along one wall were some bookshelves with binders and medical journals. Behind the desk sat an older gentleman in a lab coat. He had a mop of silver hair, and his pale face was kindly.

"Come in, Cameron, come and sit down. It's time for us to talk." Cameron glanced at Cromartie, who only nodded as he pulled the door to behind him. She walked over to the metal writing desk and sat in the chair as she had been commanded. As she did so, her eyes scanned the desk, seeing only a few items; a decorative clock, a photo frame, a stapler, and a coffee mug that held pens, pencils, and other implements. Her eyes were drawn to the handle of a letter opener, the end of the handle formed into the head of a raven.

"How are you feeling today," she was asked gently.

"Fine," she replied.

"I see you aren't in restraints today," Silberman noticed, "that's good."

"Yes."

"That's what? Nineteenth day in a row you haven't needed them. That's progress."

"Yes," Cameron parroted, "that's progress."

Silberman scribbled on a notepad. "Is there anything you want to talk about today? Have you seen any of your… um… machines? Your terminators?"

Cameron shot a look over her shoulder at Cromartie, who simply stood guard by the door. He was certainly not behaving like a terminator. Her eyes went back to Silberman. "No," she answered, "I haven't seen any terminators."

"So they aren't after you?"

Cameron's lips pursed and her brow knitted. "They were never after me. They were after…"

"John," Silbermann interrupted, "right. But not lately."

"No," she replied earnestly. John had not been pursued by a machine for a few weeks now. The skin had melted from Tagwell's endoskeleton and so he would probably be spending a great deal of time sidetracked with repairs.

"About John," this question was asked very carefully, "how is he?"

Cameron tilted her head. Why would he be asking her about John? She had gone offline during their fight with the T-800 and had rebooted here. She did not know what John's status was. And she had been hoping that perhaps he could give her some answers.

She heard a sound from the corner of the room, and her head snapped towards it. The corner of the room was empty. Just as she was ready to chalk up the sound to a malfunction of her audio sensors, she heard the distinct sound of gunfire, three rounds, very distant in the other direction. And there was shouting, but she could not make out any words. She turned to search for it, but nothing was there. Silberman and Cromartie had no reactions to the noise, and it faded just as quickly as she had heard it.

Cameron looked up at the doctor. "Why am I here," she asked. She heard a muffled snort from Cromartie, and Silberman's face seemed to sink. She could see disappointment in his eyes.

She watched him sit back in his chair, take off his glasses, and rub the bridge of his nose with a free hand. He slid the spectacles back on and regarded her with an expression etched with pity and frustration. "Well, what do you remember?"

Cameron thought for a second, then said "I don't remember anything before waking up in my cell this morning." Silberman stared at her, his face less able to hide the emotions he was feeling.

"Ha! Crazy," Cromartie scoffed.

"Shut up," the doctor snapped. His eyes went back to Cameron. "Ms. Phillips… Cameron, you're here because the state of California put you here. You've been institutionalized as a criminal."

"A criminal? Why? I'm not a criminal?"

Silberman shook his head, "that remains to be seen. But the state thinks you need to remain here."

That wasn't an answer. "But why? Why was I committed to Pescadero?"

The doctor pursed his lips, and lowered his voice to a gentle tenor. "For the murders of John Connor and his mother Sarah."