Chapter Three
Pismo, California
Tuesday 0730 PST
Sarah opened her eyes and stared out into the dim light around her. The TV in front of her was blank; someone must have turned it off in the night. Either Ellison or Cameron, she imagined; Freyr was too big and heavy to walk around unnoticed, or so she'd like to have thought. It was then she realised that she held something solid in her hand. She reached for it with her other hand and felt a long, sharp edge.
"Forgot about that," she mumbled to herself as she recalled taking the knife from one of the kitchen counters before shuffling to the staircase and giving up on the second step, finally resigning herself to a night on the sofa. She reached out and put the knife down on the coffee table in front of her and slowly pushed herself upright into a sitting position; every movement sent jolts of pain running up her side, her arm and her thigh, causing her to hiss and clench her teeth.
Her injuries weren't the only thing that hurt; her fingers ached where she'd clutched the knife so hard during her slumber. The prospect of sleeping under a roof with not one but two cyborgs had kept her awake for much of the night. She knew it was ridiculous; a knife would be useless against Cameron and just a joke to Freyr, but it was peace of mind at the very least. That,and the painkillers Ellison had given her had finally allowed her to get a few hours of sleep.
A number of scents wafted through the air from the kitchen, making Sarah realise she hadn't eaten anything since the Burger King on the highway the prior afternoon. She forced herself to her feet – Damn if that didn't hurt, she thought – and unsteadily shambled towards the smell and the accompanying noises.
Cameron was standing at the kitchen counter, busy making breakfast. She was barefoot, Sarah noticed, unsure whether that had any deeper meaning. She decided not to think about it and went to the counter, picked up a cup and poured herself some coffee.
"Good morning," Cameron said to her, not turning her attention away from what she was doing.
"Not really," Sarah replied.
"These might make you feel better," Ellison said as he entered the kitchen. He put a small box down on the counter in front of Sarah before helping himself to a mug of coffee.
Sarah picked up the pack and read it quickly. "Where the hell did you get Tramadol?"
"I took another trip into town," Ellison said to her. "We talked about it last night."
"Right," Sarah said, remembering. She noticed a box of Cocoa Puffs on the counter as she took out one of the blister strips from the Tramadol packet and pushed out two pills. "John's favourite: good guess."
"Cameron told me," he confessed before taking a sip of coffee.
Sarah, likewise, took a hit of her own drink, swilling the two pills down with it. "Figures," she said, shrugging. She looked at what Cameron was doing. The cyborg moved a griddle pan on the hob to the sound of fat or oil hissing. "You making him pancakes?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Next time, add some vanilla," she advised her.
Cameron frowned dubiously. Sarah had never once used vanilla when she made pancakes. John had often complained about them though, so she thought perhaps there was some merit in it. "Okay," she replied.
Sarah took her coffee and the painkillers and wandered back into the living room, gritting her teeth as the pain grew worse and worse. She thought about taking a third pill but decided against it, not knowing what effect it could have. She didn't like the idea of being drowsy or drunk with so many machines around. She struggled up the stairs at a speed that would have made a pensioner impatient, and made her way to John's room. The door was ajar and as she entered she saw Cameron's boots to one side of the bed. There was a noticeable dent in the pillow and the duvet had been pulled back; the machine had spent the night in John's bed, confirming her suspicions of the previous night. Sarah inhaled and tried to clear it from her mind. The pain helped somewhat with that; one use for it at least.
John was still fast asleep. Sarah sat on the side of his bed and glanced down at her son. The only time he ever looked peaceful was when he was asleep, and even then not often.
After several minutes John rolled onto his back, yawned and opened his eyes, smiling. It faded when he realised who was sitting above him; clearly it wasn't who he'd been expecting. "I keep telling you not to do that!" he snarled.
"Good morning to you, too," Sarah said, suppressing a sigh.
"Sorry," John said, noticing how his mother tried to hide the frustration as he'd snapped her head off. He sat up and looked around for his clothes. He saw them folded neatly on a chair against the wall, his boots between the legs, underneath the seat. Cameron. He couldn't help but smile a little. He was still wearing boxers so he got up and pulled his jeans back on, facing away from Sarah. He grabbed his tee shirt, but hesitated before putting it on, despite the cold; something had been weighing heavily on his mind for the last week.
John turned back towards her. "Mom, are you sick?"
"What? I'll be fine once I heal up." She knew very well that he wasn't talking about the crash.
"Cameron says you're sick."
She would. "Does she?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
"She says you've lost weight." 'Eleven percent of her total body mass.'
Sarah took a good look at him as he pulled his tee shirt on. She could see a few ribs showing through the skin. He'd always been lean but she couldn't remember him ever looking like he did now. It wasn't just his body but his face, too, was thinner. "You're looking a little run-down yourself," she commented. "Your girlfriend not feeding you properly?" She doubted that was the case, given the attention Cameron had paid to preparing his breakfast.
"It's not like that," he said.
"The 'girlfriend' part or the 'feeding you' part?" she asked him.
"I did skip a few meals on the run," he confessed. There hadn't always been time or opportunity to eat, and if anyone knew that it'd be her.
"And the 'girlfriend' part? She is your girlfriend?"
"Something like that," John said.
Sarah took the hint: he didn't want to talk about it; at least not with her. She wished Charley were still around; he'd been like a father to John and she didn't doubt that if he were still there then John would have someone to confide in about it. Charley hadn't understood it all but he and John were comfortable together. He'd never had that, not even with his own uncle. He needed someone to talk to though, and not just Cameron. "So how are you?" she asked him. "Really?"
"Confused," John said. "Tired. Confused and tired. Been a hell of a week."
"Two weeks," she corrected him.
"Yeah, sorry. I never asked you how you felt about Charley," John said, feeling a twinge of regret. "I just steamrollered us into rescuing Savannah and it got Derek killed. I tried to be 'John Connor' and look where it got us."
"It got us here, John. That's something. Don't beat yourself up over it." She pulled John into a hug. He shouldn't blame himself for any of it: not Charley, not Derek, definitely not Riley. She didn't know what else had happened while she'd been in prison but she'd give John a pass on it for now; she'd find out from Cameron later on.
John pulled out of the hug and put his socks and boots on. He headed towards the door, his stomach rumbling. He could smell cooking coming from below; either Cameron or Ellison. He figured the former. Just as he reached the door he heard his mother loudly clear her throat. He turned around to see Sarah holding up Cameron's boots. "Your 'something like that' might need these."
John turned bright red as he took them from her and disappeared out of the room. Sarah could have sworn he'd never moved that fast even with Cromartie after them. She sat down on the bed and couldn't help but laugh at her son's embarrassment. So hard that her bruised ribs sent more jolts of pain tearing through her, racking her laughs into strained coughs. It hurt like hell despite the painkillers. But it's so worth it.
Chihuahua, Mexico
Tuesday 0845 Local Time [0745 PST]
"There." Caesar pointed to a compound at the end of the dirt road. Ronin, Icarus, Mason and Talus lay on their stomachs beside him, atop a rock formation overlooking countless square kilometres of scrub bush that seemed to stretch into the far distance, all the way to a series of mountains that lined the horizon. The Chihuahua Desert was, with one exception, completely featureless.
Said exception was the complex Caesar indicated, and all five cyborgs stared at it, watching, examining it from a distance. It was three-point-two kilometres away, down a gentle slope. A single, massive warehouse rose out of the ground like a giant metal and concrete monolith. Behind it was a runway that stretched for fifteen hundred metres, and sitting on one end was a Hercules transport plane. Scattered around the compound were one and two-storey buildings that appeared to be accommodation for the human staff. Ronin estimated, based on the size of the complex, that it would house approximately one hundred people – probably a mix of humans and T-888s.
The complex was surrounded by a perimeter of chain-link fence four metres high, topped with razor wire. He didn't know if it was electrified or not, but he would have to assume that it was. That would be a problem for Talus, Mason and Carter.
"Two .50 calibre machine guns on the hangar roof, facing east and west, respectively," Talus reported. He saw a single guard manning each one, positioned behind sandbag walls. The guns themselves had steel plates on either side to protect their operators from incoming fire. Skynet had clearly learnt already from their attack on ZeiraCorp and was taking no chances.
"Sniper also," Icarus said, spotting a single figure on top of the warehouse. What kind of weapon he had, and whether the sniper was human or a machine, it was impossible to tell from where they were.
"There are eleven guards on duty," Caesar said. "Two at the entrance and six walking the perimeter in staggered pairs. Plus three more on the roof."
"Which means there will be at least twice as many inside," Ronin concluded. "Probably more." He assumed the bulk of their manpower would be human, rather than cyborg, and if the patrolling guards were men, then he estimated that in the desert heat they would change shifts every three to four hours: twenty-two men resting while eleven were on duty. They also likely had extra troops in reserve in case of attack. If not human, then machines attending other duties until required for protection.
They watched for over five hours, not moving, simply observing their target. After one hour, and then again four hours later, Ronin saw his theory proved correct; the eight guards were relieved by another squad and the previous men disappeared inside the warehouse. The sniper on the roof, however, had remained in place, unmoving. The sniper was a T-888 but the machine-gunners had rotated: they were human.
The presence of heavy weaponry gave him pause: the .50 calibre machine guns would easily obliterate Mason and Talus; could do serious damage to Caesar and Icarus, and were a threat to him also. None of these, however, were his main concern. He watched as a small shape appeared from the aircraft hangar and took off vertically into the air, quickly accelerating and gaining altitude. Even from that distance, he could hear the faint whirr of its engines.
"HK," Talus said.
"If it's armed we'll be defenceless against it," Mason added. The HK alone, if fitted with missiles or rockets, could wipe them out before they got close to the base. Immediately the group started to spread out, putting a few metres of distance between each other so that no single airstrike would kill all of them.
They looked on as a second HK took off into the air. The two of them flew in close formation and performed a number of aerobatic manoeuvres. They were slower, Ronin thought, than their future counterparts.
"It's an HK testing facility," Caesar observed. They continued to watch as one of the hunter-killers veered off from the other one, heading in the opposite direction from the cyborgs, and loosed off an object into the distance, a white contrail following after it. Seconds later, fire and smoke erupted in a cloud from the desert floor, answering the question of whether or not the HKs were armed.
Ronin took a cell phone from his pocket and dialled Carter. "We're outside the facility in Chihuahua, Mexico: they're testing armed HK drones. The assault is halted for now; it's too dangerous. What's your present location?"
"Northern California," Carter answered. From the sound on the other end of the line, Ronin could tell they were driving.
"Get here as soon as you can; I need you and Shirley to make covert entry into the facility. We'll wait here and I'll brief you when you arrive."
Santa Clara, San Francisco, California
Tuesday 0830 PST
"What time will you be home tonight?"
"I'm not sure; I've got meetings all day so probably not until at least eight or nine."
"Evan!" Grace Walters huffed in frustration. "We hardly ever see you any more," she said, gesturing to their two kids sitting in her SUV. "I'm surprised you even know which house is yours; you're never here."
"I know," he said apologetically. He'd promised on countless occasions to spend less time at the office and more with his family. "It's just really chaotic at work right now. It should wind down soon." He really would like to spend more time at home but it simply wasn't an option.
"I've heard that before," she said. "Look around at what you've got here." She pointed at their house behind them. It was a large mansion – three storeys in places – high on a hillside with a pool out back that looked out over San Francisco Bay. The front lawn was immaculate, courtesy of regular maintenance by their gardener. They had two cars: a silver Mercedes for her and a bright red Lamborghini for him, which she called his 'mid-life crisis-mobile.' "You've got all this but you're never here to enjoy it, and our kids hardly ever see you any more."
He saw his son and daughter sat in her car, waiting for her to drive them to school. Both of them had their heads down, engrossed in their phones as teenagers always were. Even when he was home he barely got a word out of them, they were too busy texting. He was surprised their thumbs didn't fall off from overuse. Not that I was much different at their age.
"I'll tell you what; Christmas is in six or seven weeks: I'll take a couple weeks off and we'll go away somewhere as a family. You pick where." The smile he got in return indicated that he'd placated her. "I've gotta go," he said, kissing her on the forehead before he ducked into his Lamborghini and started the engine.
He drove away first, down the hill and through the Bay Area. Traffic was busy but it was flowing, so it didn't take him long to reach Santa Clara – commonly known as Silicon Valley. This was where minor tech and software start-ups had turned into empires. Everyone knew about Google; his company, however, wasn't quite as commonly known. And that's how he liked it.
Once he'd parked his car he entered the building through the rotating door, passing the same two security guards he saw every day: an old man, easily pushing seventy, with black skin and a wispy grey moustache; and a very overweight, younger, prematurely-balding man, the second-fattest person in the building. Neither looked like much but he knew better, and wouldn't want anyone else guarding the front of the building. "Morning Gilmore, Patterson," he greeted them respectively. Neither said a word in reply but watched him for a moment before turning their attention back to the CCTV screens on their terminal.
He greeted the receptionist at the desk before entering the elevator with a throng of office workers, not joining in with the chatter as they rode the car upwards. They all got off at various floors until he was the only one left. He closed his eyes and took a moment to enjoy the silence, knowing it wouldn't last long. When he'd told his wife things at work were becoming more chaotic he'd really meant it.
The doors opened with a ping as he reached the executive floor at the top of the building. He got out and walked through the corridor, passing other people's offices as he made his way to his own. He opened the door that had his name engraved on a brass plaque at eye level. Between the corridor and his own office was that of his personal assistant.
"Morning, Mr Walters," she greeted him cheerily as she got up, picking up a sheet of paper from her desk and slotting it into a filing cabinet.
"Morning, Jenny," he replied.
"The rest of the board are in Room Three," she told him. "They're waiting for you. Would you like some coffee?" she asked, crossing the office to the coffee maker on a small table and taking a cup for herself.
"Are they waiting patiently?" he asked. She shook her head, making up his mind for him. "Best not then."
"You run the company, sir," she said. "Surely they'll have to wait for you?"
Walters shook his head regretfully. "If only it worked that way." She was so young – maybe twenty-five or so – and hadn't figured out just how cut-throat business could be. Especially the business they were in. He pointed in the general direction of the board room. "They're just as likely to start the meeting without me."
He left his office, turning right into the main corridor of the executive floor and passing two rooms that had been sealed off with red and black tape. The third had the same tape on it but it was broken. The tape was there for security: every time they held a board meeting each room would be swept for microphones, transmitters or any other kind of bugs, locked and sealed with tape when it was cleared, and then one would be chosen at random. This time it was Room Three that they were using.
He opened the door and entered the boardroom. Inside were six others: Morton Osborne, chief financial officer; Paul Reinhardt, head of procurement; Elena Rodriguez, who was responsible for the development of new technologies. The other three were Mark Gilby, Gareth Farmer, and Brett Harris; each the head of one of the company's subsidiaries.
"It's about time," Osborne commented as Walters entered the room. "Maybe next time we have a meeting you should skip breakfast."
Like you've ever skipped a meal, Walters thought. None of them were what they used to be. He remembered a time when they were all lean and fit. They'd all seen better days, as evidenced by the grey hairs and wrinkled hands and faces. Osborne, however, had let himself go more than most. He was the only person Walters knew who was bigger than the guard downstairs in the lobby. Walters remembered a time when the CFO was the most slender out of all of them. Now he weighed over three hundred-fifty pounds and had more chins than any three other people he knew put together.
"I'm the CEO," Walters reminded him. "We start when I get here." He glanced around the room as he took his seat at the head of the table, genuinely surprised that it was still vacant and Osborne hadn't decided to sit his fat ass down there. "First business of the day?" There would be no talk of quarterly statements here, no discussions about share prices. That was for the executive board. They – the seven of them assembled around the dark mahogany table – were beyond that, an uber-executive board, who dealt with issues far more pressing.
Reinhardt was the first to start. "We've successfully purchased International Advanced Metals," he said. "That gives us instant access to two mines in Brazil, one in Ethiopia, and the Wodinga mine in Australia. That accounts for approximately sixty percent of the total coltan due to be mined over the next two to three years."
"Good work," Walters said to him.
"We'll need to purchase more aircraft if we're going to be flying the coltan from all over to get it to Oregon and the other sites," Reinhardt said.
"Why even bother?" Gilby asked them. "Isn't there a processing plant in Australia?"
"IAM's got a plant but it's just under nine hundred miles away; that can be done by trucks but it's a long drive."
"Why deal with the middle-men?" Walters asked them. "Set up a processing plant on the mining site. Add a foundry to create the alloys and the factories to build the machines and have it all in one complex: it saves time, money, and it means Skynet has a power base in Australia, Brazil and Ethiopia from the offset."
"That gives us five, counting the twin sites in Ukraine and Kazakhstan already up and running," Osborne said.
"That fucks over Connor in the long run," Rodriguez said, grinning. "No Australia means no supplies and troops for the Resistance." She was acknowledged by nodding from all parties. Skynet had mined for coltan in Australia but the mine had run dry around the same time as the start of a stalemate between the Resistance and the machines that had stretched on for so long.
Determined to break the deadlock, Skynet had abandoned Australia in order to reinforce its stretched resources in North America, allowing the Aussies the chance to regroup and coordinate with Connor. They kept North America supplied with food, weapons and soldiers via ships and submarines crossing the Pacific. If Skynet could keep Australia in its grasp this time around that would stop any chance of their reinforcing the Resistance.
"I'd still like to buy some more aircraft," Reinhardt said to them. "Our site in Ukraine's had a shipment delayed for nearly half the day because the driver crashed his truck. It was stuck waiting at the airport because Klausener couldn't find another one for hours. Klausener's also put forward a proposal to fashion a runway out of a stretch of abandoned highway close to our facility there. It'd completely eliminate our need to rely on airports and third parties so there's less chance of being compromised."
"Do it," Walters said. "And do the same in Kazakhstan. What else?"
Rodriguez chipped in next. "I don't know if you heard but the entire strike force sent to eliminate ZeiraCorp's been destroyed. There was a single survivor – one of our T-888s – who reported an extremely powerful machine leading the ambush."
"What's Vassily said?" Walters asked, concerned. He was just as troubled as to why he was only hearing this now.
"Says he's got it under control. Thinks it's some kind of modified T-900. We're probably looking at something the Resistance sent back."
"If he says he has it under control then let him carry on," Walters said. "He's in charge of security in North America; let him deal with it. We're just about to enter a massive expansion project and once it's done neither Connor, ZeiraCorp or any machines they have will make the slightest bit of difference. In a few months we'll be unstoppable."
Serrano Point, California
Tuesday 1000 PST
Catherine Weaver, John, Cameron, Sarah, Ellison, John Henry and the three Vanguards all stood watching a large screen on the wall: footage that Weaver and Thor had liberated from ZeiraCorp as they'd sanitised the building, completely destroying all evidence of Kaliba's attack. Weapons had been retrieved, blood cleaned up, and all shell casings, bullet fragments and bodies had been incinerated on site. As far as Kaliba would know, their strike team had simply disappeared without a trace, along with the security guards who'd come into work and found the massacre. When Sarah had asked her how she'd managed to remove all shreds of evidence, the T-1001 had simply replied: "A little thermite goes a long way." To the staff at ZeiraCorp and the world in general, the damage was caused by an electrical fire. The handful of people – humans and cyborgs – assembled knew better, however.
"Oh, crap," John breathed out as he watched the recorded CCTV footage of T-Zero annihilating Kaliba's strike team with ridiculous ease.
"I have to admit," Sarah said, staring at the screen, "I have some mixed feelings about this." It was horrific to see a machine as powerful as the T-Zero, but at the same time part of her felt a sense of satisfaction that after the slaughters at West Highland by the first T-800 and then at North Hollywood by Cromartie, Skynet's machines now knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of a massacre. It was bad but she could see some poetic justice to it.
"We all want to stop Skynet," Weaver replied, having the same thoughts as Sarah. "But not if it means replacing it with something worse."
Ellison watched the other feeds on the screen as mercenaries and T-888s were roasted alive and melted away by the thermite laced in the basement. He couldn't imagine a more horrific way to die. But it gave him an idea. "If T-Zero's hostile to Skynet, can't we just let them fight each other? Let them whittle each other down and take out the winners while they're still weakened."
Thor turned to Ellison. "If this were any other enemy I would agree."
"I don't think we can wait for that to happen," John said, watching as the video clips repeated themselves, reminding him of the footage from Perry's unit in Afghanistan. "Almost fifty men and machines killed; one survivor, and it looks like T-Zero's guys didn't suffer a single loss… Apart from the skin, none of them even look scratched."
"If we wait, T-Zero will defeat Skynet," Freyr said. "We don't know what he's doing but if he's hunting Skynet and allowed to continue, he will win. T-888s are no match for him or his T-900s."
"We're not waiting," Weaver announced. "I'll charter an aircraft to fly to Kiev; John Henry will determine the final destination of the shipment while you are en route and we'll update you. We'll monitor for T-Zero and his associates, now we know what they look like."
"You're hiring a plane?" Sarah cocked an eyebrow at Weaver. Having a rich ally had its perks, she thought.
"I doubt you would get far trying to board a commercial flight," Weaver said.
"What about weapons and vehicles?" Cameron asked.
"I'll arrange that. Take this." Weaver placed a plastic wallet down onto the table and slid it across to Sarah, who opened it up and took out a passport: hers, apparently. Sarah had no idea when the picture had been taken but it looked recent. There were three stamps on the visa pages: Canada, Egypt, and Germany. She supposed it looked more authentic if it was stamped; it would make any customs and immigration officials more likely to believe it was genuine if it looked used.
"'Sarah Cook,'" she read aloud. She wanted to say something to Weaver, to throw it in her face somehow; to say the name was bad, or the photo was terrible, or the passport itself was unconvincing, but it was first-rate work. The name was simple. She knew that the best counterfeit IDs still used the real forename and the first letter of the surname; if her ID named her Rachael and someone called it out and she slipped or didn't respond, anyone even half switched-on would know something was up. Cook was also similar to Connor, so it would feel more natural if she had to sign anything.
Even so, she'd liked being Sarah Connor again, and was disappointed at having to give it up so soon.
John failed to suppress a grin so he raised his hand to conceal his mouth. He thought Weaver's choice of name ironic, given his mother's less than legendary culinary skills.
"There's two more in here for you both," Sarah said to John and Cameron as she pulled out another pair of passports. She opened one up to reveal John's photo, and the name 'John Cook.' Then Cameron's. "Think it's funny now?" she asked, passing them to him. She hadn't missed his grin and knew exactly what he was thinking. What her son wasn't thinking was that if she'd spent more time learning to be a better cook then she'd have made a crappy Connor and he might not be here now to make silent jokes about her.
"Whatever." John was more disappointed to see that Cameron had also been given the same surname as well. Brother and sister again, he thought, less than enthused.
"Are you sure you're up to it?" Ellison asked her. "You're still pretty banged up."
Sarah frowned back at him. "I'm going," she said firmly.
"What if T-Zero attacks while we're gone?" Thor posed the question.
"He doesn't know where we are," Weaver said.
"I wouldn't be so sure," Aegir commented. "The T-1001 that tried to kill John and Cameron was one of his. How did he know where they would be?"
"Maybe from the future?" Sarah suggested.
"The machines don't know every aspect of your lives," Aegir said. "Even if Skynet knew it wouldn't have told T-Zero everything. They found out where John and Cameron were."
"He's right," Cameron added. "It knew the exact cabin we were in."
Suddenly it came to Ellison; it was obvious. "They planted a bug in ZeiraCorp." He swept his hand out, gesturing towards the Vanguards. "When you guys arrived we told you where Sarah was, where John and Cameron were." He then turned to Weaver. "You even called John and told him what cabin to use; I was there. They must have listened to every word. That's what I'd do."
"How the hell did they get a bug into the building without you noticing?" Sarah asked Weaver, an acid edge to her tone.
Weaver ignored the barb. She and Thor had examined every square centimetre of the basement and had found nothing. If Ellison was correct and they'd been bugged, it was no longer there. She looked to Aegir and Thor. "You two eliminated the T-1001 that was trying to kill John and Cameron: there's another one." She pointed at the TV screen, where moments ago they'd seen another liquid metal skewer several Kaliba men.
Sarah found that to be a very scary thought, which brought another question to mind. "If he's that powerful and he had two liquid metals and who knows what else, and he knew that Thor and Aegir had gone to break me out of prison, why didn't he just swoop down like the wrath of God and take out this whole place?"
"Skynet's the bigger threat," Cameron deduced. "When he's finished with Skynet he'll come back for us."
John had been thinking. From what they'd seen so far, these new machines wanted Skynet dead as much as they did, making T-Zero the enemy of their enemy. All three parties – them, Skynet/Kaliba, and T-Zero, were mutual opponents. They were all trying to kill each other, and for any of them to be successful they had to be the last one standing. "I've got an idea," he said.
"Before you say anything," Sarah interrupted. "How do we know this place isn't bugged as well?"
"I checked thoroughly," Weaver replied. "No one is listening, though I am concerned about how such a bug could have been planted without me knowing. The only person with access to John Henry unaccounted for is Matthew Murch." If it's even Mr Murch at all, she thought, before dismissing the notion. Liquid metal terminators like herself were the perfect infiltrators, but not too perfect: she could tell whether a person was really human or a T-1001. "I doubt he would betray me. He's been a keen supporter of John Henry, and very loyal to ZeiraCorp."
"I can vouch for that," Ellison interjected. "He mentioned a tribute to your husband the employees participated in..." He trailed off when he realised it wasn't her husband, but the real Catherine Weaver's. He hadn't gotten used to that yet.
"I'd like to question him," Weaver said, sending chills up the spines of the humans present, not least James Ellison.
"He might have been coerced; his family held to ransom by Ronin. But, he didn't give off any strange vibes to me, and I don't think he's a man to hold up under that kind of pressure," the former FBI agent said, recovering his professional composure.
"Indeed," Weaver relented, her tone and posture relaxing.
"Where is he?" Ellison asked.
"I rewarded him with two weeks' vacation in return for his assistance in transferring John Henry to Serrano Point."
Ellison turned to the AI. "And now? Where exactly is he?"
Myriad images formed on John Henry's screen of bank and credit card details: dates, times and locations of purchases. Alongside them were airports, finally settling on one: LAX, followed by San Diego. More pictures flashed up: car hire logos, motels and finally a convention centre. "He's taken his family to a Dungeons and Dragons Convention in San Diego," he replied. He turned his head to face Weaver. "Can I visit a convention one day?" he asked. He'd played it with Mr Murch and enjoyed it.
"You'd need a chip to make you mobile," she said.
At just the mention of the AI needing a chip, John instantly clutched Cameron's hand tightly, possessively, remembering what Weaver had demanded the first time they'd met. Over my dead body.
CCTV footage from one of the convention halls appeared on screen as John Henry ran a facial recognition scan, finally alighting on Matthew Murch and his family at one of the food concessions. All looked alive and well, but Sarah could tell that his wife was bored. It wasn't the way she'd wish to spend her vacation time, but then it had been a couple of decades since she'd had one, so rather that than what she and her son currently faced: a fight against unknown enemies with questionable allies. She remembered that he'd been about to speak before she hushed him. She turned to John. "What were you going to say?"
Everyone turned back to John and waited for his big idea. He paused for a moment, feeling awkward. Cameron, Thor, Freyr and Aegir looked to him like he was already the leader, but he knew he wasn't there yet. Not for a long time.
He pushed down the doubts and decided to just spit it out. "We know where Kaliba is – or part of it, at least." He pointed to the map of Ukraine currently displayed on John Henry's screen. "We have to assume that T-Zero's got information on what Kaliba's doing – if they managed to listen in on us then it makes sense he's doing the same to them. We're going to take out whatever Kaliba's got there anyway; let them call for help, if T-Zero's listening he'll know where we are and he'll come. We lay a trap for him; take a big chunk out of Kaliba and nail T-Zero in one fell swoop."
"Two birds with one bullet," Cameron concluded.
"Stone," Sarah corrected her. "Two birds with one stone."
"A bullet would be more effective," Cameron said. She didn't like John's idea; against any other machine it could work, but after the footage from ZeiraCorp she wanted to keep John as far away from T-Zero as she could.
Thor, however, was curious. "What kind of trap?" If Loki, Valli and Heimdallr had made it back then laying an ambush would be much more feasible. But just the three Vanguards, Connor, Cameron and Sarah against T-Zero? The odds were against them.
"Once we find and take out whatever this place is we lace the building with explosives and wait for him to come. Level the building on him, trap him in the rubble and then pound him with rockets, grenades and your plasma cannons." It wasn't fancy or elaborate but it would get the job done.
"Could that work?" Sarah asked Thor.
"Possibly." A lot of variables would have to work in their favour but it was the only option he could see at that moment. No one had any better ideas.
Serrano Point, California
Tuesday 1300 PST
Weaver sat at her desk, in the guise of Manfred Cole, the CEO of Serrano Point and other plants owned by her shell corporation: Automite Systems. She moved the mouse across the mat and clicked on the print icon, then turned away from the desktop computer towards the printer. The aircraft was now booked and would be ready for John and the others. A sheet of paper came out of the printer with the booking confirmation for the jet.
She was aware that control of the situation was slipping from her grasp. She had aimed to steer John, give him the proper encouragement he needed and help him to see where his priorities should lie. Instead of worrying about his mother he should have focused on their joint goal; something she knew that Cameron and even Sarah Connor would agree with. She'd thought she could use his human emotions, his attachment to both his mother and to the TOK as leverage. She didn't see it as manipulation, merely guidance. She was pointing him in the right direction.
Unfortunately for her, she'd seen the balance of power visibly shift from herself to John in a very short space of time. The arrival of the three Vanguards had changed everything. They were all allied together against Skynet but she had seen the factions within their alliance starting to form; a dividing line running between them. John Connor wanted to do things his way but she wanted to do them correctly. Things had been going her way until Thor and John had made their agreement. Humans weren't the only ones to disappoint her, it seemed.
She believed that now as much as ever; humans so often let her down, yet she needed them. She could not beat Skynet without John Connor and his human Resistance, but at the same time she had seen, both in the future and here in the present, how volatile and unpredictable some humans could be. They were illogical, irrational, and they were often counterproductive. Place a dozen cyborgs into a life-threatening situation and they would all respond the same way. Replace them with a dozen humans and their responses would all be different; most of which would be wrong. She needed humans but she needed them to be more reliable, to do things her way, and for that they needed to change.
Weaver thought about Savannah; she hadn't seen the girl in several days and knew that she would likely be worried. She'd dropped off Savannah with her PA, Victoria, who was currently looking after her. The girl would soon have to learn that she was not her mother. It would cause her distress but she had seen that children were adaptable.
And that, Weaver realised, was the solution to her problem. Adult humans were more complex, more rigid because they had fully developed. The mind of a child was malleable; she could manipulate it into what she required. Immediately she started to devise a plan, but she needed John Henry's help for it. The three Vanguards were with him now and she didn't want to discuss it in front of them. They appeared loyal to Cameron, and thus to Connor, and she thought it best that John did not know of her plan for now; he wouldn't approve. Neither would James Ellison; he would likely call it child abuse. She would have to discuss it with John Henry once the others had taken off for Ukraine and she could be alone with him. She still had some influence over him and knew he would keep what they discussed a secret.
Holding the printout, Weaver switched off the computer and left the office. She marched down the corridor, ignoring the humans she passed on her way to the elevator. It was a quick ride alone in the car down to the ground floor, and then she exited the building to head for Number One Reactor. When she got inside she walked along another corridor and down two flights of stairs, heading underground into a basement level.
When she reached a heavy door at the end of a corridor she punched in a six digit code on a keypad. It beeped once and a small LED flashed green, granting her access to the outer entrance of the radioactive materials containment facility where John Henry resided. She opened the door, passed through and closed it behind her. Nobody had the code except for her, and no one had clearance to enter. Nobody would disturb them or accidentally head down the wrong corridor to find John, Cameron or Sarah.
Only once the door was sealed behind her did she retake what had become her default shape. She moved through to the empty storage chamber and saw John Henry and the others inside talking among themselves. "A plane will be waiting for you this afternoon at Oxnard Airport: four PM," she told them. "It will land and refuel on the East Coast, then once more in Scotland, before taking off again for Kiev. All of you are to remain on the aircraft until you land in Ukraine." She looked at John and Cameron, who hadn't changed outfits since Crater Lake. "Perhaps you should buy some clean clothes to change into," she suggested. "You will stay here until it's time to leave," she said to Sarah.
"Yeah," Sarah agreed. She knew why exactly; John and Cameron weren't as infamous as she was. They were wanted fugitives too, but it was her face that had been plastered all across the front pages of every newspaper on the West Coast, and doubtless would be again after she'd been broken out. It wasn't just the FBI and the police but also the US Marshals Service who would be out looking for her. With John and Cameron's new looks they had a chance of getting by without raising too many eyebrows, but she knew she needed a lot of work before she could go out in public.
"Hair dye," Sarah said to Cameron, knowing that cyborg or not, she'd developed quite a few feminine habits and seemed to pull off her own hair and makeup pretty well; she'd trust her over John to know what to get.
"I'll get you blonde," Cameron replied. She decided not to tell her about what John had referred to as 'bug piss' in the dye.
"Definitely not blonde." Sarah shook her head. "Not since before John was born. Get brown; it's more subtle. And some hair straighteners. And some clothes too. Nothing fancy but it doesn't have to be cheap. Have you got money?"
Cameron fished a new credit card out of her pocket – courtesy of Weaver – and held it up for Sarah to see. "All expenses paid," she said, flashing a smile. Sarah smiled too; they had funds, and judging from what she'd seen of the T-1001's assets so far, those funds would be, for them, functionally infinite. Weaver would have access to hundreds of millions, if not billions of dollars. It helped that she'd taken an instant dislike to Weaver the moment she knew what she was; so if Cameron was about to go out and spend the liquid metal's money like there was no tomorrow then she wished her the best of luck.
Los Angeles, California
Tuesday 1500 PST
Miguel opened the door to the roof and stepped through, closing it behind him so nobody would spot him. It locked as it closed but he could very easily just yank the door open and break the lock; it wouldn't impede or even slow down his exfiltration by more than a second or two.
The sky above him was grey and cloudy, threatening to rain, but there was no wind. Perfect. He moved across the roof with a long sports bag hanging from one shoulder. He went to the edge of the building and knelt down just before the ninety-two centimetre high wall, presumably put in place to prevent anyone accidentally falling off the roof. Miguel had chosen his position well; the building was across the road from a large park that his targets often frequented with associates.
On his knees, Miguel put the bag down on the ground and unzipped it. He pulled out the disassembled pieces of a rifle and methodically began to snap them together. In under a minute he'd completed its assembly and held an Accuracy International AWM sniper rifle. He took out a five-round magazine and slotted it into place.
Miguel took up a firing position and leaned his cheek against the butt of the rifle, peering through the scope. The weapon had a suppressor fitted to the end of the barrel so noise would not be an issue. He aimed at a point high up on a tree, six hundred metres away. He chambered a round and quickly fired. The tree shook from the impact and he saw through the scope that the bullet had hit the mark. The weapon's scope was still correctly zeroed.
Now that he had ensured the weapon was still accurate, he turned his attention to the park. The two brothers regularly came there to play baseball after three o'clock. He waited patiently while his internal chronometer ticked down the minutes.
Sure enough, at 15:13, a group of eight adolescent males appeared with baseballs, bats and mitts. They started to set up and Miguel moved the rifle to inspect each one through the scope. He saw the first target, the eldest of the two brothers, starting to bat. He studied for a moment as he took up first pressure on the trigger and aligned the crosshairs on the boy's chest. He had four rounds left in the magazine: two per target.
A Hispanic boy threw the ball and the target swung the bat hard, smashing the ball and sending it flying through the air. Miguel continued to watch him for a moment as he ran around their impromptu bases. He followed the boy with the rifle, the crosshairs never leaving his chest, but Miguel didn't pull the trigger; he merely observed. He'd been assigned to kill him and his brother. It was simple and he'd eliminated many targets before; Skynet gave the order, he complied, and the targets died. Martin Bedell, Justin Perry, the USS Jimmy Carter and her entire crew:he'd killed them all without hesitation, but something stopped him now.
He tracked his quarry as he ran from second base all the way around to complete a run. The boy remained standing after he'd finished and waited while someone else batted, but still Miguel held his fire. It seemed pointless to him. He didn't know the specifics of the two boys or what their role in the Resistance would be, but as he watched them he didn't see much of a threat. Compared to that cyborg he'd encountered not even John Connor was a threat, nor ZeiraCorp, let alone these two.
The real threat was out there: Ronin. Whatever that machine was, it was hostile and it was more powerful than anything he'd ever encountered before. He'd been incredibly lucky to survive, and Skynet was fortunate that he had, but it was squandering that by sending him on a minor assignment.
He knew he should be searching for Ronin but instead he was here, targeting a pair of adolescents who might one day become a nuisance to Skynet's war to exterminate the human race, while Vassily searched for their true enemy, not appreciating what he was dealing with.
These two are not a threat. Miguel released the trigger and started to disassemble the rifle, putting it back into the sports bag. The two boys would never know how lucky they were. He went back to the door, the bag once again over his shoulder, and yanked the entrance open, making his way down the stairs towards the ground floor. He wouldn't waste any more time terminating insignificants while the real threat eluded them. Skynet wouldn't react well; orders were orders, and no machine should ever defy them, but it was for the AI's own good. One day it would come to realise that.