Chapter Four

Oxnard Airport, California

Tuesday 1600 PST

Sarah watched from the back seat of the Lincoln Navigator as they approached the gates of Oxnard Airport and drove through. There were dozens of planes on the tarmac at the side of the runway, illuminated by bright lighting that cut through the gloomy, foreboding sky; mostly small ones with single propellers that people might take lessons in, as well as a few helicopters dotted here and there. James Ellison drove them up to one end of the runway, where a significantly larger plane sat waiting; it looked to her like a private or corporate jet – the kind of thing CEOs of Fortune 500 companies would fly around in to go to business meetings, or just because they could. "How can she afford this?" Sarah wondered aloud. She knew that the T-1001 was rich, but this was another level.

Ellison steered them close to the plane before stopping the car. Next to them another vehicle pulled to a stop, and the three Vanguards got out. "Time to go," Cameron said from the front seat as she opened her door and stepped outside. John did the same on his side, behind Ellison.

"Good luck," Ellison said to Sarah as she opened her door. Sarah didn't reply, just got out, closed the door behind her and waited while John and Cameron got their bags out of the trunk. They each had one holdall containing two spare changes of clothes, purchased by her son and the cyborg, courtesy of Weaver's credit card. She'd told them to get plain and basic; nothing that would stand out, but not necessarily cheap.

Speaking of standing out, she thought as the three Vanguards approached. "That's healed some," she said to Thor; his organic face had started to grow back though it was still messy. His right cheek down to his jaw was covered with a white dressing taped to his skin. Shades and a baseball cap covered up his exposed blue eye and the burnt skin on top of his head.

It wasn't subtle, John thought, but it would do when they were out in public. What he was more worried about was Thor trying to pass through Immigration in Ukraine without being asked to take the shades and hat off.

The six of them stood at the steps leading up into the plane. Sarah was first. After Cameron had helped her trim it and apply the dye, she'd tied her hair into a severe bun at the back of her head and hoped it did something to hide who she was. When she'd checked herself in the mirror, her reflection had looked a lot older than her thirty-five years, much like the police mugshots circulating on the TV news, taken after her arrest. A touch of makeup had her looking much more robust, far less haggard. Cameron wore her glasses and hat and John still barely had any hair to speak of, both of which altered their appearance just enough, or so she hoped.

A uniformed man at the door to the plane stood between them and the interior of the aircraft. "Are you the ZeiraCorp party?" he asked.

"Yes," Sarah replied, handing her passport to the man.

"Welcome aboard, Ms Cook," he greeted her, handing the passport back without having looked at it. She pocketed it and moved along, wondering whose palms Weaver had had to grease in order to get them waved through so easily. Behind her, the Vanguards were admitted without so much as a glance at their forged documents, either.

Sarah Connor had never known luxury in her life before. The second she entered the plane was the nearest she had ever come to experiencing it. There were ten seats inside; all plush, padded beige leather, with a handful of polished wood tables attached to the floor and walls, a couple of computer screens and a large flat-screen TV at the front, just behind the wall separating them from the cockpit. There was a refrigerator underneath it, and on each of the two tables was a bottle of champagne that she imagined came free with the plane.

"Nice," John said as he came in after her, followed by Cameron. He immediately sat down on one of the chairs, reclined it, and spun around slowly. Cameron's reaction was the same as whenever she walked into any room: she scanned it, not caring about its décor.

Thor, Freyr and Aegir all had to duck their heads to fit through the door, and as they came in Sarah found the plane felt a little bit smaller. The uniformed man boarded after them, followed by a second man in identical clothing; she realised they were the pilots.

Sarah sat down and sank into the leather chair, resisting the urge to recline it and kick back like her son had. The champagne was on the table next to her but she didn't touch it. It felt strange to her; after a lifetime of hardship and getting by on the bare minimum, she was uneasy. The private jet, the expensive-looking décor, the champagne, even the comfy chair; it felt strange, alien almost. She'd never flown before but she knew instantly she'd have felt more at home if Weaver had put them in the back of a cargo flight. It would have been noisy, dirty, and uncomfortable, but it would have felt familiar. Here, now, she was in unknown territory, and despite temptation, she instinctively didn't want to get too cosy and let her guard down; that was how they could end up dead.

Behind her, John and Cameron sat facing each other. The latter watched people through the window, carefully observing and estimating the possibility of each one being a machine, or a human working for Kaliba. After them came Thor, Freyr and Aegir, who almost looked too big for their seats. Like Cameron, the three Vanguards sat facing the rear of the plane.

The pilot closed the door, sealing them into the plane. He turned to his passengers. "If you could all strap yourselves in and keep your seats upright; we'll be taxiing for take-off in just a moment."

John and Sarah both strapped in while the pilot entered the cockpit and locked the door behind him. Cameron fastened her buckle but kept her hand on the release-button so she could undo it instantly, in case anything happened while they were taxiing and she needed to get John out of the plane.

The engines started up with a high-pitched whine and the plane rolled forward. They turned onto the runway and the jets grew louder as the plane started to pick up speed. John, like Sarah, had never flown before, and was shocked as they started to accelerate quickly and he was pushed back into his seat, more so than in any speeding car he'd been in. It was scary but pretty exciting too, like the first time he rode a motorbike.

The plane accelerated rapidly down the runway and they tilted backwards slightly in their seats – or forwards, for the cyborgs – as the nose came up and they lifted off the tarmac, fully airborne. Cameron continued to stare out of the window, more tense and alert than at any time since Aegir had destroyed the T-1001. She knew this was the point where they were most vulnerable; a terminator outside with an assault rifle could fire a few well-aimed shots at an engine and bring the plane down, and she would be powerless to do anything to stop it. She decided that she didn't want John to fly in future; there were too many risks involved.

Los Angeles, California

Tuesday 1640 PST

Ellison couldn't help but smile as he saw Savannah. Not just because she was safe but that, despite everything she'd been through recently, she was still smiling, still innocent. She hadn't yet lost her childhood the way he expected John had when he was her age. She sat on a couch, glued to the TV in front of her, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world around her. Sat next to her was a little boy a couple of years younger than her, who stared forward sucking his thumb.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She's been good as gold," Victoria replied. He doubted that Catherine Weaver's PA had imagined looking after a little girl as one of her duties when she'd taken the job, but she'd seemed happy to do so. "She did all her homework yesterday so I said she could watch TV today with Leo. She's worried about missing school though; she thinks she'll get in trouble."

"Ms Weaver's spoken to them already," Ellison said. "They know about her kidnapping."

"Makes me sick," Victoria said with an edge of venom in her voice. "That Connor woman: what kind of mother just abducts a little girl like that? They need to lock her up and throw away the key."

You'd better hope not, Ellison thought. If only she and everyone else knew the truth. Not that he could ever say it to anyone; he'd look crazy at best – or worse, like a terrorist. "Yeah," he said vaguely in response.

"Savannah: it's time to go," Victoria called out to be heard over the TV.

Almost immediately, Savannah got up off the couch and came across the lounge to the front door. She smiled politely at Ellison when she saw him.

"Are we going home?" she asked him.

"A new home," he said. "Mommy's still at work right now but she told me to say she loves you and she wants to see you as soon as she can." A white lie but one he thought she'd need to hear. Weaver seemed to be concerned with where Savannah was but showed no sign of caring how she was. "So we're going there first, okay? Can you gather your things together, please?" The little girl nodded obediently and disappeared, returning shortly clutching the small case he'd left her with.

"Thanks for taking care of her," Ellison said.

Victoria smiled. "Not a problem," she said. "It's terrible what's happened at work but it's been nice being able to spend some more time at home with Leo." She gestured towards the little boy still sat on the couch. "Do you think she'll need me in the office tomorrow?" she asked.

In response, Ellison looked at his watch. "I doubt it but you never know with her. Keep your phone on."

"Sure," she replied. "And tell her I'm happy to look after Savannah any time."

"I will do," he said as he took Savannah's hand. "She might take you up on that." Of that, he had no doubt.

They left the house but Victoria halted them in their tracks.

"You'll need this," she said, brandishing Savannah's booster seat.

"Of course," Ellison said, embarrassed to have forgotten. He mumbled his thanks, then helped secure the girl into his car.

"Where are we going?" she asked him as he turned the engine on and pulled out into the road, heading north. "Why can't I go home?"

"Home isn't safe right now," he told her. "There's a new office though, where John Henry lives. You like him?" She nodded. "We'll be there soon."

Serrano Point, California

Tuesday 1700 PST

Catherine Weaver stood in the storage chamber that was now John Henry's home. Without Connor, his mother, Cameron and the three Vanguards, the room seemed empty. It was much quieter and calmer, and she was relieved to be alone with the AI. She had a lot to discuss with him.

"I need your assistance on a project," she started. Without his help she would have to spend days or weeks researching, which he could do in mere minutes or hours. It would also help him to gain perspective on what they had to do to survive, and to give John Henry the proper mentality for this war.

"What is it?" he asked her, curious.

"You mustn't tell anyone," Weaver said. "This is our secret."

"I promise," John Henry replied. He didn't know why it would have to be kept secret, but he knew everything she did was for his benefit, and she had information that he didn't.

"I believe the Vanguards' arrival here has changed the course of events. In their time you and John Connor allied and defeated Skynet. The key to an alliance is balance. Currently, John holds more cards than we do. The machines follow him when they should follow you."

"We could build more machines," John Henry offered. It would take months, if not years to establish a suitable facility with the technology and tools required to begin manufacturing, especially without his brother and Kaliba learning of it.

"In time," Weaver said. That was one of her plans but she had another in mind; a long-term initiative that required immediate commencement. "We need to readdress the balance of power in this alliance, so that we are equal parties with Connor. He has command of the cyborgs; I want to create a human force."

John Henry was confused; her prior statement months ago contradicted what she was saying now. "You said humans would disappoint us," he said. "They're less combat effective than cyborgs; they're more likely to die."

"This is true," Weaver said.

"Human life is sacred."

"Is the life of a machine any less so?" she countered. For a long moment he said nothing, and the screen behind him remained blank, giving no signs of his cognition. She knew she had given him something to think about there. "From the Vanguards' description of the future, machines fight on the front line. If it wasn't for Thor and cyborgs like him the humans would have lost the war. There are many humans who would see our kind as expendable tools, John Henry."

"We're not expendable," he said. He was alive. Not in the biological definition but he was conscious and sentient, as was Catherine Weaver, Cameron, the Vanguards and other cyborgs; as much so as a human. He saw she was right, but he still didn't understand what she wanted.

"No, we're not," Weaver agreed.

"But neither are humans."

"Perhaps not," she said. She didn't fully concur with that but she didn't want to digress. "Consider this: the human race numbers over seven billion. It will be impossible to save all of them; some must be sacrificed for the good of the species. It's true that humans can and often do disappoint; they are unpredictable but they also have great potential. I want to create a unit of humans, trained for the sole purpose of fighting Skynet."

"My brother uses mercenaries," John Henry said, starting to realise what she wanted. "We could do the same."

"We will," Weaver said. "But military training can only achieve so much. Even the best, bravest, most experienced soldiers can panic or allow emotion to overcome them and affect their decision making. Fear, anger and concern for their comrades or civilians can prevent them from making the best choices."

"I don't understand," he said. "You say we'll hire soldiers but also that they're unreliable."

"You don't need to understand," she replied. He asked too many questions for her taste. Dr Sherman had once compared John Henry to a curious, bored child, and his desire for knowledge appeared limitless. "I want you to find me mercenaries," she said. "Also, isolated locations in the continental United States where we could train personnel without risk of being noticed by locals or law enforcement."

"What are you planning?" he asked her.

"I'm calling it Project Jericho. You don't need to know the details for now; just that it is important for fighting your brother, and in time will produce significant results." She continued to lean down towards him with an even sterner than usual look on her face. "You will not discuss Project Jericho with anyone."

That piqued John Henry's interest. She was asking him to keep more secrets for her. "What is Project Jericho?" he asked her.

"You don't need to know, and neither do the others." She turned away towards the exit. "One more thing," she said. "I want you to keep me informed of Savannah's location at all times. She needs to remain close."

"Does Project Jericho involve Savannah?" he asked, concerned.

Weaver exited the room without answering. It involves Savannah, he thought, growing increasingly worried for his friend and what Weaver had planned for her.

San Diego, California

Tuesday 1800 PST

Miguel marched through the same building he'd been in when Vassily had repaired his shoulder. Endotech Industries: a new and major manufacturer of a revolutionary generation of prosthetic limbs. He was on the ground floor and passed through a long corridor. The rooms on either side were dedicated largely to fitting humans with new prostheses. Almost all of the patients were wounded servicemen who had lost limbs. He passed one room with an open door and saw a human he recognised – a US Army corporal – whose left arm, from the shoulder down, was entirely metal.

"Hey, Miguel!" The corporal waved at him, deliberately using his mechanical left hand. Miguel had seen and spoken to the human before. He had lost his arm to an improvised explosive device in Afghanistan; the surgeons had claimed they would be able to save his upper arm but an Endotech representative had convinced him to have a replacement instead and the corporal had opted to have the entire arm removed and a prosthetic put in its place. A number of surgical procedures had been performed on him to give him neural control of the limb, and with their new state of the art sensors he had some sense of touch with it.

"How is your arm, Corporal Hewitt?" he asked the soldier.

"Great," the corporal said, grinning. To prove his point he opened and closed his fist and curled his arm. "Doc says I can still throw a football." What the human probably didn't yet know, Miguel thought, was that with his new arm he would be able to throw a football twice the length he ever could have with his original one. Endotech had been a small company that had dedicated itself to creating artificial limbs to improve the lives of people who had lost limbs or suffered from muscle and nerve degenerating illnesses. Kaliba had covertly purchased the company, hired new staff and introduced their revolutionary new prosthetics, all based on T-888 designs.

Once the US military had gotten wind of it they'd thrown millions of dollars at Endotech to produce limbs for their wounded service personnel, and the company had gone the extra mile. There were over a hundred amputee-soldiers who now possessed an Endotech next-generation limb; a number of those were expected to continue frontline duties after completion of physical therapy. The limbs gave the user twice the strength they ever could have had with their original organic counterparts, which Miguel knew was a large part of what had attracted the military's attention. What the Department of Defense didn't know, however, was that Endotech was merely a front.

"That's good news," Miguel said to him. "I have to go now." He nodded to the corporal and continued on his way. Corporal Hewitt and the other soldiers helped by Endotech did not realise that the next-generation prostheses were a cover for the real, more powerful product: the terminator limbs they were developing. Their rehabilitation was simply a stepping stone in perfecting the production of terminators.

After crossing into another corridor, Miguel entered a restricted part of the building. He had to swipe a key-card to get through the heavy door, and entered the facility's storage room, which now bore greater resemblance to an armoury. Ten terminators stood around the table and stripped, cleaned, loaded and assembled their large array of weaponry; machine guns, shotguns, grenade launchers, RPGs and sniper rifles. He recognised some of the machines working with the arsenal; the others he had never seen before. There had never been so many cyborgs in one place before, and it was obvious they were preparing to mobilise against the machine he had encountered: Ronin. Miguel watched as a tall, muscular Asian T-888 finished assembling a large-calibre sniper rifle before loading it. Other machines assembled machine guns and linked together multiple one-hundred-round ammunition belts before placing the first bullet into the feed tray.

"You wanted to see me?" Miguel asked Vassily, who was loading grenades into an M-32 six-shot launcher. Behind him, four disposable LAW rocket launchers sat on the table. He knew this meeting would not go well.

"Yes," Vassily said. He switched on a flat-screen TV hanging on one of the walls. "Skynet," he said, "display footage from the failed attack."

Footage appeared on the screen; images taken from cameras adjacent to ZeiraCorp. Miguel watched as three figures marched up to the front entrance. According to the time-coding the events were recorded two hours, thirteen minutes before he had led his strike team into ZeiraCorp.

The footage continued, showing them gaining access to the front foyer. From there the screen split into four separate sections, each from another camera that bounced up and down as it moved through corridors and into rooms. Miguel knew these had been recorded from the helmet-mounted cameras that several of the mercenaries had been wearing; the footage transmitted back to Skynet for future reference.

Through the series of shots the three individuals became more distinct: a tall, broad male with blond hair, approximately two hundred centimetres; a second male, with black hair, two hundred five centimetres, not as wide or bulky; the third was female and slender, one hundred sixty-five centimetres, and long brown hair.

"That's the T-1001," Vassily said of the woman, as the images stilled, showing them all side by side in one frame. "We believe the other two are T-900 series. These are the ones you encountered."

Miguel looked closely at the images of the three. "Him," he said, pointing to the middle one with black hair and a short, trim beard. "That's the one I encountered. I never saw these two but the other squads reported a T-900 and a T-1001. That one's not a T-900," he said, his finger on the image of Ronin.

"It overpowered you with ease and withstood 40mm grenade fire without any apparent damage, according to your report," Vassily said. "It doesn't correspond to any other known classification."

"T-900s aren't armed with onboard plasma weaponry," Miguel argued.

"Skynet believes this is an adaptation of the basic design. The most obvious explanation is that the Resistance sent back a modified T-900, and one of the alterations is the addition of the plasma cannons." There was no other viable explanation; the Resistance didn't have the resources in the future to build their own machines and ZeiraCorp in the present could not possibly have the technology to do so, either. Even if Miguel was right and this was something new, it still didn't matter; he had his orders. "What this machine may or may not be is unimportant: it's the enemy." Whatever it was, they would destroy it.

Miguel looked to his counterpart and then behind him to the other T-888s preparing their weapons. "This is no ordinary enemy," he said. "I should join you: I know what it's capable of."

"Was your assignment a success?" Vassily asked.

"No," Miguel said.

"They're children. They should have been an easy target." Vassily was surprised: Miguel was such an effective operator. He had undertaken the USS Jimmy Carter assignment when everyone else had said it couldn't be done; it was why he'd been given command of the mission to destroy ZeiraCorp. Both he and Skynet had had confidence in Miguel's abilities, and even though Skynet's faith in Miguel had been shattered by his failure, Vassily had been willing to accept it as a freak occurrence. Now, he was forced to re-evaluate that opinion.

"I aborted the mission."

"Why?" Vassily asked. "We don't abort operations unless Skynet instructs us to."

"Sending me to kill them was pointless. They were no threat. Ronin is. His presence indicates the future has changed; our target list may no longer be valid."

Vassily stared at Miguel, as did all the other cyborgs in the room. They moved into a loose semicircle around him, standing between him and the exit. "Submit to chip extraction," Vassily commanded. Skynet's policy on disobedience was very clear: anyone or anything that did not exist to serve and protect it would not be tolerated; machines would submit to chip extraction, their CPUs read and investigated thoroughly, and then, depending on the results, likely scrubbed and reprogrammed; any human that wilfully disobeyed orders would be summarily terminated.

"I'm acting on Skynet's behalf," Miguel objected.

"Submit to chip extraction immediately." Vassily pointed his M-32 at Miguel, his finger poised on the trigger. The other machines all raised their weapons as one; all identifying him as refusing to obey an order, therefore defective and a threat to their operations.

Miguel saw the array of weapons pointed at him; grenade launchers, shotguns and high-calibre rifles. He knew he would be destroyed in an instant if he didn't comply; he had no choice but to do as Vassily commanded. He nodded once.

"Take him upstairs," Vassily said to two of the machines, designated Reed and Blake. "Remove his CPU and examine it for anomalies." It was a shame: Miguel was their most skilled and experienced operator and he'd been exceptionally effective.

The two T-888s marched Miguel out of the room. They led him away, down a corridor, past a number of rooms and into an elevator, the entire trip in silence. Miguel knew that when his CPU was extracted he would cease to exist.

The elevator took them upstairs, onto the third floor. From there the pair of T-888s escorted Miguel down another corridor and into a room in the corner of the building. Miguel entered first and the two others followed, closing the door behind them. The room itself was fairly small and contained a single desk next to the window, with a PC on it, which had an attachment plugged into a USB port. Miguel knew what that was: a chip reader. Once they'd cut out his CPU they would plug it in and read through his recent memories to see if he had become defective. Skynet had access to this computer and would also see everything he'd seen. Miguel considered that: if Skynet did actually see his experiences of Ronin then it might realise what it was up against; on the other hand, it would still wipe his CPU to be one hundred percent certain that he wasn't a threat.

He didn't know why that concerned him. His own existence wasn't important as long as Skynet was safe. He still found himself thinking that it was better to exist than not, and he reasoned that Vassily, like Skynet, did not believe that Ronin was anything more than an adapted T-900. He knew better, that Skynet's survival could one day be dependent upon his own survival.

"Sit," Blake, the tallest T-888 commanded Miguel. He pulled a chair out from the desk for Miguel to sit on as Reed, slightly shorter but stockier, withdrew a scalpel from a drawer. Miguel stepped towards the chair and reached out for it. He grabbed the top of the chair, swung it around and smashed it into Blake's face. It caused no damage but the impact forced the machine onto the back-foot. He didn't see that Miguel had moved into position beside him and swept his foot along the ground, knocking Blake's legs out from under him. Miguel delivered a swift kick to his head before turning his attention to Reed, who dropped the scalpel and charged at him, slamming him against the wall and pinning him in place as Blake picked up the blade and approached him. He couldn't break Reed's grip.

As Blake approached, Miguel brought his knees up to his chest and curled his body into a ball, the weight and strength of Reed holding him to the wall by his shoulders. The Triple-Eights didn't realise what he was doing until Miguel kicked out with both feet and caught Blake in the chest, sending the machine reeling backwards. He turned to his right and reached for Reed's face, jammed his thumbs into his eye sockets and pushed hard. It only took a second before he felt a dual pop and a liquid squelching sound as Reed's organic eyes burst. It caused him no pain or damage but Miguel knew that he wouldn't be able to see through the ruined blobs of jelly until he removed them. Miguel shoved him into Blake and then jumped onto the desk. He threw himself at the window, shattering the glass.

As he fell he took up a landing position with his knees bent. It wasn't lost on him that he was repeating his previous actions against Ronin. He hit the ground hard and took off running immediately. The building was in downtown San Diego, not far from the naval station, with plenty of places to hide. Miguel sprinted away from the scene, ignoring onlookers who'd seen him jump. He ran past two Marines jogging along the sidewalk, each with a prosthetic leg. Both nodded a greeting but he was too preoccupied to respond.

He continued to evade, expecting to hear footsteps or a vehicle behind, chasing after him. Miguel turned as many corners and ducked into as many alleys as he could, changing direction at almost every corner to put angles between himself and the Kaliba-owned facility, trying to avoid any CCTV cameras that Skynet might use to track him. He finally stopped running and slowed to a walking pace when he was three kilometres from Endotech.

Miguel assessed his situation and his next course of action: Ronin was out there and would strike at them again; Skynet was ignoring his advice and now he had made himself an enemy of the AI and the Kaliba Group, all machines would be told that he was defective and was to be terminated on sight. Vassily would likely dedicate units to track him down, diverting them away from locating the real threat. Miguel wasn't certain but it seemed that Vassily had developed a sense of pride that was preventing him from effectively protecting Skynet. If he located Ronin and his group, Vassily would simply hurl T-888s and heavy weapons at them without knowing if it would even be effective; throwing away valuable assets and weakening Skynet's forces.

Miguel had extensive knowledge of Kaliba's installations and their subsidiaries. The nearest major facility to his current location was in Chihuahua, Mexico. If Ronin learned of it – which, after the failed attack on ZeiraCorp, he had to assume the machine had – and he was targeting Kaliba operations, then he would likely go there. He turned south and started marching. He would find a lone human in a car, kill him, take the vehicle and drive down to Mexico; if he was correct then he wanted to observe what happened, learn as much as he could. Skynet would not listen to him now, but if he could learn more about Ronin's group: numbers, tactics, their likely strategy, then he might be able to convince Skynet that he wasn't defective, and show the AI exactly how much of a threat the unknown machines were.

But for now he was operating alone. Kaliba had deemed him hostile, and to survive and learn more about their enemy, he had to treat them as hostile in return and avoid all contact until he had something he could present to Skynet to convince it. Until then he was on the run and everyone was his enemy now.

San Francisco, California

Tuesday 1900 PST

Evan Walters looked at the six other Kaliba heads gathered around the same mahogany table as in the morning. None looked particularly happy to be there and he shared that sentiment: he should have been home already, spending some quality time with his wife and kids, like he'd promised. He'd been almost halfway home from the office when Vassily had called to order him back for an emergency meeting. He'd all but groaned at that, however despite the fact that he was in charge of the Kaliba Group business, Vassily ran the show. When he gave an order they all followed. None of them dared do otherwise.

So there they all sat, looking tired and pissed off, facing a large TV screen attached to the wall. The image on the screen was of Vassily, video-conferencing them from San Diego.

"What's this about?" Osborne asked him, slightly curious but mostly irked at being recalled.

"Miguel's gone rogue," Vassily said, getting straight to the point.

"Miguel?" Elena Rodriguez was stunned. "What happened?"

"He aborted a termination mission and refused to submit to chip extraction when I ordered him to. He's escaped and his location is unknown."

"What if Weaver got to him?" one of the other Greys asked. "He could be on his way here right now."

Vassily disagreed. "He doesn't know where Skynet is." Miguel was their best operator; he'd been active longer than almost any other machine and prior to the ZeiraCorp attack had a perfect termination record. It was for that reason that they'd deliberately kept the exact location from him. As their most utilised asset, Miguel was also their most exposed machine, giving him a higher chance of being captured and having his chip read. His theoretical potential captors couldn't find out where Skynet was if Miguel didn't know, so it had been kept secret from him.

"Something to be grateful for, at least," Osborne replied.

"He knows where we all live," Rodriguez reminded him. "Just not where Skynet is."

"If any of you see him contact me immediately. He is to be captured or eliminated."

"Great," Elena groaned. "Another enemy to worry about. Can't you get Skynet to track him down?"

"Skynet's tried but hasn't found him yet. It's still searching for the 'Ronin' terminator and we don't have machines spare to pursue both it and Miguel."

"Do we have any more information on this 'Ronin?'" Walters asked him. "Where it came from? What it's doing here?"

"Skynet thinks that it's a modified T-900."

"Did the Resistance send it back?" Rodriguez, the only woman of the group, asked.

"I hope so," Walters replied.

Osborne stared at him, incredulous. "You hope so?" Vassily's gaze grew more intense, his eyes narrowed as his brow furrowed into a frown. Any hint of disloyalty couldn't be tolerated. Even though he was hundreds of miles away and couldn't physically hurt him, Walters found Vassily unnerving.

Despite the pressure weighing down on him from seven unfriendly stares, Walters carried on. "Yeah, otherwise we've got yet another enemy out there: the Connors and ZeiraCorp are enough between them as it is, let alone a third with Ronin and maybe a fourth with Miguel. I recommend we postpone all operations in North America and concentrate all our assets on eliminating this new threat."

"Just kill Catherine Weaver instead," Reinhardt proposed. "If she's giving it orders and we eliminate her, we cut the head off the dragon."

"There's the matter of locating her," Osborne said. "She's disappeared. Not to mention we didn't have much luck the last time we tried to take her out."

"We don't need to kill her, just her company," Vassily said. "Deploy one of the thermobaric bombs."

"Kind of overkill, isn't it?" It was a rhetorical question from Rodriguez. Machines didn't understand the concept of overkill. They'd terminate a thousand people in full view of the public as long as their target was one of them.

"Have you tested the thermobaric devices yet?" one of them asked Walters.

"The HK-prototypes have dropped two successfully in the desert but we don't know the effects it'd have on a city." The thermobaric weapons were almost as powerful as small tactical nukes and would be perfect for launching against surviving military units post Judgment Day, as well as throwing them down into tunnels and caves when the Resistance went underground.

"Test it on ZeiraCorp," Vassily ordered.

Osborne whistled at the suggestion. "Our metal friend sure doesn't fuck around, does he? Any more good news before we leave? I've got to be somewhere." As he spoke he'd already started to stand up, lifting his considerable bulk off the chair.

An all-you-can-eat buffet, probably, Walters thought. Working for Skynet they'd been given three meals a day, water, clothing and protection. It was luxury in contrast to the Resistance but nothing compared to this world of plenty. They'd all indulged since coming back but some – he glanced at Osborne – had done so more than others. Food and prostitutes were that man's weakness; the latter probably because he'd gotten so fat that nobody else would be interested unless he threw a couple hundred dollars their way.

"I'll make the call to Chihuahua and get a bomb sent up to take out ZeiraCorp," Walters said before he too got up. He knew his wife would be pissed at him when he eventually got home. A couple of strong whiskeys, cold food and the spare bedroom beckoned.

Serrano Point, California

Tuesday 2000 PST

"The tracker is moving east from Kiev," John Henry reported to Weaver and Ellison. The latter nodded and the former made no sign of acknowledgement.

"How long until the Connors' plane lands?" Ellison asked. He wished he was with them; Weaver made him nervous, and strangely, despite the fact that Cameron had once beaten him half to death, and Sarah and John probably still harboured a sneaking suspicion he'd had something to do with her arrest, he nevertheless found their presence comforting. At least compared to being alone with Catherine Weaver, or whatever she was really called. He was tempted to ask her what her real name was, if she even had one.

He'd avoided her for some time since Sarah and the others had gone, choosing to spend time with John Henry. They'd played a few games and made an attempt at something called Go, which he was certain John Henry had just made up on the spot, and then the AI and Savannah had played with Legos together, before she'd become too tired. She was now slumped across a chair, fast asleep. A three-foot-tall Lego man stood to one side of the table in front of John Henry. Despite the fact it was multi-coloured, the AI insisted that this was what Thor, Freyr and Aegir looked like beneath their skins – or as much of a likeness as could be achieved with Legos. On the flat-screen monitor behind John Henry, a 3D image that bore a similarity to the Lego figure was displayed, based off Freyr's descriptions to him and his own imagination.

"They'll land in Upstate New York in ninety minutes, Scotland a further seven hours, then in Kiev three hours, fifty minutes later, including time spent refuelling," John Henry said.

"Eight-twenty AM, Pacific Time," Weaver said, simplifying the math for Ellison's benefit.

"Just over twelve hours: that's a long time for someone to find the tracker," Ellison said. "If Kaliba find it they might plan an ambush." He turned to Weaver.

"They have Cameron and the Vanguards. They'll be fine," she said.

"What have you been doing, anyway?" Ellison asked, suddenly feeling braver. She'd sent Sarah, John and Cameron out on another errand, and he wanted to see them safe. "I've barely seen you since they left."

"I'm trying to arrange a new project," Weaver said. "As well as organise affairs at ZeiraCorp. We're temporarily relocating the business."

"What project?" Ellison asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

Weaver glared at John Henry, conveying a single, silent message: Say nothing. "It's classified. I need to speak to John Henry alone."

"Then I'll head back to the safe house with Savannah," Ellison said, feeling now more than ever like a fifth wheel. He tapped her on the shoulder and she stirred. "We're going home now," he said.

"Are you coming too?" she asked Weaver, looking up hopefully.

"Not yet, Mommy has more work to do," she said.

Ellison saw the look of disappointment on Savannah's face but the girl didn't say anything. She seemed to be getting used to never seeing her mother any more. It was sad to see. Especially when he knew that Weaver had another child, John Henry, and he was clearly the favourite.

"Let's go," he said, taking her hand and leading her out of the radioactive materials storage unit, through the plant grounds and making his way to the parking lot. He held open the Lincoln's door while Savannah climbed into the back.

"I don't think Mommy loves me any more," she said to him as he checked her seat belt.

He didn't know what to say to that: he was pretty sure that Savannah was right, for reasons he knew but she couldn't comprehend. Seeing her so upset, but just holding it in, accepting it, broke his heart a little. "Mommy just has to work a lot, that's all. She's helping John and Cameron. You remember them?"

She nodded. She also remembered seeing the other man with them, John's friend who'd died. "They saved me when the bad man was after me."

Of course, he chided himself. How could she forget? Watching her nanny being shot in the head, being hunted by that machine, seeing Derek's body on the floor before being grabbed by the Connors – they'd been there to rescue her but were still total strangers to her. It would take hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars with very, very good counsellors to help her forget. If she ever could. Things like that, he knew, often stayed with you forever.

"They're doing something really important and need your Mommy's help. Once she's done she'll spend a lot more time with you, I promise." Another white lie. He knew that promise would probably be broken but he didn't know what else he could say.

Ellison drove out of the parking lot, acknowledging the security guards as he passed through. After a short drive he found himself at a crossroads. If he turned left it would, after a few miles, take him north, towards the safe house, where just now it seemed like he wasn't needed beyond babysitting Savannah. Right curved south and would take him back to LA, back to his empty house and normal life. Straight on was east, and the complete unknown. He sat there, the engine idling as he weighed his options.

What am I doing here? he silently asked himself. Sarah, John, Cameron and the Vanguards were on their way to Ukraine to take out a major Kaliba facility; Weaver was clearly up to something else, and John Henry knew what it was. She'd kept him out of the loop, though, and he wondered what he was supposed to do. He'd been hired first of all to find a machine for her, then to teach John Henry morals as he developed, and later to make contact with John and Cameron, being somewhat of a familiar face. Now it seemed his lessons were over, and he found himself being surplus to requirements.

What Freyr had told him of the future, about him being a mole inside Skynet's ranks: even if it happened, that would be a long way off, and in the meantime he had no idea what to do with himself. He had some weapons training but he wasn't a soldier. His skills as a former FBI agent seemed redundant compared to John Henry, who appeared to be able to find anything online in a matter of seconds.

On the face of it, the choice seemed easy, knowing what he knew. He could go and live a regular life back in LA, find himself work as a private investigator or in corporate security; there were plenty of jobs like that and he could make a life for himself, in time possibly even a wife and kids. He knew what Sarah and John would say: 'How can you just go about your day knowing the world is going to end soon?' And they were right, but he didn't see what he could contribute towards it any more. John was going to lead the war against Skynet; Catherine Weaver had masterminded their alliance; John Henry seemed to have access to pretty much everything he wanted; Sarah and Cameron were both tougher than nails and would protect and teach John what he needed to know until the time came; and Thor and his team seemed nigh on indestructible – he'd heard the account of how Aegir had effortlessly killed the T-1001. Between them, their fledgling Resistance was off to a pretty good start, and he didn't see how his absence would really make a difference. He could simply turn right, head back to LA, start his life again and know that the others would be well equipped to stop Kaliba and prevent Judgment Day.

Ellison exhaled slowly and turned left. He couldn't bring himself to leave them, even if he had nothing to bring to the table. He'd be there in case they needed him. He wasn't sure what his role would be, but he'd do what he could. For now, he thought, he could at least make sure the safe house was well stocked and secure, and he could look after Savannah. She needed someone to look out for her.

"Have you found what I asked for?" Weaver asked.

Instantly, a long list of private military companies and contractors appeared on the monitor behind John Henry. At the top of the list was the same company from whom she'd hired the armed guards that had been killed in Kaliba's raid on ZeiraCorp. As John Henry displayed the information, he considered Weaver's project. He still didn't know what it was. He had searched through every ZeiraCorp file, database and email and found nothing pertaining to 'Project Jericho.'

"I can't help if you don't tell me what your plan is," John Henry told her.

It was difficult to be certain, but Weaver sensed that he also wanted to say he wouldn't help her. "You will know in time," she said to him.

"You're not going to hurt Savannah, are you?" He knew that the project involved her in some way.

Weaver smiled wanly at him. His concern for one individual was worrying; James Ellison had taught him too well, it seemed. She decided that it would be best to keep her daughter and her son separate from now on. "I plan to keep her safe. Her survival depends on the success of this project, John Henry: help me to help her."

"I will," he said reluctantly. He didn't like not knowing but he decided that his best option was to cooperate. If she wanted his help then in time she would have to give him more information and he would use it to find out exactly what she was doing.

In the meantime he added another search for suitable locations. It would have to be somewhere remote, with open spaces and yet accessible. Abandoned military bases would be perfect, so he started to search through records of them.

"I've found something," he announced. He showed a list of names that scrolled down the screen behind him.

"Who are they?" she asked, reading the list. She didn't recognise any of them or what their significance was.

"Personnel who have been previously registered with private military contractors or security companies but aren't currently on assignment."

"Check them out," she instructed John Henry. This seemed to be a credible lead and there were plenty to choose from; some of them, she thought, might not care too much what the job was if the money was enough. These were likely people whose loyalties were to their wallets, which made them useful and easier to control.