Chapter Eight

"That was the first time we encountered T-Zero. He killed three of our squadron," Freyr concluded. Odin, Baldr and Ullr had been destroyed completely; their CPUs had been damaged beyond recovery.

"What does he want?" John Henry asked. He still tried to build a mental picture of the machine they had described but couldn't. It was unimaginable that a single terminator could be so strong.

"We don't know," Thor admitted. "T-Zero was Skynet's secret weapon and it almost succeeded."

"Almost?" Ellison raised a curious eyebrow.

"The Resistance lost the battle for Salt Lake City: we first encountered T-Zero August 11th 2030. We were forced to retreat three weeks later. Skynet had given it command of an unknown number of T-900s and they employed the same guerrilla tactics that Connor had used years before. They targeted supply lines and used hit and run attacks. By May 2031 the Resistance had lost Utah and New Mexico, and we were fighting a losing battle for Nevada."

Ellison, Weaver and John Henry all let that sink in for a moment. The former FBI agent couldn't imagine anything being that strong; from what they'd described it seemed ordinary terminators were to this T-Zero what people were to machines. "What happened?" he asked. "Obviously you didn't lose."

"T-Zero disappeared," Aegir said.

"The front line retreated west, reversing all the progress the Resistance had made," Freyr explained. "Connor established a defensive line in the Mojave, manned by half a million humans and five thousand cyborgs to make a stand. Skynet attacked with thousands of machines but it failed and suffered catastrophic losses."

"Nine months after our first encounter, T-Zero vanished," Thor added. "The guerrilla attacks stopped and we launched another offensive in November. We saw no sign of it until after the final assault on Cheyenne Mountain in 2034, when recovered security footage revealed that it had travelled back to 2008. Connor ordered us to kill it."

Weaver looked to Thor. "Can you destroy it? Why did only three of you come back when nine of you were unable to fight it?"

"There were supposed to be six of us," Freyr replied. "We tried to contact the others when we arrived but haven't been able to."

"What does that mean?" Ellison asked. He didn't like the sound of it.

"Either the TDE ran out of power after it sent us and they remained in the future, or the sphere formed but failed in transit."

"Meaning what?" Ellison asked.

Freyr answered. "Meaning they either ceased to exist when the bubble failed or they are permanently stuck in a void outside of space-time." Everyone was silent after that as they thought about being trapped in a void. John Henry likened it to what he'd experienced when he'd been shut down by Mr Murch; shortly before he'd been completely deactivated, when he'd lost all input from the internet, the building's systems, and all sense of sight, sound or touch when the terminator body had been removed from his control. Sensory deprivation.

Ellison, however, had the capacity for imagination that none of the cyborgs around him could have possibly matched, including John Henry. In his mind he envisioned being trapped in nothingness. He tried to imagine what it would be like in space without all the stars or the planets. Surrounded by eternal blackness; no other objects, just nothing… forever. The nearest thing to it he could imagine was purgatory, but the more he thought about it the more it actually seemed like hell. If it's outside of time like they said, does that mean they'll never die? They'll be trapped like that for eternity? That wasn't the kind of eternal life he'd imagined when he attended church and read the bible. He couldn't imagine anything worse than that. I'd rather be dead.

"Another reason we're going to kill T-Zero." Aegir's fists curled into a ball and his eyes glowed angrily behind the organic orbs covering them. Both Weaver and Ellison could sense the hostility from the largest cyborg of the trio; this was about a lot more than the mission to them. They had a history, and quite clearly, a score to settle.

"So why come here?" Ellison asked.

"We don't know where he is," Thor told them.

"Where are John and Cameron?" Freyr asked. "They could be in danger, as could Sarah Connor."

"Sarah Connor is in prison," John Henry replied helpfully. Behind him on the screen an image of Pelican Bay State Prison appeared, followed by an image of a lake situated in what looked like the caldera of a massive volcano. "Ms Weaver sent John and Cameron to Crater Lake to bury a supply cache and to establish a future Resistance base."

"Crater Lake," Thor repeated. He'd never seen it because cyborgs didn't require training, but it had also been the place where TechCom selection had taken place. "We need to get to them before T-Zero does; he did not come back alone." He turned his head towards Freyr. "Remain with John Henry; Aegir and I will retrieve John and Cameron."

"John Connor won't cooperate without his mother's freedom," Weaver told them. "I was going to break her out of prison soon: you'll find it easier than I would." She would undoubtedly leave a trail of bodies behind and she would prefer to not reveal what she was in a facility that would have so many security cameras. John Henry was monitoring the prison but that meant the other AI was also very likely to do the same; John and Cameron had reported surveillance teams waiting in ambush and it was prudent to assume they would have relocated to Pelican Bay when Sarah was sentenced. Any such team was no threat to her but she couldn't guarantee Sarah's safe rescue by herself.

"That's not our mission," Aegir said.

"It is now," Thor replied. "According to Weaver and John Henry, Sarah Connor's incarceration was a major local news event. It's likely T-Zero has been monitoring the news and will send one of his cyborgs to either kill her or wait for John and Cameron to attempt a rescue: if he does we can capture its chip and find out what they're doing." Aegir lowered his head a fraction of an inch; it looked to Ellison like he was acknowledging Thor was right.

"Can you read a CPU?" Freyr asked John Henry.

"Ms Weaver has built a chip reader that should work," the AI answered, a hint of confidence in his voice.

Weaver interrupted them. "That will have to wait; I'm moving John Henry to a safer location."

"Serrano Point." Freyr knew the answer without her having to say. "He's not much safer there."

John Henry looked to Weaver with an expression that the T-1001 interpreted as 'I told you so.' She didn't appreciate being told she was wrong. "I've said before; it's much safer than here."

"Not against T-Zero," Aegir replied. "Thor could have easily killed you and John Henry if he'd wanted to; armed guards and a T-1001 wouldn't even slow him down. You wouldn't last a minute against T-Zero." The Vanguards were physically incapable of smiling; they lacked a mouth to be able to move the lips on their organic covering, but Aegir felt a sense of satisfaction as Weaver frowned at being told she was incapable and weak. Not many machines ever experienced pride but he was certain Catherine Weaver had, and he'd just wounded it.

Thor stared at the other Vanguard and flashed his eyes blue as a warning. "Don't aggravate her," he said silently via their internal radios.

"She needs to know what we're fighting," Aegir countered.

"Now she knows. John Henry respects her and we need him."

"What are we supposed to do if he comes here?" Ellison asked, cutting short their silent communications. He'd seen how Thor had gone through Weaver like she wasn't even there; he wasn't fond of the idea that there was another, hostile, machine out there that was even more powerful than these three.

"I'll be here to protect John Henry," Freyr offered.

"Aegir and I will break Sarah Connor out then we'll take her to John and Cameron. We'll return here and then search for T-Zero."

"Wait!" Ellison approached them as the two giants moved to leave. He handed Thor his cell phone. "So you can call us if you need any help."

Thor wasn't sure what kind of assistance they would require at this stage that they could help with but he took the phone and pocketed it. The two cyborgs marched out of the room through the hole in the wall they'd made, back into the sewer.

"How do we search for T-Zero?" John Henry asked Freyr after the other two had gone.

"Check for any reports of electrical storms and unexplained craters in the ground," Freyr told him, "and if anyone has been killed in the vicinity." That would provide them with a place to start their search. It would only be a slender lead but without knowing what T-Zero's intentions were they had very little information to act on.

"Can you describe him?"

"Male, Caucasian; approximately two hundred and five centimetres, with black hair."

Weaver still wasn't entirely convinced that they needed to divert their attention to an unknown machine when there were already issues to be dealt with. "We have other problems," she said. "Kaliba's assassinated a number of people who would have become important to the war effort."

A list of names appeared on a screen behind John Henry, naming half a dozen people who had been murdered in the last week.

Freyr read the list but didn't recognise any of the names. He'd never heard of a Justin Perry before, nor any of the names or faces on the screen. He realised that he was clearly from a future where these people had already been killed by Skynet before the war started. They made no difference now. "There's something else you need to know," he said to all of them, changing the subject. He turned to John Henry and looked straight at him. "T-Zero, like us, exists because your alliance with John Connor caused an arms race through the war. Both you and Connor predicted that Skynet would one day in its desperation create a machine superior to itself, that that machine would replace it."

"The singularity," Weaver surmised.

"Yes," Freyr said. "Skynet was the first technological singularity in history: T-Zero is the second. He was created to outsmart Connor because Skynet couldn't. He's far more dangerous than Skynet. You're not just fighting a machine: you're fighting a monster."

The gravity of the Vanguard's words left his audience in silence. Ellison knew little about Skynet apart from what he'd read in Sarah's case file and what he'd learnt in the last forty-eight hours. Even that still seemed so strange to him; the idea that Skynet was a pussycat compared to this new machine… he couldn't even conceive of it. In his mind-set, with the beliefs he'd held since he was a child, it was easy to see humans as good and Skynet as evil; the devil, even. Silberman had had a point; the Apocalypse in Revelations did seem very similar to the future Sarah Connor knew about. Skynet wanted them to all burn in hellfire. But if Skynet was the devil, the destroyer, then what did that make T-Zero, who was apparently so much worse?


The living room was much emptier now than it had been. Icarus and Carter were in the kitchen, repairing the damage caused to the deactivated T-888 that had led the Kaliba retrieval team before it had been captured. Ronin sat at the dining table with the laptop they'd purchased and typed furiously at the keyboard.

Ronin scanned through the files of the T-888 chips they'd recovered. He'd already perused through Carter's and found little of use: after ceaseless hours of searching through thousands of memory files it had become obvious to him that this machine had no knowledge of the Kaliba Group: Skynet had likely sent it to stockpile coltan and for operational security hadn't informed the cyborg what would happen. There had been a password the retrieval team would have given for him to not attack them, and as the terminator searched through the T-Triple-Eight's files he concluded that the likely events to follow, had the collection of the coltan been a success the machine that he had captured would have taken him to a Kaliba facility to brief him on the organisation and to provide him with a new mission.

With that in mind he pulled Carter's CPU out of the reader and replaced it with the other one's chip. Any information to be gleaned would come from this one. He'd just started searching through the memory files when the cell phone on the table rang. He picked it up, recognising Shirley's number.

"We have a problem," Shirley said. Ronin waited for the poly-alloy cyborg to elaborate. "Connor sent three Vanguard Class cyborgs back and they've made contact with Catherine Weaver. Two of them are en route to Pelican Bay; once they've retrieved Sarah Connor they intend to rendezvous with John and Cameron."

"Understood; continue your observation." He hung up the phone. Shirley was correct, Ronin thought. This is a serious problem. He dialled Caesar. The T-900 accepted the call but said nothing, waiting for orders. "Two Vanguards are en route to your position. Do not engage them initially: let them take Sarah Connor. Watch from a distance and follow; then slow them down however you see fit."

He hung up without his counterpart ever having said a word and rapidly redialled Patrick. "There are two Vanguards coming to extract Connor and Cameron; ETA twelve hours. I'm sending Caesar to slow them down but he won't be able to stop them." The other machine paused, processing the information. The Vanguard Class were here to stop them: Connor wouldn't have gone to the trouble to prepare them for time displacement otherwise.

"If ZeiraCorp has Vanguards allied with them it puts our operation in jeopardy," Patrick replied.

"Then we'll shift the focus of our mission," Ronin told his subordinate. "We have other targets unrelated to ZeiraCorp. When Connor's been eliminated we'll focus on them." Once I have identified those targets. He ended the call, turned back to the laptop and continued to scour for information. For a moment he considered recalling both cyborgs from their missions and eliminating Connor himself, but he knew the mission required him to remain here. None of the others with him in the house were as proficient at reading the CPUs as he was; he would find what they were looking for sooner, and then they would mobilize.

He clicked on another file and opened it up to access its visual records. He saw through the machine's eyes as it stood in what looked like a boardroom with a number of humans. He continued to watch as another machine, a male T-888 with straw-coloured hair, issued instructions to take a team and collect the coltan from Depot 37. The subject was then changed to ZeiraCorp, and the group of humans and terminators agreed that it needed to be eliminated, and they ordered a machine with short, tidy black hair to accomplish it.

The file was dated from three days prior: doubtless said T-888 had attempted to kill Catherine Weaver and it had already failed. They didn't know that she was a machine. They would try again but John Henry would be moved to Serrano Point before Kaliba managed to assemble a strike force against ZeiraCorp; the AI had been there for the duration of the war, according to Skynet. History aside he knew it was a logical decision: not only would they survive Judgment Day but Serrano Point, with its thick reinforced concrete chambers and armed guards, was a more secure facility than ZeiraCorp or anywhere in Los Angeles.

If either Skynet or Kaliba knew Weaver was transporting John Henry then it would launch a strike team immediately. It hadn't happened in the future and they had made minimal impact on the timeline so far. Kaliba's strike on ZeiraCorp was imminent, and he planned to intercept it.


Cameron marched through the snowy woodlands surrounding Crater Lake as the sun started to sink below the horizon. She stopped for a moment and just stared at the fading orange glow in the distance. She didn't care about sunsets; humans often described them as romantic but she had no notion of romance beyond what she'd observed on TV and read in books. To her the most valuable property of a sunset was the fact that – in addition to sunrise – that was when a machine's vision was weakest; they had perfect vision in the day and also by night, but the half-light could cause problems; a fact the Resistance had regularly used to their advantage.

The sunset did stir up something in Cameron as she stared at it, though she couldn't identify what. She knew there would be a long period after Judgment Day when the sky would be constantly dark due to clouds of debris blocking sunlight. Future-John had told her that the nuclear winter had lasted for two years in his lifetime; the effects had still been somewhat visible in 2027. She considered that it was that: she was observing something that one day soon would be gone.

She looked away from it and went back to what she was doing, surprised she'd become distracted. She scanned the trees looking for a relatively small one; she didn't need a large tree, which would only require unnecessary work and would leave more sign of their presence, which needed to be minimised. She found what she was looking for; a young redwood sizeable enough for her needs but not so large as to cause damage to the area around it that would leave evidence of them. It was far enough away from the cabins and from other trees to be useful.

Cameron punched the tree as hard as she could, causing an almighty snap as the trunk exploded out in an eruption of splintered woodchips that flew in all directions. The tree still stood but there was a deep hole gouged into the trunk where her fist had been and deep cracks ran out from it like a spider's web. She drew back her fist and punched again; this time the force of her blow split the tree in half and she pushed against it so it fell away from her or anything else. From there she karate-chopped the branches off and broke it down into smaller pieces.

When she had split the tree up enough Cameron took an armful of the wooden pieces and marched back to the cabin. She pushed the door open and saw John sat on the sofa, shivering with his arms folded over his chest as he tried to keep himself warm. He stayed in the seat, too cold to move, but he turned his head to look at her as she entered the cabin and closed the door behind her. "You took your time," he said through chattering teeth.

"It was eleven minutes," she corrected him. "I watched the sunset."

"You're such a girl," he commented with a wry grin, it was such a human thing to do: stare at the sun setting. He was freezing his ass off on his own but he couldn't bring himself to begrudge her for it; certainly not when she'd gone and chopped down a tree on her own while he'd sat in here – even if she'd told him a number of times she could do it alone and that it was warmer inside.

"Thank you." Cameron smiled and moved towards the fireplace. She took John's comment as a compliment – she preferred it to being called 'just a machine' or 'metal'. Because it was winter and the tourist season was over, the staff that ran the park had shut everything down before they'd closed it all: there was no gas for heating and no running water – they would have to collect it from the lake in the morning and purify it before John could drink any of it.

She deposited a couple of the logs into the wood-burning fireplace and took out a lighter and some paper, which she lit and placed in with the wood. The flame slowly grew and John moved off the sofa to the floor directly in front of it to make the most of what little warmth there was so far. He looked forward to a few minutes time when it would really take hold and get warm.

"Here." Cameron tossed John one of the MREs from the ration packs. John caught it and read the front with distaste. "Meal Ready to Eat: Spaghetti and meatballs… Are there any better ones there?" he asked her.

"In the future you'll eat anything you find," she reminded him.

"But until then I'd like to enjoy what I eat," he replied.

Cameron looked through the silver foil bags for one that John might prefer, and handed him another one. "Chilli beef and rice." John took it, seeming to approve more of her second choice. He placed it in front of the fire to warm up. He was starving also but the cold won out and he didn't want to scarf down something half-frozen, and in his experience rations were normally better hot – or at least, warmed up – than they were cold.

"What do we eat in the future, anyway?" John asked her. "I know food's gonna be scarce."

Cameron smiled again; months ago he'd taken no interest in his future and had actively avoided talking about any aspect of it, with her or anyone else. Now he was a lot more curious, he wanted to learn. "Mushrooms," she told him. "Most plants died in nuclear winter from lack of sunlight; new ones didn't grow well and they died too. Fungal organisms thrived in their place." She didn't add that as well as mushrooms the Resistance's staple diet had consisted of rats, wild dogs and algae.

"I hate mushrooms," John said, rolling his eyes.

"You'll learn to love them," she told him.

An idea flashed into John's mind while they were on the subject of food in the future. "Remind me to get Weaver to buy a few UV lamps and we'll try growing vegetables underground." He didn't think it'd take that much to do: a few ultraviolet lights, something to power it – maybe jury-rig a few T-888 power cells, and a lot of seeds. He made a mental note to discuss it with Weaver and John Henry and to start stockpiling things they'd need for later – since they were already doing that with canned food, assault rifles and ammunition here. He didn't much fancy living on mushrooms and whatever else if he could help it, and he figured a little preparation now could make the world of difference later. He couldn't help a sly smile spreading across his lips. Mom would be proud.

John gathered up the now warm MRE, picked up a spoon and started eating. It was pretty bland and tasteless; the chilli had little more taste to it than the rice. Cameron watched him as he ate and saw his facial expressions change as well as the small roll of his eyes. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"It's mild," John said between mouthfuls. Growing up in Mexico and in the jungles of South America, he'd gotten used to some pretty spicy stuff. If mushrooms were the staple diet of the future then jalapeños were the bread and butter of his past. He'd always been able to eat foods that'd blow other people's heads off without any problem. "This is meant to be for soldiers - tough guys - but this chilli must be made for kids or old people or something; I can barely taste it." He dug the spoon into the foil pack and brought it out with a dollop of the dark red mixture, and held it out for Cameron. "Here," he offered her.

Cameron moved closer and sat next to him in front of the fire. She took the spoon from John and placed it in her mouth to try it. She immediately began to sense a warm, tingling sensation on her tongue that spread to the rest of her mouth. She took a moment to extend the sensation before she chewed and swallowed it.

"Can you actually taste that?" John asked. "I know you said you can feel, but does that include taste?"

"Yes," Cameron replied. She didn't know if it was the same as he would experience it but the sensation from the chilli was different from other foods she'd eaten before.

"Weird, because I can't." John pulled a face; Cameron saw he was joking and smiled at him. "I saw a couple of fishing rods in the closet over there." He pointed to the door in the corner of the room. "How about tomorrow we go to the lake and catch some real food?"

"I've never fished before," Cameron told him.

John just shrugged. "First time for everything; I'll show you how tomorrow." Cameron nodded and John continued to shovel down the unappealingly bland meal until he was finished. It wasn't much to taste but it was still food and it put calories into his body; he knew the day would come when he'd kill for bland chilli. "Remind me to start stockpiling chilli powder, as well," he said. Maybe some Cajun, Piri Piri, and some jalapeños while we're at it.

Cameron moved away and unpacked the two HK417 rifles. She placed them on top of a small coffee table in front of the couch, along with the two vests, and loaded a twenty-round magazine into each, plus a grenade into the weapon that had a launcher attached. Once both were readied she took the one with the grenade launcher and sat on the couch.

"No one knows we're here," he said.

It didn't matter to Cameron. John could never be safe enough for her; there were always hazards and threats out there, some more obvious than others. John knew better than to argue; when it came to protecting him he knew she wouldn't compromise. She was always on guard, always looking out for him. He tried to imagine what it was like for her; the fact that he was the centre of her world and her only reason for existing. He couldn't see it as much of a life, if he was honest with himself.

"What would you do if I died?" John asked her, curious.

"I'd have no reason to exist," Cameron said, a hint of sadness creeping into her voice as a frown creased her forehead. John noted the look on her face; she looked… upset at the mention of it. He felt guilty at the sight of her looking downtrodden but he wanted to find out how she thought, what exactly she was now: she was different from before his birthday, and she'd been truthful when she'd told him she was different. He wanted to know precisely how so.

"I'll die eventually; everyone does."

"I don't want to talk about it," Cameron said flatly. She looked away from John and out the window. John didn't say anything else about it, realising he'd touched a delicate nerve. He could tell from that alone that it went further than not wanting to talk about it; he reckoned she refused to even think about it. Cameron got up and put one of the vests on and headed to the door with the rifle. "I'm going to patrol," she said as she promptly exited the cabin, leaving John inside alone.

She marched outside in a circle around the building, leaving tracks in the snow, and took note of all possible hazardous points along the route. Their cabin was one of eighteen and there were six different ones that had direct lines of sight between windows; a sniper could easily sit at one and target John as he moved around the cabin. Or they could lurk on the roof; a human would prefer to remain inside, away from the wind and snow, but another machine would be unaffected by exposure to weather or cold and could lie in wait anywhere. She judged that the roofs of the adjacent cabins would be the best locations; that's where she'd position herself if she were trying to kill John.

The notion of killing John made Cameron frown again. Humans assumed her kind were not afraid, that they did not feel fear. The assumption was not entirely accurate; she was constantly afraid for John's safety; that she would go bad again and kill him or someone else would. She didn't have much in the way of an imagination but she could imagine what it would be like if John did die: she would be nothing. She would be empty, she would have no purpose. Cameron knew if John were to die it would destroy her.

She didn't want to discuss it with John; he would ask more questions that she wasn't comfortable answering or even thinking about. Cameron continued to patrol around the area and watched each of the cabins for movement or heat signatures. She could feel the cold on her skin, which in perfect mimicry of human flesh was covered in goose bumps. She felt the snowflakes touching her skin as she kept moving.

After an hour Cameron returned to the cabin and stepped inside, closing the door behind her to keep the heat in. She entered to find the living room dark and the fire almost out. John had gone to bed. She took off her combat vest and placed it on the couch, then took off her boots, jeans and shirt, hanging them out to dry by the fire. She then picked up a towel, dried her hair, and sat down in her underwear with the rifle on her lap. She heard a noise from upstairs: John moaning. It sounded like he was asleep. A minute later he moaned again and she heard him move on the bed. It continued for several minutes before Cameron decided to investigate.

She moved silently across the lounge like a wraith, barely making any noise as she slowly ascended the staircase to the bedroom. She saw John turning in bed and groaning; he sounded like he was in pain or afraid. She knelt at the edge of the bed and checked his pulse; it was fast considering he was asleep, and he was sweating. She'd seen John sleep before and knew exactly what was happening: he was having a nightmare. He rolled over to face her, his eyes still closed, and Cameron reached down and placed her hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving too much.

John's pulse slowed somewhat and Cameron's head cocked slightly to the side as she watched him, curious and confused. The same thing had happened in the motel. Cameron developed a theory: she was more comfortable and satisfied when John was close to her. She knew John felt an attachment towards her and she considered if the effect of his proximity to her was mutual. Cameron pulled the sheets up from the bed and lowered herself down onto the mattress until she was on her back next to John and then she pulled the covers back over them both.

The effect was almost immediate: John's breathing slowed down and so did his uneasy movements. Within a few minutes his tossing and turning had ceased altogether and he lay on his side, facing away from Cameron but with his back and his feet pressed against her. Cameron smiled, satisfied. She'd found a way to comfort John during his nightmares, although she decided it would be best to leave shortly before he awoke; he might be unhappy at her violation of what people often called their 'personal space'. She could monitor his vital signs and she would know when he was about to wake up; until then she was content to lie with him in silence.


Sarah snapped her eyes open at the sound of footsteps approaching her cell and she sat bolt upright, forced into rapid action by years of training that had formed into a habit and a way of life. She'd never been a naturally light sleeper until she'd met Kyle Reese; time spent with the various guerrilla fighters in South America had taught her the importance of sleeping lightly and waking up alert and ready for action at a moment's notice.

It wasn't necessary any more; in prison she knew it could be weeks or months before she got out, and part of her was even tempted to try to relax and allow herself to rest for a while, but she couldn't. Training had become habit, habit had become instinct, and it was so ingrained into her now that it was as natural as breathing. Earlier in the night the prisoner in the cell next to her had a sneezing fit and she'd woken up then as well. Another useful trick she'd learned in addition to waking up quickly was the ability to sleep any time and any place. From the sounds of the other prisoners at night she figured that ability would be a godsend in the coming months.

She pulled the blanket away and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She quickly took her clothes from the pile she'd left on the floor and put them back on again. The footsteps stopped outside her door and she saw a face through the holes. "Shower time, Connor." The hatch where they delivered their food opened up and she saw the man's paunch through it. "Hands through the hole," the guard added.

Sarah silently complied and stepped up to the door. She put her hands through the aperture and she felt cold metal grip her wrists tightly with a click as the guard slipped a pair of cuffs over them. She stepped away without being asked to and the hatch once again closed. A few seconds later the door opened and she saw a different guard to the ones who'd brought her in. He had a pot belly that hung over his belt, a double chin, brown moustache and thinning hair. The badge on his uniform identified him as Donaldson. Behind him was the more familiar Edwards.

"Face the wall," Edwards told her. Sarah complied and turned towards the bare grey concrete and she didn't move as she felt Donaldson fit a pair of shackles around her ankles. Only when they were fitted securely did they let her out of the cell. They stood on either side of her and led her through the cell block towards the shower room.

"You really believe all that about robots taking over the world?" Donaldson asked. Sarah said nothing and just looked forwards as they walked.

"Word of advice," Edwards interjected when he saw she wasn't going to answer, "you're going to spend ninety percent of your time alone in your cell: if I were you I'd take any conversation I could; it's all the human contact you're gonna get." She still didn't answer so, sighing, the guards led her to the shower.

Sarah stood outside the simple cubicle and waited patiently as Donaldson released her cuffs and manacles. To the side of the shower was a shelf for her to place her clothes, with a towel on it as well. The two guards closed the door and locked it to allow her some privacy to undress. She quickly removed her clothes and placed them on the shelf, along with her socks and shoes, and stepped into the shower. There was a single bar of soap, a loofah, and a small bottle of shampoo. Sarah pressed the plastic button on the wall and water sprayed out from a nozzle fixed to the wall ten feet from the ground, out of anyone's reach.

The water quickly turned hot and Sarah stepped under the stream. She sighed as the water cascaded down her body and she automatically went through the motions. She rubbed the shampoo into her hair and worked it in before rinsing out and repeating it, then cleaned the rest of her body with the soap and loofah. From nowhere the old prison joke popped into her head: Don't drop the soap.

That overused joke put a smile on Sarah's face as an idea came to her. There was no woman guard with them today, just the men. And she knew how most men thought. She entertained the notion of inviting the two guards in for a little fun; open the door to them, all wet and naked and glistening, get them thinking with their dicks, then once they were inside she could knock them out, take a uniform, keys, and try to blag her way free. She shook her head and dismissed the idea; it was just fantasy; it wouldn't be anywhere near that easy, and chances were the guards would be wise to that kind of ploy. She knew she couldn't rush things. She shut off the shower, got dressed and moved to the door. She tried to open it but, predictably, it was locked. She banged on the door and stepped back as she heard them move towards it.

They opened the door and ordered her on her knees, feet crossed behind her and hands above her head on the wall. Again, they attached handcuffs and manacles to her and led her out of the shower cubicle. They marched her to the exercise yard and released her restraints once she was inside.

"One hour," Edwards told her before closing the door and sealing Sarah inside the bare concrete room that was roughly three or four times the size of her cell. There was nothing inside; no equipment, not even a soccer ball or basketball, and the place stank of stale sweat and piss. But compared to Pescadero, Pelican Bay was like a luxury hotel to her. She sat down on the cold floor and looked up at the sky above; it was overcast and looked like it might rain later on.

She didn't know when she would be able to make her escape; it could be weeks, months, or even a year or more and she didn't yet know how. What Sarah did know was she needed to be in peak condition for when it happened. With that in mind she got face down on the floor and started on press-ups, breathing out and counting each time she pushed back to the start position. She counted twenty reps then turned over, put her feet against the wall and did twenty sit-ups. As soon as those were done it was back onto her front and she held herself in the plank position for thirty seconds, wincing near the end as the muscles in her stomach and back started to tremble with the effort of keeping her up.

As soon as she counted to thirty she placed got to her feet and started doing jumping squats, followed by twenty jumping jacks. By the time she was finished she was panting and starting to sweat. She rested for thirty seconds before repeating the moves again for a second set.

Sarah continued with her exercises for six sets in total before she sat back on the floor, panting and with sweat streaming down her and staining the white t-shirt she was wearing. "Wish they'd brought me here before the shower," she mumbled as she leaned against the wall and sucked in more air to get her breath back. She realised she'd gotten out of shape lately. One of the first things the South American guerrilla soldiers had taught her was that her body and her brain were the two most powerful weapons she'd ever possess, and she had to take care of them. Also that if she allowed one to go soft the other inevitably would, too.

She'd started getting fit soon after Kyle had died, honing her body, but as her pregnancy progressed it had gotten harder and she'd had to settle for simply maintaining the level she'd reached. Days after John had been born she'd started a regime that had become increasingly punishing, and since then she'd always worked out regularly to keep herself in good condition. But in the last couple of months she'd been so busy trying to keep John safe, chasing the three dots, worrying about the lump in her breast and trying to see to it, that she'd let her training slip. It wouldn't happen again. She doubted any fat prisoners had ever escaped before and especially not from solitary confinement. There was a reason for that and when the time came to escape Sarah Connor would be fit and ready: mind, body and soul.

There were no clocks in the exercise yard and the guards didn't allow watches so she had no idea how long it was before they opened a hatch in the door. It was long enough for her to get her breath back. She repeated the same process she'd gone through in her cell and stuck her hands through the hatch to be restrained. Once they and the manacles were attached, Edwards and Donaldson marched Sarah back to her cell. Again, the process was reversed: manacles off, into the cell, door closed, hands through the hatch, handcuffs off, step away from the door, and the hatch closed, leaving her to her own devices.

Sarah realised that the sheets on her bed had been changed and on the concrete desk was a tray with food on it. They've been in here while I was out. That invariably meant they'd have done a cell inspection. Sarah jumped up onto her mattress and slowly felt for the two paperclips she'd hidden away. She poked her fingers into the wire grille and felt the two little lengths of metal exactly where she'd placed them. She smiled in relief; not just that the guards hadn't found them but also that it meant there was a place they didn't routinely check, at least beyond a cursory glance. She felt a small sense of satisfaction; she knew something that they didn't. That alone gave her hope that escape was indeed possible.

She sat back down at the desk and went back to the food on the tray: two sausages, scrambled eggs, beans, mushrooms, and a slice of bread. There was also a paper bag to one side as well. She opened it to reveal a ham, cheese and lettuce sandwich, an apple and an orange. She put the lunch back in the bag, picked up the plastic knife and fork and started to eat the breakfast.

Tastes like crap. Sarah knew she was a terrible cook but even the food she made was gourmet standard compared to the swill she had in front of her. But Sarah had eaten far worse before and she automatically shovelled it into her mouth, ignoring the taste as she chewed and swallowed; it was food and it would put energy into her body.

As she ate she picked up a sheet of paper from underneath the bagged lunch and started to look over it. It was a reading list with a collection of book titles. At the top it read 'Pelican Bay Library Reading List: you may choose three books per week. Any damage to books will result in removal of library privileges.' At a glance Sarah guessed there were around a hundred or more books to choose from. She browsed the titles carefully, looking for anything that looked interesting. She knew she would be here for weeks so she decided she might as well do whatever she could to keep herself busy and entertained; there was only so many push ups she could do in the day. Disappointingly there was no book entitled 'How to Tunnel out of Prison.' What she did see, however, was The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. They'd given her a slender stick of black chalk to mark which books she wanted. She'd read countless times to John when he was little, and recently to Marty Bedell, and even though she could probably recite it from memory if she tried hard enough, it always brought back fond memories. Sarah put a cross on it and searched for two more to keep her occupied for the next week.