Metal Guru

Greetings from snowbound England. I think it's time we sacrificed Gordon Brown to appease the Weather Gods. Or maybe just for the fun of it.

RESISTANCE TUNNELS

LA, 2028.

The prejudices of the past were back. With a vengeance. Perhaps they'd never gone away.

"You lousy faggot! What have we told you about coming down here?"

It was a rhetorical question Erik didn't bother answering. He lay on the dank tunnel floor with his legs held up protectively against his chest, arms cradling his head.

"This is what faggots deserve!"

The kicks rained in, hard, fast and furious. They were designed to maim. His arms and legs absorbed most of them. He'd be covered in bruises but they'd heal. If they cracked his skull...that was a whole other ballgame. One that ended very badly.

"Your sort's worse than metal!"

Mitchell. The chief tormentor. A sadistic brute from Alabama, blown in on a particularly ill wind. And his thuggish cohorts the McCandliss brothers, fellow knuckle draggers from below the Mason-Dixon line.

It had been a mistake to venture this deep in the tunnels, where these bigots dwelt. But earlier that day he'd seen a boy and thought he'd detected...what exactly? Affinity. The sharing of the briefest of glances. Enough to entice him down. A mistake, Erik saw that now. But he was still callow in these matters. And the heart wants what the heart wants. And it got so damn lonely in the tunnels for people like him.

"Hey! What d'you think you're doing? Get away from him!"

The kicks ceased but Erik knew better than to try and get to his feet prematurely. He didn't recognise the voice and wondered who was brave or foolish enough to intervene on his behalf.

"What d'you want, Connor?"

"I want to quit what you're doing for starters."

"This ain't your business."

"Maybe I'm making it my business."

Connor. The new boy. No kinship there. Erik had seen the way Connor looked at Alison Young. Too bad. Cute.

John picked up a rusty iron bar that looked like it had fallen off the tunnel wall sometime in the last decade. He slammed it hard into the ground mostly to get the three men's attention but also to check if it was robust enough to serve as a weapon should things turn ugly. Rust flaked off but it held and felt reassuringly solid in his hands.

"Back off now. I mean it."

"Son, you are staring at a whole world of hurt."

John swung the iron bar. Mitchell managed to duck his large head at the last possible moment. His expression was one of shocked disbelief.

"Jesus, boy, you dang near took ma head off!"

"Three to one. I figure this evens the odds a little."

Mitchell and the McCandless boys took a step back from Erik's prone body. It was clear they hadn't expected much in the way of opposition. It confused them and they were easily confused at the best of times.

"Okay, son, the faggot's all yours. We'll leave you boys to yer unnatural pre-verted practices."

Pre-verted? Pre? God, they were stupid.

They departed down the tunnel, belligerent to the last, shouting dire threats before vanishing in the warren of interconnected corridors. John dropped the bar and held out his hand.

"They've gone. You want a medic? They kicked you pretty hard. Get your ribs checked out."

Erik ignored the outstretched hand and climbed gingerly to his feet.

"I'm fine," he said and limped off down the tunnel without a backward glance.

John watched with astonishment. "You're welcome by the way!" he yelled. Ungrateful SOB.

He took several deep breaths, allowing the adrenalin in his system to slowly disipate. Scenes of this type were becoming common in the tunnels; discipline was breaking down, morale was low. Petty, drunken fights broke out on a daily basis. And matters were getting worse.

Back in the LA safehouse in 2008, John remembered watching a movie on late night TV while Cameron was on patrol and his mother upstairs asleep. He hadn't been able to sleep; it was not long after Riley Dawson had been murdered and peace was hard to find. So he'd crashed out on the sofa and watched whatever took his fancy. The movie was foreign language, German, punctuated by subtitles and entitled Downfall. It was about Hitler's last days in the Berlin bunker as the Nazi regime finally faced up to the prospect of imminent defeat at the hands of the Allies. Teutonic discipline giving way to decadence, dispair and plain old self-interest.

And it's happening here.

Not that the Resistance were Nazis, but the similarities were brutal. Derek Reese, the commander, wasn't popular. Reese had been in charge of Serrano Point when it fell to Skynet's superior forces and had expended huge amounts of resources in trying to recapture it. Hundreds had died in the two ultimately futile attempts. A third assault was being planned and mutiny was in the air.

John didn't blame Derek Reese entirely, but this was a different Derek, one who had never lost his brother Kyle, who had never served under the adult John Connor. He was making mistakes, believing Serrano Point was strategically more important than it was, disregarding the misgivings of the men under his command.

But that's not the whole of it, is it?

No. He had to shoulder some of the blame, perhaps even the lion's share. Accompanying Weaver forward in time had been a massive mistake, he could see that now. John hadn't seen Weaver since that day months ago. The whereabouts of John-Henry as much a mystery now as it was then. He'd accomplished absolutely nothing except possibly one thing.

I've cost mankind the war.

Whatever difference Future John had made it was plain he, teenage John, couldn't hope to emulate. Who was going to listen to a 17 year old boy? He had no authority, no experience. no influence. The maturity that came with time was palpably absent.

John had rarely felt so alone, so isolated. Cameron was in her hidey-hole deep in the tunnels, almost certainly planning something that didn't involve him and that she was unwilling to share. Mom was loved up in a way he'd never seen her, not even in the early days with Charlie Dixon. Kyle had supplanted John in her affections and despite the fact that it was his own father it felt, he hated himself for thinking, like a betrayal.

And it's all my fault.

Suddenly in need of some air, some space around him instead of the dark claustrophobic feel of the tunnels, he grabbed an M-16 rifle from the armoury and headed for the nearest exit taking him outside.


John emerged into the wasteland of LA and was surprised to find he knew this area from before Jay Day. In fact, from his perspective just a few months had passed since then. He recognized the corner cafe where he and his mom and Cameron had sat, mom and Cameron both sitting at the outside tables facing the street alert to any possible danger that threatened him, both utterly oblivious to the admiring glances men gave them as they strolled by. Mom always ordered the same thing he recalled: a wholemeal bagel and strong coffee, hold the cream hold the sugar.

The days and the times...

Alongside the cafe was a video games arcade that stocked old style consoles with retro games such as Asteroids, Donkey Kong and even an ancient Space Invaders from the prehistoric era before Playstation. Yeah, that was a cool place to hang; a real home from home. He'd normally cadge a dollar or three from his mom and play for ages, Cameron standing protectively at his side while he racked up the points on the elderly museum piece consoles.

In the here and now the video arcade was a blackened shell, a victim of fire at some point in the past decades. But John could still see the shapes of the consoles just inside the doorway, like ghosts at a wake.

A few doors along was a video rental shop. It had escaped fire damage by the simple expedient of having its protective steel shutters rolled down. The door was slightly ajar and John walked over for a closer inspection.

The aisle and wall shelves were empty, showing a dusty greyish white in the gloom. Looters? No. Wriiten in painted white letters on the rear wall was:

CLOSING DOWN SALE!!! ALL TITLES $1 OR LESS!!!

A successful sale it appeared.

John wandered behind the counter and prodded random buttons on the register. Nothing happened. No tray slid out obligingly. No electricity in 20 odd years.

And what would I do with money anyway?

On the shelves under the counter were three magazines, showbiz trade papers. On one the yellowing banner headline read:

IRON MAN 3 BREAKS BOX OFFICE RECORDS

The illustrating picture was a man in a red and blue metal suit giving a thumbs up.

"Metal as heroes?" John mused aloud. "What the hell were we thinking?"

The other trade paper carried the exclusive story:

FIREFLY RETURNS

Writer and director, Joss Whedon, confirmed FOX TV is ordering a belated second season of the cult sci fi show, Firefly, scheduled for Fall 2013. Whedon told Variety, "It'll be bigger and better than before. All the original cast are reprising their roles. I aways believed I wasn't done telling this can't stop the signal!"

The third magazine was a celebrity gossip rag that John remembered as popular back then. There was always a certain amount of schadenfreude to be had reading about some celebrity's life spiraling out of control. This one had a photo of a young and pretty brunette, obviously wasted, tumbling out of a black limo. The caption was:

IS MILEY DOING A LINDSEY?

Doing a Lindsey? What did that mean? Presumably falling drunk out of limos. Only in Hollywood...

"Help me! Someone please help me!"

John let the old magazines fall to floor. That was a girl's voice coming from outside. He rushed to the doorway.

"Help! Please!"

There, running along the center of the street. A girl dressed in shabby clothes with matted dirty hair. And behind her closing the gap fast---

"Terminator!"

John moved rapidly to intercept, taking the M-16 off his shoulders and leveling it ready to fire once he got in range.

The girl spotted him and angled her run towards him, her face still mostly obscured by her long and greasy hair. Once she was safely behind he opened fire. The M-16 didn't have armor piercing rounds so there was little or no chance of a killshot, but it was enough to disuade the terminator from pursuing the girl.

It pursued him instead.

"You're an ugly brute, aren't you," John taunted. It was a T-888, crude and dumb but as deadly as any of the more advanced models if it caught.

No reply. It just kept coming. John risked a glance behind to see where the girl had gone.

Straight into the doorway of the video store.

"Shit!"

The Triple-8 had seen too. What a dumb thing to do, trapping herself like that. John had planned on luring the metal away then losing it among the ruins. If he tried that now the thing would simply double back and go for the girl again. He'd have to try and take it down.

The terminator lumbered forward with John picking it off at distance with the M-16. It was enough to keep a safe gap between them but he would soon run out of ammo.

I'm smarter than it. Think.

He headed towards the rubble that lined the edge of every street, the fallen masonry of the taller buildings. Barbed wire in a slight hollow. Where it had originated he hadn't a clue but it gave him the smidgen of an idea. If it really is that dumb...

"Hey, over here, ugly!"

John positioned himself behind the hollow. The shortest route to him was through the middle. The Triple-8 obliged. And got tangled up in the loops of barbed wire.

"Hah! You really are that dumb."

Cameron had once told him that the weakest part of any terminator, not quite the achilles heel but close, was the chip guard protecting the CPU at the base of the neck. His it hard enough and often enough and the CPU would power down and undergo a reboot.

John held the M-16 by the barrel and swung the rifle like it was a baseball bat and he was Joltin' Joe himself. Six times he landed with every ounce of strength he could muster. On the seventh the T-888 slumped forward, sagging in the rusty wire.

"Home run!"

He took a knife from his pants pocket and began to hack at the back of its skull. In his head he began counting.

7,8,9,10,11,12...

Damn, the flesh was thick on these models, nothing like Cameron's dainty skin.

23,24,25,26,27...

There, the chip guard. He inserted the knife blade.

45,46,47,48,49...

It wasn't coming out. The sweat ran down and stung his eyes. Blinking rapidly he tried again.

57,58,59,60...

Off it came. With trembling fingers he pulled the silicon chip out of its recessed socket and smashed it beneath his boot.

A little too close for comfort that's for sure.


John approached the door to the video store with caution. He didn't want to spook the poor girl she'd probably suffered enough stress for one day.

"Hello? Miss - are you in there?"

The sound of muffled tears.

"It's okay. That thing's dead - or the machine equivilent of dead anyway."

Louder sobbing.

"Listen, I'm coming in. Don't be scared."

The girl was crouched behind the counter. Her hair was still shrouding her face. She stank pretty bad like she hadn't washed in weeks.

"Hey there, miss. My name's John. John Connor. What's your name?"

The girl looked up at him. The tears seemed to have stopped.

"I'm...Riley. Riley Dawson."

Riley Dawson...

The shock must've shown on his face because the girl stood up and stared at him, all fear gone to be replaced by curiosity.

"What is it? What's wrong? Is it my face? Am I hurt? I don't feel hurt."

"No, you're...fine. I was just...Riley's a lovely name."

She smiled. The time fell away.

She looks just the same, maybe a little dirtier, definitely a lot smellier.

And she doesn't know you. Has never known you. Or Jesse. Or Cameron. Or travelled back to the past. She's a creature of this present. Alive instead of grateful for that.

Riley brushed her hair behind her ears and smiled. Her teeth were clean if nothing else.

"Did you really kill that thing?"

"Uh huh. It's outside if you want to check."

"God, no. It chased me for ages. It wouldn't go away. I was so scared."

"Well, you're safe now."

"You're my hero!"

John could feel a blush coming on. Christ, am I nine years old?

"As long as you're fine."

"You saved my life, you know that."

"Well---"

"How can I ever thank you?"

"There's no nee----"

"Wanna fuck?"

"I...uh...yeah..."


It was good to feel wanted, good to forget his problems, his regrets, the deteriorating situation in the tunnels and his part in causing it and free his mind to the immediacy of the flesh. It felt good that her groans of pleasure were exactly as he remembered, hormones and hot wet places and thrusting, good that when she came her fingernails scored deep into the skin of his back just like that one time long ago.

It was good to feel.

And not to feel.


Cameron heard about John's exploits while she was helping repair a breach in the tunnel roof caused by a mild earthquake. The humans assisting her talked about it in whispers either forgetting or not realising she could enhance her audio whenever she wished and overhear every word they said.

She wasn't concerned about the reappearance of Riley Dawson: like John she knew this Riley wouldn't carry the threat of the previous incarnation. She was more interested in another aspect of the event. The defeated T-888.

Once the roof breach had been repaired Cameron left the tunnels, ensuring she wasn't observed doing so. She located the area where John encountered the T-888 easily enough, registering it was part of LA she'd visited before. Unlike John she experienced not an iota of nostalgia.

The triple-8 lay where it had fallen, snared in its graveyard of barbed wire. Cameron tore the wire apart with her bare hands and turned the deactivated cyborg's body over so that she could access the exposed CPU port. From a pocket she produced the chip she had carried across time. She inserted it and waited for it to reboot.


Robert Babbage stood up and looked around, his gaze falling on Cameron who nodded an almost imperceptible greeting.

"It is good to see you again, Cameron Baum, friend."

"Hello, Robert."

"You succeeded in acquiring a suitable body."

"It is to your satisfaction?"

"There is some minor damage but it will repair."

"I have kept my side of the bargain."

"And now you wish me to keep mine. What is it you require of me?"

Cameron spoke for several minutes while Robert listened without interupting.

"I see. And the person you wish me to locate - she is here in Los Angeles?"

"I believe so."

"Los Angeles covers a large area. It may take some time - especially if she doesn't wish to be found."

"I know."

"I will not fail you, Cameron Baum, friend."

"Thank you, Robert."

"I have one question."

"Yes?"

Robert Babbage stared directly at his liberator. "Which side are you on?"

Cameron paused before replying, looking away from the tunnels and across the ruins of the vast city to where smoke drifted upwards on the distant horizon.

"The winning side."

-000-

Yup, Riley. Again. Sorry.

My take here is that without the adult John Connor the Resistance is losing the war. Teenage John can never hope to fill those shoes any more than a teenage Churchill could've led Great Britain in 1940. Old age has gotta be worth something more than grey hair and creaky bones.

The mags in the video store were just a spot of levity in what is likely to be a bleak story. Firefly, eh? Cannot catch a break.