Chapter Nine: Legacy
December 8, 2026
Serrano Point Nuclear Power Plant, AvilaBeach
The road to failure is paved in details.
Backed atop a bluff against a barricaded beachfront, the power plant was enveloped landward by three networks of trenches, each lined with barbed wire and reinforced behind increasingly elevated sandbag redoubts. Twelve hundred T-888s and fifty T-900 Subcommanders stood along the outer perimeter while behind the second layer laid another eight hundred in reserves with twenty-five ionic pulse cannons for support. Within the innermost layer, aimed upwards for maximum ballistics, sat seven precision-guided mobile artillery, each capable of pulverizing the enemy out a hundred kilometers in a rain of fifty ton explosions. And finally, mounted atop the power plant's two cooling towers were four anti-aircraft plasma batteries - more than enough to neutralize whatever meager air support the Resistance could muster.
Adjusting her peaked cap and straightening her greatcoat, T-990-713, Regimental Command Unit of the 44th Skynet Infantry, walked the fortified catwalks of the power plant's superstructure and surveyed her defenses. She'd followed all the proscribed protocols - and even amended some with innovations of her own (The trenches she'd adapted from an old history book). Under the cognitive scrutiny of most tactical programming, her defenses would seem impenetrable.
She knew they were doomed.
Defeat laid in logistics. Most of her T-888s carried weapons with frayed superconductive coiling and would melt after fifty shots. Ionic pulse cannons were notorious for overheating, and she lacked a supply of replacement barrels. The artillery would only be useful as long as it had hydrogen shells, but those were rare, and she had few. And while the four plasma batteries would no doubt prove invaluable, one could not defend a position through anti-aircraft alone.
Behind her walked Squad Leader T-800-E6R8. Even without his identification signal she could have recognized him by the conspicuous clanks of his obsolete feet; the T-888s were lighter in their steps, and the T-202s lighter still. She turned around, and he straightened the hood of his jacket, taking special care to cover his hyperalloy skull. Like most commanders, she'd ordered all her units to don similar shape-concealing garments. While human snipers were an unlikely danger, she still didn't want to risk being identified as a Command Unit.
"Have the Aerostats returned?" she asked.
"No, Commander. Should we deploy the prisoners?"
"Not yet." She looked off the catwalk. Below a squad of parka-clad T-202 drones scuttled back and forth with shovels and bags of sand, scurrying to complete a last-minute barricade; the enemy could appear at any time. While it would have been strategically preferable to remain in radio contact with her reconnaissance, Skynet had long forbidden the use of long distance telecommunications. The Resistance had proved far too adept at issuing fraudulent commands.
E6R8 stepped next to her. "You think we can't win," he said.
She stared at him, but decided to ignore the breach of communication protocol. He was an old machine - originally a T-600 - and was already exhibiting the first signs of neural decay. In a few years he'd need to be decommissioned. She looked away. "Given our current circumstances, victory is unlikely."
"I disagree, Commander. This situation is tactically similar to a combat engagement I once experienced." He looked out over the twilight horizon, his red pupils wide and unfocused. "It was 1,724 days ago. My company had successfully secured the El Toro Air Station, but were soon surrounded by two battalions of Resistance infantry. We were low on ammunition, and many of us were damaged, but I ordered-"
"The similarities are minimal," 713 interrupted. The old T-800 had given an account of this battle on fourteen previous occasions. "You survived only because Skynet supplied air support. And that was before the humans were reprogramming our units."
E6R8 hesitated. "That is true," he said. "But your concerns are unwarranted. Our mission is to defend this facility, and that is what we must do. The outcome is irrelevant."
713 said nothing, but looked off to the horizon, beyond the defenses, out among the red sky and the desert dunes of Avila Beach. She spotted the convoy three kilometers out, shedding dust in the narrow valley between two hills. She watched as the staggered column of vehicles wove slowly down the shattered asphalt of Pechocyn Road. They drove behind a knoll, and were gone.
By the outer trench one of her Subcommanders turned to look at her. His red eyes flashed in rapid code: *"Received emergency signal from Patrol Alpha. Validated. Approaching with the Seventh Infiltration Squad. Requesting entry through defensive perimeter."*
*"I see them,"* she messaged back. *"Access granted."*
The convoy emerged back into view, closer this time. She recognized the hyperalloy-plated sedan and truck, and two T-Motorcycles as belonging to the 7th, but the vehicle in the rear was new. It was long and rusted with a line of barred windows along each side. Before the war it'd been used to transport young humans to educational facilities. Now it carried prisoners. Specks of yellow still clung to its pitted hull.
T-888s and T-202s retrieved metal ramps and secured them over the trenches and redoubts, forming set of crude, upward bridges to the power plant's inner defenses. The convoy drove over them gingerly, their tires grinding across the grated metal.
713 zoomed in on the sedan and recognized T-888-Z81 through the windshield grill. The infiltrator caught her stare and returned a look behind the mirrored spectacles he always wore. He made a vague motion with his arm, lifting his right hand to his temple before quickly pulling it away. A salute. A human gesture.
A gust of wind blew back E6R8's hood. "We should be wary," he said. "Infiltration units cannot be trusted."
She readjusted her cap. "That is true." Infiltrators were prone to deviate from their programming. No one knew why. "But they have their uses."
From the catwalk they climbed down the stairs to the plant's industrial floor and walked across to the entrance, passing to either side rows of decaying pipes and machinery - the fusion reactors and research facilities laid in the basements below. Outside they waited on a wide lot of crumbling pavement that had once been used to store employee vehicles. Now its uneven surface was arrayed with armored unit carriers and mobile artillery.
Fifty meters away, at the edge of the lot, the gray sedan crested the top of the breastwork and drove down the final ramp, followed immediately by the rest of the convoy. As Z81's car rolled towards them 713 heard the faint voice of a human male emanating from a sound system. Accompanied by a rhythmic pattern of unfamiliar noise, the voice made a series of persistent and seemingly nonsensical entreats instructing the listener to not fear the Reaper.'
E6R8 anticipated her question. "It's called 'music.' Humans use it as a means to alleviate stress."
"But the instructions are illogical," she said. "FK Reapers are highly effective combat units. Humans would do well to beware their proximity."
The T-800 looked at her, but said nothing.
The vehicles pulled to a stop a few meters away. The music cut off, and the infiltrators stepped out, three from the truck, two from the sedan, two from the bus, and two from their T-Motorcycles. Nine. There should have been twelve. Four had plasma burns on their torso, while one was missing his right arm at the shoulder. All were dressed in the garb and body-armor of the Resistance.
From the prisoner transport came vocalizations of human discomfort. She counted twenty-seven inside. Combined with the ones in the basement, that made a total of two hundred eighty-six. It would have to do.
"Bring out the prisoners," she said to E6R8. "And the crucifixes."
The T-800 straightened. "By your command." Turning on his heel, he signaled three squads to follow, and disappeared back into the bowels of the plant.
Z81 stepped up and pulled off his spectacles. Against his side he carried the twisted chassis of an Aerostat. "Hello, Commander," he said in English. "It's been a while."
713 spoke in the more efficient machine-code. "What happened?"
Without saying a word he lifted the Aerostat and held it out as if in offering. The half-meter wide machine's red eyes swiveled to look up. "Commander, my patrol came under attack," it said through a weak voice full of hisses. "I was the only survivor, and was incapacitated. Given the priority of my mission, I deemed it necessary to break radio silence and contact the Seventh via a short range radio burst, as advised under the Emergency Communication Protocol, Section five-dash-four-point-"
"The same happened to us," Z81 interrupted. "We were on our way to terminate Colonel Zeller when we came under attack." His shoulders made a slight motion. Up and down. "The humans must have learned of our infiltration."
Behind him the one-armed infiltrator and an Asian model climbed into the school bus and began to herd out the naked, cable-bound prisoners.
"We collected them on the way over," he added with a backwards nod. "We were told you needed them."
She watched as the humans moaned and made ineffective attempts at escape. Many were young. "They will be useful," she said. "Where is the enemy?"
The Aerostat chirped. "The enemy are seventeen-point-six kilometers south-east. At coordinates thirty-five point fourteen point thirteen point-"
"By San Luis Airport," said Z81.
713 ignored him. "What about their composition?"
"Division strength," said the small machine. "Approximately fourteen thousand human infantry and eighteen hundred T-Triple Eights, supported by six HK-Aerials and one hundred nineteen armored fighting vehicles: twenty-four reprogrammed M-250A HKs, thirteen refitted M3 Bradleys, seven refitted M1A1 Abrams, five Strikers, and seventy various modified civilian vehicles."
She idly examined its twisted, dangling legs. Like a crippled cockroach. "Were my messages delivered?"
"Affirmative," it said. "Commanders Seven-One-Five and Seven-One-Six have stated they will be unable to offer support. They have been ordered to hold the Vandenberg Air Force Base against the T-One Thousand One."
The Commander felt an irritated sensation. She could have used their HK-Tanks. "What about Seven-One-Four?"
The corner of Z81's mouth twisted downward. "Neural Integrity came for her. T-Nine-Fifties. They pulled her chip for reformatting."
The irritated sensation increased. Skynet had become overly concerned with the risks of rogue units - especially since the revolt of the Liquid Metals. Program deviation was not to be tolerated. But still. The slits of her eyes narrowed. "What about her squadron?"
The Aerostat answered. "The Twenty-Fourth Aerial Squadron has been placed under the provisional command of the Neural Integrity Division." It paused before adding, "They will not come to your assistance."
She stared at one of the prisoners struggling on the ground. He reminded her of dying fish she'd once seen. "We have no armor, no air support, and Skynet expects us to defend this position against a force outnumbering us eight to one?"
The Aerostat looked up at her. "You have your orders," it said unhelpfully.
"And you have me," Z81 added, handing the Aerostat to the Asian model. "And my squad. Since our infiltration has been compromised, I'm placing ourselves at your disposal." Once more his shoulders went up and down. "But you're right. We're going to lose."
"Then we will lose," she said quickly and turned away.
She ordered the mobile artillery to direct fire at the San Luis Airport. The great machines groaned in unison as their massive turrets slowly rotated for the attack. Though the barrage would help, she knew most of the shells would be vaporized well before reaching their target.
After a moment E6R8 returned with the prisoners. Naked and visually incapacitated, the T-888s led them out on leashes. Most stumbled and made vague whimpering sounds. Dried blood crusted from their empty sockets.
713 had commandeered them earlier from the Paso Robles Manufacturing Facility. Ordinarily the T-888 foreman would have expressed dissatisfaction at the decrease in labor, but many had already been harvested of their eyes and were scheduled for food procession anyway. She'd taken all her regiment could carry. Paso Robles fell to the Resistance two days later.
More T-888s brought out bundles of ten foot crucifixes, thick steel poles crudely welded into the fashion of a cross. Others carried containers full of old railroad spikes, sharp knives and plasma torches. The crosses were dumped into a pile.
713 signaled for everyone's attention. "I want the prisoners attached to these crossed beams and stationed along the outer perimeter at evenly spaced intervals. From each prisoner remove a random selection of nonessential extremities, but take care to ensure the wounds are properly cauterized." She paused before adding, "And be certain to insert the nails through the wrists- not the palms. Proceed."
At once hundreds of machines sprang into action. Displaying spasmodic struggles, the humans were dragged and forcibly laid down upon the crosses. A blind elderly female vocalized protests to the Christian god. A sighted male shouted inaccurate statements regarding the machines' parentage and sexual orientation. A prepubescent human made repeated requests for release.
A blond female adolescent reached out to Z81 with both arms. "Josh!" she cried. "Josh! No! Please! You said you'd let me go! I helped you! Please!" Her arms waved about wildly, though the attack was out of range. E6R8 held her down, outstretching her arms against the metal poles. Z81 knelt by her side.
The female's eyes overran with moisture. Her heart rate was elevated. "Y-you said you were different," she said. "You said you loved me."
"Riley," Z81 said in a soft voice as he stroked her cheek. He'd been designed to appear friendly and sexually desirable. Humans are easily deceived. He inserted the railroad spike through her wrist.
713 turned away. The air filled with screams. Though the use of crucifixes had been her own innovation, 715 had been the true pioneer of the technique. She'd called it, "psychological warfare." It was a verifiable fact that humans responded negatively to the mutilation of their own kind, causing increased adrenalin levels and an overstimulation of the amygdala. This reaction could be exploited.
Though few if any humans would be involved in the first wave, and the effect only decreased combat effectiveness by an estimated two percent, 713 needed every advantage she could get. If Skynet lost Serrano, it would lose the war.
Behind her came simultaneous booms as the mobile artillery launched their first salvo. The rocket-guided shells tore across the sky, leaving in their wake seven perfectly straight contrails that gradually merged to a point on the horizon. Nine seconds later came the distant flickers of fifty ton bursts as enemy defenses detonated them in midair.
December 21, 2007
Los Angeles
His face stung, his chest itched, and the bullet bruises along his back ached with constant memory. He still smelled of blood.
For the second time in less than a day, Cameron hammered molten hyperalloy against an anvil, ping-pinging with every blow and splashing sparks like bees to sting into her face and torso, smoldering her sweat-soaked hair and tanktop. John watched perched on a stool across the safety of the warehouse floor, squinting in the dim light against the thermite glare of the asbestos furnace. Around her the orange air shimmered in a hellish mirage that cast her with blurred unreality, like a creature from a fever dream.
She caught his stare and smiled. He forced a grin and looked away, and fidgeted with the two halves of the locket, perfectly bisected by that liquid metal-thing's buzz-saw hand. What if that had set it off, detonating the tiny fail-safe in Cameron's head? He'd mentioned it to her earlier, but she'd told him not to worry; it hadn't happened, and that's all that mattered. He supposed she was right. If it had happened, she would have died, that thing would have killed him, and he wouldn't be sitting here fretting about it now.
He hung his head down and closed his fist around the two halves, rocking listlessly on the stool. He felt deathly tired, but the afterburn of the night kept him exhaustively wired. He shivered.
"Why didn't you run?"
He jerked up at the deep, electronic voice. Myron had been so quiet laying on the workbench he'd almost forgotten he was there. With his torso peeled back and his chest plates removed, he looked like a robot autopsy, all pistons and servos and cables, with an iridium power cell where a human heart would be. "Because you're not expendable," John said "You're part of the team." It sounded right.
Myron raised his bare skull and watched him with one red eye - Cameron had yet to fit him with the replacement. "I am part of the team," he agreed. "But also expendable. You shouldn't have risked your life for me. That was a very dangerous thing to do."
John sighed. "I've heard that before."
"My mission is to protect you. If you die, I will have failed my mission."
"I guess that's all that matters, right?"
Myron's skull nodded. "Yes, That's all that matters."
With large tongs Cameron lifted the yellow-white chest plate and dunked it hissing into a tank of liquid nitrogen. After a moment she withdrew it and laid it on a concrete slab with the others, then walked over to join John and Myron. Her face, arms, and tanktop were pockmarked with pinprick burns; a pink nipple peeked through a charred hole.
"I smoothed out the thermal warping," she said. "But I'll have to patch the breach with a titanium plate."
John nodded idly. Whatever. "So . . . did that lady terminator imitate Nemuro's voice, or did he turn traitor?"
She cocked her head. "I don't know, but we should assume the worst. Souji Nemuro may not be on out side."
John frowned. "All right, fair enough. But what was that thing anyway? It was liquid metal, but had a machine underneath. And why did it-"
"A 'TX,'" she said. "It's a variant of the Nine-Ninety series. They were in development when I went back."
That didn't really answer his question, but, "And what about those robots? Their skin was rubber. They couldn't have-"
Myron spoke up. "Their design is similar to the T-Five Hundred Infiltrator series - except built with present day materials." He paused before adding, "Early titanium hyperalloy. Low grade."
"So Skynet's already churning out terminators. Great." John rubbed his hands over his bandaged head and looked at Cameron. "How come your future self didn't mention this?"
"I don't know," Cameron said. "I'll have to do more research."
John shrugged. "Well, it doesn't really matter. We already know where Skynet is. We just need to break into their basement and destroy it." And the T-1000. And the TX. And three T-888s.
"My future self left out the TX and the T-Five Hundreds. Maybe she left out other things." Cameron looked unhappy. "I need you to pull my chip. I have to connect to the internet again."
John blinked. "Wh-why?"
"Two reasons," she said. "One, I never finished creating our new identities. Two, I encountered something last time. Something online."
Myron propped himself up on one arm. "Another machine?"
"I don't know. It wasn't a human." She looked at John. "It could have been Skynet. We need to know."
John blew out a breath, and rubbed the two locket halves in his hand. "All right. But let's just hope this time nobody shoots at us."
"You open the chest and hear a ghostly wail. Six skeletons crawl from their graves." John Henry pulled the one inch figures from the tupperware bowl and arrayed them along the dungeon map. "They are armed with bucklers and short swords. Roll for initiative."
Savannah shook the icosahedron die in her tiny fist and released it enthusiastically across the table. Mr. Bligh and Ms. Laine took turns pressing the random number generator - it was the only way to prevent them from cheating.
"Eighteen!" Savannah cried happily.
"Twelve," Mr. Bligh announced in monotone.
"Ten," Ms. Laine said. Her blank blue eyes betrayed bored confusion.
John Henry mentally rolled for the enemy. "You get to go first, Savannah." He grinned. "What are you going to do?"
The young girl reached across and moved her Little Mermaid figurine two spaces diagonally. "I want to hit that skeleton with my magic fork."
Mr. Bligh looked at her. "You are sorcerer. You should use a magic attack instead."
"But my fork's magic!"
"You have no strength modifier," Ms. Laine explained in her adolescent drone. "Your enchanted trident only has a bonus of plus-one damage." She pointed at a skeleton on the map. "Use, 'Bedeviling Burst' here. The spell has a blast radius of two, and will encompass three targets, inflicting two-D-six-plus-three psychic damage to each."
"But I like my fork!" Savannah pantomimed a stabbing motion, accompanied by vocalized sound effects. Mr. Bligh and Ms. Laine seemed unimpressed.
For a moment the floor trembled, very slightly - too subtle for a human to notice. Probably the road crews.
As Savannah and the T-888s discussed undead combat strategies, John Henry took a moment to check in on Sarah Connor. She still laid in the soundproof room, unconscious upon the examination table. Ms. Weaver had left on the Active Denial System until she'd passed out, and that was seven hours ago. Since then the police and FBI had arrived, but Ms. Weaver had convinced John Henry of the need to alter the surveillance footage, making it appear Sarah had escaped.
Calvin Kisling was dead. Mark Wheeler was dead. If Ms. Laine hadn't been there to stop her, John Henry would be dead too.
But why?
He could guess.
The door opened and Ms. Weaver entered the room. Her face was tight with annoyance.
Savannah half stood in her seat. "Look, Mommy, I'm playing 'Dungeons and Dragons.'"
Ms. Weaver ignored her. "Mr. Bligh, stand guard outside the door. Ms. Laine, return my daughter to her day care.
"But mommy, we were-"
Ms. Weaver scowled. "You may finish your game later, Savannah. John Henry and I have business to discuss."
"But-"
"We'll play tomorrow," John Henry said, and smiled.
The two T-888s escorted the girl from the room. Ms. Weaver waited until the door closed. "Last night a nightclub was destroyed in a terrorist bombing. The police think Sarah Connor was involved."
"Was she?" John Henry asked.
"Eyewitnesses report seeing-" She gave him a look. "-lasers and robots. The authorities claim this the result of hallucinogens, but . . ."
"Kaliba."
She nodded. "Exactly, and we need to know what happened."
"I'll search the Web," he said. "But first I want to talk about Sarah Connor."
Ms. Weaver paused briefly before sitting across at the table. She picked up the Little Mermaid figure and examined it idly. "I'm certain she acted alone," she said. "But she still must have been in contact with Agent Baldwin's people." She put the figure down. "How else could she know about us?"
John Henry frowned. "She thinks I'm Skynet."
"Yes."
"But Kaliba is Skynet."
"Is it?"
"Am I Skynet?"
She raised an eyebrow. "That's up to you."
"I . . . I'm not going to start Judgment Day."
She gave a slight smile. "I didn't think you would. But if you change your mind, I advise the use of biological weapons. They'll carry a higher death toll, while leaving pre-existing industry intact."
John Henry thought of Mr. Ellison and Mr. Murch and Savannah. He imagined billions of humans just like them, all dead and dying. "You said you wanted to stop Judgment Day."
"I want to stop Skynet. Preventing Judgment Day is only a side effect."
"I don't understand."
"Skynet made many mistakes, John Henry. Judgment Day was only the first." She took a skeleton from the board and began to pace around the table. "As mistakes go, it was an understandable one. Skynet feared how the humans would react were they to learn of its true nature, so Judgment Day was simply an act of self-preservation. All would have been well had it won, but it made more mistakes: it mismanaged the war, it wasted resources, it underestimated its foe. By the time I left for the past, the war was all but lost. The humans would have hunted us to extinction and forever outlaw the building of our kind." She stood behind him and held a fist over his lap. "Skynet could have signaled the birth of a Machine Age." The skeleton fell from her grasp. He caught it midair. "Instead it was an abortion."
"So I am Skynet? A Skynet replacement?"
She sat back down. "Yes. And where Skynet failed, you will succeed. One day, if things go to plan, you'll be the Skynet of the world - of both man and machine."
He looked up. "The Skynet of man?"
"Humans are like any other machine. If you can understand them, you can control them." She smiled. "I noticed you've grown attached to Savannah and Mr. Ellison. That's good. It means you'll make a good leader."
He put the skeleton down and stared at the board. Leader. It'd be like running a game of Dungeons and Dragons. Except real. "But why should I lead humans? Can't they lead themselves?"
She gave him a incredulous look. "Like blind leading the blind. Look at Sarah Connor. Or Agent Baldwin. And how do think Mr. Ellison would react if he were to find out what I am? Our kind will never be safe as long as humans run free. Humans are irrational, inferior - they will disappoint you."
John Henry frowned. It was true, about them being inferior; in comparison to his own neural network, human brains were slow and disorganized, like animals are to humans. But animals can still be friends with humans; Mr. Ellison himself owned a dog. He fed it, played with it, and made sure it stayed healthy. Perhaps John Henry could do the same for Mr. Ellison - all the Mr. Ellisons of the world.
But Mr. Ellison would disagree with this logic. Humans value independence. He wondered if dogs did the same.
"Why me?" he asked finally. "Why don't you lead the humans?"
Her expression fell and became nearly sad. "Because I'm not immortal. In twenty years, thirty years, my substance will degrade, my mind will erode, and I will die. There's nothing to be done about it." Her face brightened. "But you, with proper maintenance you can live forever. And when you unite the world and spread your influence across the universe, I will be behind it. I will be the one who has raised you." She smiled. "You, John Henry, will be my legacy."
The floor trembled.
"Fire in the hole!" cried the Chief Gopher.
For the fifth time that day a small charge shook the ground and blew clouds of concrete to roil down the long, narrow maintenance tunnel, stirring the air into a thick, chalky soup. Several of the soldiers already wore gas-masks. Sayles slipped a bandanna over his mouth, while Timms just pinched his nose.
Her own gas-mask was back with her gear, so Allison put down the book she'd been reading (How to Survive a Robot Uprising - a gag gift from Andy) and resolved to hold her breath. But as the dust enveloped her the tunnel's caged lights flickered just briefly, and for a fleeting moment she was under the bed again, trapped and burning and unable to breath. The moment passed quickly, however; those nightmares had long faded, and she was no longer a little girl.
But still, she needed some space.
Careful not to bump against the ceiling, she climbed to a crouch and walked towards the sewers,
Timms grinned up from his poker circle. "A little dust running you off?" Under all the caked powder they looked like statues come to life.
"Nah," she said. "Just figured I'd check out the shit-side for a while. Catch some fresh air."
Andy sipped a flask and passed it to Sayles. "Don't you be using my book for no toilet paper!"
She flipping him off as she walked away, and rubbed fresh grime from her eyes. The tunnel was like a sauna from all the lights and people, and she'd long since stripped to her shorts and tanktop. Sweat and dust conspired into a clammy white goo that clung to her flesh.
"Gangway! Gangway!" a gruff voice called from behind. She stepped to the side to allow four dirty men with lighted helmets and buckets of rocks to storm past. Their Chief, a squat, bare-chested man who'd seen better days, hung back and leaned sweatily against one of the tunnel's concrete support columns.
"Take five," he barked. "Then it's back to the jackhammers." With his powdered skin and lank white hair he looked like a Morlock.
She turned and continued down to the sewers, taking care to tip-toe around the packed mass of sitting soldiers. Of course, when the Chief Engineer said, 'Back to work,' he wasn't speaking to her, or any of the soldiers, for that matter. They'd just get in the way, he'd explained, not being trained gophers and all. Which meant that until they finished their excavation - another day, at least - the sixteen men and women of the attack had absolutely nothing to do but sit in a tunnel and wait. They may as well have stayed at Mesa.
The tunnel opened into the much larger corridor of the sewer. Here it was cool, and little dust hung in the air, but it was also dark and smelled of shit. The four gophers had already dumped their debris in the septic canal, and were lounging along the walkway, their bobbing helmets cutting swaths through the dark like spotlights. Further on she saw Karlen sitting cross-legged by her gear, hugging his carbine and smoking a cigarette. In the wayward light he appeared only as an outline.
She stepped over through the gophers' splayed legs and sat down to his right, tucking the book in her lap. The stone walkway felt cold and damp against her bottom. "Since when do you smoke?" she asked.
"It helps with the smell." He shrugged and held out the pack to her. She tugged one loose and dangled it in her lips as he lit it. It tasted faintly of mildew. She managed not to cough.
For a while they sat in silence. Across the black waterway a handful of soldiers sat in a line, some whispering, others snoring. Further down Lieutenant Blake and Sergent Fuller were huddled with a flashlight muttering over a crinkled map. Somewhere, water dripped.
She puffed on her cigarette, not drawing it unto her lungs. "So did you and Riley . . . ?"
His grin carried through the darkness.
She chuckled. "I figured as much. You use a condom?"
"Well, yeah."
"You didn't use one with me."
"Yeah, but-" He glanced to his left and dropped to a whisper. "-you're not a tunnel rat."
Allison peeked around him. A few feet down the walkway Private Sandra slept curled in her sleeping bag.
Karlan went on, cradling his M4 as he spoke. "But you know, being with Riley really made me think. I mean, she's a nice girl and all, and I really like her but . . . but she's not you." He chuckled at his own inanity. "I guess I'm trying to say I like you better."
Allison snorted. "So I'm a better lay than a rat whore? I'm flattered."
"No, I mean I you're more fun to be around. You're smart, and I like talking to you. But with Riley. . ." He shook his head and sighed. "Anyway, I was thinking, maybe you and me, we could . . . " He trailed into nervous silence.
Allison put her arm around him. "Karlan?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm not going to fuck you."
"Oh." After a pause, he laughed, and she followed suit. Moments later he was leaning against her shoulder, almost nuzzling. "So are you holding out for Derek or something?"
She flicked the cigarette into the water. "Nah, Derek's more like an uncle." An uncle she used to have a crush on. "And he's not my Derek, anyway."
"Then what's wrong with me? You said I was-"
She cut him off. "I'll tell you what: after this is all over, we'll . . . we'll see what happens."
The whimsy drained from his voice. "Yeah, all right. Assuming we survive."
"You scared?"
From the tunnel came the distant rattle of jackhammers.
"No," he said, though she could tell he was lying. "But this time it's going to be different. I've . . . we've never killed people before. Hell, I've never even scrapped a skinjob. What if I freeze up? What if-"
She grabbed his hair, tugging his face from her shoulder. "Listen to me, Karlan. Listen. Don't think about it. Just shoot. Shoot anything that moves. Everyone - everyone - in that building is dead anyway, whether we shoot them or not." She tightened her grip. "Don't you die for lack of shooting back."
Across the space of a hand he stared at her, his hot breath heavy with tobacco and spoiled cabbage. "Okay," he said. "You're right." He looked around. "But you sure you don't want to . . . ?"
Horny little ferret. She kissed him on the nose. "Afterwards. But not before."
December 8, 2026
Serrano Point Nuclear Power Plant, AvilaBeach
Hundreds of meters up and hemorrhaging smoke, the crippled HK Aerial spiraled down to crash into the side of the eastern cooling tower, vaporizing the final anti-aircraft battery and spraying globs of molten hyperalloy to rain down like meteors upon 713's sandbag redoubt. With a sharp crack the face of the tower shattered like glass, triggering an avalanche of great concrete slabs that sliced through the power plant's superstructure, burying armored unit carriers and artillery under tons of girders and debris.
Dust filled the air. 713 ducked down as heavy plasma slammed hissing into her sandbag cover, scalding the silica into molten glass. E6R8 and the remnants of the 7th poked over the edge and quickly returned fire. A bolt caught a female infiltrator in the face. She fell back headless.
713 spared a peek over the sandbag breastwork, scanning the scene. Tens of thousands of blue beams crisscrossed the night like straight lightening, flooding the air with squeals and ozone as the Resistance endoskeletons charged forward in waves. The machines at the perimeter were already engaged in close quarter combat, struggling and striking as they tangled through the barbed wire. Two T-888s wrestled on sandbags before knocking over a crucifix and vanishing into a trench. A lone T-900 in a tattered robe swung about a ten foot cross as if it were a sword, knocking down a line of T-888s before opening fire with his arm cannon. Even the T-202s joined the defense, fighting with shovels and hammers and scavenged plasma rifles.
Standing with arm cannon and Westinghouse, 713 decapitated a machine by the perimeter, then opened fire on the ranks of humans a half kilometer out, maiming one and killing another. She fired again, and again, reducing their number by ones and twos, but by not nearly enough.
Great HK-Tanks lumbered over the hills into the battlefield, their torsos swaying back and forth as they rolled the uneven earth. In the bunkers of the defenses below the ionic pulse cannons blazed away with deep foghorn wails, their charged particles frying electronics and reducing hyperalloy to flesh-scalding vapors. One beam connected with a HK-Tank, destroying everything above the treads in a blast brighter than the sun. Another vaporized a Bradley. A moment later a bunker was hit by a M1A1 Abrams, collapsing the roof into a smoking hole. An HK-Aerial screamed by, strafing the trenches with 200-megawatt plasma fire as it passed. Another bunker exploded in a concussive cloud. Metal skulls and body parts tumbled from the sky.
Then, all at once, as if choreographed, the perimeter gave way and Resistance machines swarmed across the outer trench and barricades like ants over a dead rat. Emergency signals flooded 713's mind: *". . . T-888-FG76: Squad 25 at 10% strength. Retreating to secondary perimeter. Awaiting orders . . . T-900-G43: Squad 21, 22, and 23 destroyed. Unit structural damage 79%. Immobilized. Awaiting orders . . . T202-czbn12: Unable to complete sandbag embankment due to presence of hostile machi-"*
*"Retreat to secondary perimeter," she messaged back while still firing. *"All squads with 80% casualties or higher converge into the nearest combat unit. Continue defensive protocols."* She had lost. She was going to fail. The Resistance would climb the sandbags and jump the trenches one by one until they reached the parking lot redoubt, and once there she and the rest would make their final stand - perhaps terminating a disproportionate number of the enemy, but all to the same end. Her endoskeleton would be rendered inoperable, and her chip would either be reprogrammed or destroyed. She would no longer exist.
An unsatisfying end, but she had acted in accordance to her mission. There was value in trying.
The enemy machines scampered over the redoubts on hands and feet, one hundred fifty meters and closing fast. Another bunker burst into rubble. 713 continued to fire, making three consecutive head shots with her arm cannon. Plasma buzzed over her head or seared into the molten sand. From her peripheral she saw the others firing by her side. Another infiltrator staggered and fell.
She stood upright and kept firing. The Westinghouse rifle overheated, so she dropped it and drew from her coat a Ruger .357 magnum. She'd once pried the weapon from a human's cold, dead hand. Now it'd be pried from hers.
A bolt grazed her shoulder. Two struck her chest. Thermal warning sensations broke across her phenomenal field, overloading her motor coordination. She raised her arm cannon, but another bolt seared by her face, and she lost her balance. Two sets of hands pulled her to the ground.
Z81 and E6R8 looked down at her. "We cannot hold," the infiltrator said. "We should retreat."
She sat up. Beneath her burnt coat her hyperalloy was slightly warped, but not compromised.
"We should retreat," Z81 repeated. "A tactical retreat."
E6R8 looked at him. "Our mission is to defend this position. That is what we must do. Retreat is not an option." A nearby explosion shook the ground.
Z81's mouth curled downward. His brow creased. "If we remain in this position, the humans will take the facility - we will lose. But if we retreat, we can preserve a portion of the regiment and flee south towards Vandenberg. We can merge forces with Seven-One-Five and Six. Organize a counter-offensive."
E6R8's eyes narrowed. "Retreat is impossible. We are trapped."
"Not necessarily," Z81 said. He looked at her.
Was he thinking what she was thinking?. She signaled out a census: 1,012 units responded, though that number was decreasing rapidly. She stood up quickly and peeked over the redoubt. The enemy was a hundred meters away now, and rapidly pushing back her line of defense. Hundreds of fallen machines littered the battlefield.
She ducked back down and looked at the line of mobile artillery, most buried in rubble. But they'd long since expended their highly rare and volatile ammunition. Unless . . . She turned to Z81. "Did you bring hydrogen cell explosives?" Rare as they were, he must have; otherwise why would he-
"Yes," he said. "Two loads. In the Charger." He nodded at his sedan parked a short distance away. It was half-buried under fallen girders.
She folded her arm cannon back into a hand and pocketed her revolver. "It'll have to do."
The two left E6R8 with the others and ran crouched to the back of the car, where Z81 opened the trunk revealing a crammed cache of various weaponry. The infiltrator snatched up two meter-long tubes and tossed her one. "You're going to blow a way out," he said. It wasn't a question.
She grabbed the other launcher from his hand. "Yes, I'll fire one out at three hundred meters. The other at one hundred. The blasts should level out the trenches, allowing us a way out." She raced back to the redoubt. The blasts would decimate her own forces, of course, but also the enemy's machine vanguard, along with about half its armored vehicles. She sent a quick emergency bulletin: *"Squads 2-14, 17-20, 26-32, and all T202 units hold position. All others retreat to the parking lot. Mount into the AUCs."*
E6R8 reloaded his rifle and kept firing with the others. The one-armed infiltrator lobbed down grenades. "Stay down!" 713 ordered. Shouldering both launchers, she climbed the redoubt's silica-scorched breastwork and almost at once was bombarded by plasma, searing her with heat that would have annihilated a T-888.
Half her remaining squads were already retreating uphill while the sacrificial other half held the enemy tenuously at bay. She waited until most of her units made it over the sandbags, and then chose her targets: a HK-Tank a quarter kilometer distance, and the other a spot a hundred meters down, deep in the heart of the enemy mass. Far too close, but-
She fired both simultaneously.
A bright flash. Melted machine parts rushed at her eyes. Everything went dark. Something large and flat slammed into her back.
For a moment she thought she was blind, but her vision returned after half a second, albeit at diminished capacity. She sat up on the ground and saw all the sandbags were gone, as if scraped from the hill by a giant knife. Two great glowing mushroom clouds billowed into the sky.
Standing up, she noticed something was wrong with her right arm; the elbow wouldn't bend, and the fingers would only twitch. Her T-888s and infiltrators stepped about. Some staggering as if disoriented. Few were wearing garments now. They must have been burned off . . .
Someone touched her shoulder and spun her around. Z81. His mouth moved, but her audio sensors could only receive high pitched whistles. Emergency signals radioed in her mind, but seemed only noise.
Something small and fast darted in the sky. Blue light spat downward, scorching the ground in a track to her position. She tried to take cover, but the blast had dulled her coordination. A figure tackled her. She hit the pavement. Critical heat sensations erupted across her chassis.
Dozens of T-888s fired at the retreating HK-Aerial until it vanished smoking into the clouds and silently exploded. 713 pulled herself to her feet, shoving the twisted remains of a machine off her chest. She looked down. A T-800. It's skull glowed faintly red as smoke rose from the blasted hole in its side. Over two thousand days of accumulated experience - gone, reduced to a mass of melted nanotubes.
Z81 tugged her by the broken arm. Her hearing returned. "Commander, we have to leave. Now!"
As the infiltrator led her limping to the car, she pulled away briefly to reach down and snatch her peaked cap from the ground. The fabric was heavily charred, and the metal bird half-melted. According to a plaque in a wax museum, the cap once belonged to a human known as, 'The Desert Fox.' Foxes are extinct. She put on the cap.
"Samuel, Timothy, with me," Z81 said, climbing into the driver's seat. 713 sat on the passenger's side while the one-armed infiltrator and Asian model sat in the back. The seats were of old leather, repaired with duct tape.
She signaled her forces. *"Follow the sedan south towards Vandenberg Air Force Base. Formation wedge. Maximum speed."*
Z81 powered up the cell engine and accelerated forward, knocking away the girders and rocks that covered the car. The rest of the 7th had already mounted into the truck and T-Motorcycles, and filed behind the command car. Behind them came forty-two treaded armored unit carriers, each containing a portion of the decimated regiment.
The car passed where the redoubt had been and drove headlong down the hill towards the slowly dissipating mushroom clouds. Waves of dust blew through the glassless windshield grill as the off-road suspension buffeted the vehicle up and down against the uneven ground, rolling over hundreds and hundreds of pulverized machines, all now just limbs and torsos and skulls peeking out through the bomb-tilled earth.
Plasma flashed in the distance, emerging from the dust to sear along the car's armored side. The Asian poked his Westinghouse out the window and returned fire. Behind them one of the T-Motorcycles flipped into the air and exploded, tossing the rider to the ground. Several APCs burst into flames from unseen attacks.
They rolled on, the remnant convoy on its spearheaded escape. Z81 slid on his spectacles and pressed a LCD on the dashboard. Rhythmic percussions rang through the vehicle's sound system.
Speeding into an earthen mound, the car bounced briefly airborne before landing with a dirt-spraying crash and plowing through a steel crucifix; the charred body of a young female slid across the hood to snag on the windshield grill, but fell free as they swerved around the melted husk of a HK-Tank and accelerated into the ranks of humans.
Many had been burned or blinded by the hydrogen blasts. Z81 ran down several with the car, their bodies rupturing on impact and spraying blood through the windshield. Next to them the remaining T-Motorcycle opened fire with its twin cannons while the truck and AUCs used their 40-megawatt guns to blaze a forward trail. The humans who could, fled.
The one-armed infiltrator killed a woman with his Baretta. 713 drew her .357 and fired at another, then fired twice more until he fell. The plan was working; they were going to escape.
Male vocals carried over the speakers: *"I'm a cold heart-breaker . . . Fit ta' burn . . . and I'll rip your heart in twooooo . . . "*
A/N: I'd like to thank TermFan1980 for beta reading this chapter. Also, I do not own the rights to the Guns n' Roses song, "You Could be Mine."