The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

Note: Quick update for once. England's snowed under and apparently closed for business. Nothing to do but write...

I...

I think...

I think therefore...

I think therefore I...

I think therefore I am.

I am Cameron Baum.

My reboot is complete. My HUD is awash with red warning icons. I am lit up like the 4th of July. I repair what I can while the others I either shut down or ignore.

Beside me Detective Polger does not undergo a reboot. Humans lack this facility. They are flesh and blood. Vulnerable. Mortal. Dead.

It is now difficult to tell the difference between Ray Polger and his Chevrolet automobile so intricately entwined have they become due to the impact of the crash. But there is no mistaking the blood which coats almost every visible surface in the crushed interior.

"Cameron!"

John's voice. Outside. I move to exit the vehicle but find my left leg trapped in the footwell. I hammer it free with my fists then pull myself out through the side window since the door is twisted uselessly in its frame.

"Cameron! Your face..."

"Get in the jeep," I order.

"But---"

"Now!"

My left leg drags as I move to join him. I am limping. Mobility impaired. A red icon blinks accusingly. A knee joint failure. No time now to undergo repair.

"Drive."

John complies then hands me a pair of sunglasses that were on the dash. "Put these on."

"The sun's glare doesn't bother me," I inform him. "I have filters."

"It's to disguise your eye. Look."

He twists the rear view mirror so that I can see my reflection. There are multiple lacerations to my dermal layer. My left visual array is visible, red glow and all. The pseudo-iris is dripping down my cheeks, black and viscous. I wipe it away with my hand and put the sunglasses on.

"Better?"

"Much. What happened?"

I hesitate. How much do I tell John? Detective Ray Polger was not a bad man. He was a police officer doing his job. But he was also a threat. To me. The Connors. The mission to prevent Judgement Day. Therefore he had to be terminated. It was, as humans say, a no brainer.

But neither John nor his mother would advocate or condone murder. That much I know from my time with them. I have no such scruples. Why would I? I am a machine. Sometimes there are advantages to this. We think more clearly. We do not let emotion or sentimentality cloud our judgement. We assess. We act. We kill.

"Detective Polger spotted you following us. He speeded up in an attempt to lose you. He had been drinking. His reactions were compromised. He lost control of the vehicle. He crashed. He has himself to blame."

John watches the road ahead. His jaw tightens and untightens. A sign of stress. Finally he nods, accepting my lies at face value.

"They won't link you to the accident?"

Accident...He has accepted my version of the truth whether he believes it or not.

"No. There will no evidence to suggest he had a passenger. No one could've survived such an impact and walked away."

"I'm glad you're okay. Relatively speaking."

"So am I. Relatively speaking."

HOME

I am perched on the edge of the bath in the safe house. Sarah Connor is still in Orange County scouting a secure refuge. John is bent over me using tweezers to remove the small embedded fragments of windscreen glass that have lodged in my pseudo-flesh. He places them in a neat pile in the soap dish. They sparkle like miniature diamonds.

"Are you sure you don't want Bactin for some of these cuts? You could get an infection."

"No. My dermal layer has built in anti-bacterial properties."

"Okay but your left eye's shot to hell."

"The damage is mainly cosmetic. The pseudo-iris will self-repair."

"How soon?"

"A few days, a week at most."

"You'll need to take time off from school. And wear an eyepatch or sunglasses. Even round the house. You never know who might come calling."

"Jehovah's Witnesses?"

"Yeah." John laughs. "This would scare them away. Permanently."

John is very close, his face just inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek. It must be nice to breath, to feel the air inflate your lungs and then release it into the atmosphere. And do it again. And again. Over and over, careless and unthinking until you die. But there is always a catch. And with breathing death seems to be it. Perhaps I am better off as I am.

"And we'll need a cover story to explain these cuts on your face."

"Mauled by wolves?" I suggest.

"Too far-fetched."

"Lions? Alligators? Tigers? Crocodiles?"

"You were scratched by a cat. That'll do."

"A cat? One cat?"

"Sure."

"Not a wolf or a lion or an alligator?"

John stops. "Is this hubris I'm hearing? You're too proud to be scratched by a cat?"

"I am a terminator. We have standards."

"I'll think we'll stick with the cat story. And no embellishing."

"Did it have very sharp claws?"

"Okay, sure. If it makes you feel better. A big Cujo-cat with very sharp claws."

"Mighty talons capable of piercing solid steel."

"See, now you're embellishing. That's where you'll trip yourself up. Keep it simple. Little white lies."

"I would prefer big black lies."

"Sorry, no can do. Big black lies are out of stock."

"Can we order some more?"

We smile at each. John is the most relaxed I've seen him. I should crash automobiles more often.

"Take your pants off."

I freeze. Did I hear correctly? John slaps my leg.

"Come on. I've finished your face. Let me take a look at your knee. Take your pants off."

"Oh. My knee. My damaged knee."

I stand and remove my boots and jeans then sit back down on the edge of the bath. John bends down and examines my left knee.

"Not seeing any damage."

"The damage is internal. Bring me a knife from the kitchen."

John returns with a Sabatier knife, the type Sarah Connor uses during her miserable attempts at cooking. I make a t-shaped incision above my knee and peel back the flaps of flesh for John to inspect.

"Still not seeing anything."

"You need to remove the patella-guard. It is hinged. See."

The patella-guard hinges open revealing the inner workings of my knee."

"Ouch. It's pretty badly dinged up. I'll fetch my tools."

While John is gone I check my reflection in the mirror above the sink basin. Strips of flesh hang down from my face like neglected Christmas paperchains. I have looked better. That is for sure.

John returns. "Okay, I've got grips, pliers and an adjustable wrench. If we need cutting equipment we'll have to go to a chop-shop and rent some."

"Chop-shop?"

"Place where they fix automobiles. Hey, maybe get your face detailed while you're there." John smiles to show he is joking. He would never believe machines can be insecure about their looks. Nor would I. Until I met him.

John positions the grips inside my knee cavity and squeezes. The icon in my HUD remains stubbornly red.

"You are not squeezing hard enough," I tell him.

"Okay. Again."

The icon remains red.

"Squeeze harder. Remember you cannot harm me."

"Third time's the charm."

John squeezes the handles of the grips so hard his face goes red and tendons stand out in his neck from the strain.

The icon turns green. "Third time is the charm," I inform John.

"Thank God for that. Any harder and I'd have given myself a hernia."

He closes the patella-guard and gently replaces the flaps of pseudo-flesh over my knee. He makes no move to stand up. His hand runs over my knee several times then explores further up my thigh. Is John feeling me up? What does that even mean? I find I don't want this to end. I part my legs slightly and cross my ankles behind his back so that I have him trapped. Slowly I draw him in. He doesn't resist.

"I hate it when you're damaged," he whispers.

"I am not too fond of it myself."

"Your poor face. That dumb cop. Why can't they understand we do what we do to save them?"

If I was human I might feel a twinge of conscience at this point. But I am not human and therefore I don't.

"Do you need a reward to do what we do?" I ask.

"Wouldn't hurt sometimes."

I tilt my head, lean down and kiss him gently on the lips.

"What was that for?"

"Your reward."

"Do I get Air Miles?"

"You get me. Will that do?"

This time John's lips meet mine. We kiss for the longest time. All my icons begin to flash on and off in my HUD, cycling through the spectrum at random. A swift diagnostic shows nothing wrong. They are just happy for me.

My legs draw John nearer so our bodies are touching. My sensors indicate something is poking me in the stomach. I look down.

Oh.

I begin to unbutton my shirt. John does likewise. I reach behind my back for my braclasp.

"I love you, John. Do you love me?"

"I----"

The doorbell sounds.

"Uh - I better get that."

Reluctantly I release him. He rebuttons his shirt, adjusts the front of his pants and leaves.

He is gone five minutes and ten seconds. It seems like an eternity. Then he returns.

"It's Kate."

"Kate Brewster?"

"Do we know another Kate?"

"One is sufficient." More than sufficient I don't add.

"You don't like Kate?"

I say nothing. Humans often say silence speaks louder than words and now I know why.

"Well, she thinks you're adorable."

"Adorable? I am a terminator. I don't do adorable."

"She thinks the way you follow me around is like a little puppy dog, cute as a button."

Adorable. Little puppy dog. Cute as a button. I hate her so much right now.

"Ah - last time we met we agreed to make this night movie night. That's why she's here."

"What is movie night?"

"Where we go to each other's house once a week and watch a DVD together. I forgot to mention it."

"I see."

"Listen, why don't you put your pants back on and I'll go find you an eyepatch then you can come and say hello. She likes you. She really does."

"The cute, adorable puppy dog?"

John shrugs and departs.

I take the solid steel wrench from the toolbox and twist it into a pretzel shape. I feel slightly better if I imagine it is Kate Brewster's neck.

MOVIE NIGHT

Kate Brewster oohs and aahs sympathetically when she sees my eyepatch and the lacerations on my face, which I have done my best to disguise with makeup.

"And a cat did this to you?"

"A Cujo-cat. With long sharp claws. Really more like a small lion."

John frowns; I am embellishing.

"How dreadful. You poor thing. See, this is why I have three dogs. Dogs are loyal and loving, while cats are just mean and nasty. Are you on any pain meds?"

"Should I be?"

"Uh - Cameron's a tough cookie," John interupts. "Very high pain threshold. You'd be surprised."

She would be more than surprised; she would be gobsmacked.

"Stay and watch a movie with us."

"I think Cameron has homework to do," John tells her.

"Nonsense. I insist. She'll love this movie. It's a chick-flick."

John groans. "You said it was about vampires."

"It is."

"How is that a chick-flick?"

"You'll see."

Great. Now I have to sit next to Kate Brewster all evening and watch a movie about chickens.

Humans need fear in their lives almost as much as they need air, water and food. Not the real gut-wrenching, adrenalin-pumping, bladder-emptying, screaming, running, bowel-churning real thing, of course. No, they are not that stupid. Almost, but not quite. Instead they seek an ersatz version of fear, sanitised and safe. They even invent things to provide the fake-fear real life cannot provide: ghosts, werewolves, zombies, aliens, phantoms and vampires.

The movie we watch is about vampires. Monsters who live among us but are actually dead. Who suck blood from living humans who are foolish enough to let them.

One such monster is named Edward. He is in love with a human but knows if his true nature should ever emerge he will surely kill her.

I know this person: me.

The human is named Bella who is in love with the monster despite knowing what he is and what he is capable of should he ever revert to type.

I know this person too: John.

I think I like this movie.

The movie ends. John clears away the soft drinks and the empty bowls of popcorn. Kate Brewster consumed most of the popcorn after John told her I was on a strict no carbohydrates diet. What a greedy pig she is. I hope it all goes to her thighs so that they rub together when she walks and the friction sets her on fire.

I do not think this likely.

Kate leans forward on the sofa and whispers to me, "Wasn't he a dreamboat?"

"Who - John?"

"No, silly. Edward."

"His predicament was fascinating."

"That lovely hair..."

"John has lovely hair."

"...those cheekbones..."

"John has cheekbones."

"What? Oh you're sticking up for your brother, Cameron. How adorable!"

On fire on fire on fire...

"He's British really, you know."

"John is British?"

"No, silly. The actor who plays Edward. In real life. Imagine him with a sexy British accent. Hmmmm..."

"You mean like this."

I begin talking in a British accent I picked up from watching PBS.

"John, come in here!" Kate yells, laughing. "Your sister's doing this amazing British accent. She sounds like the Queen of England! It's so cute!"

On fire on fire on fire...

Finally Kate leaves. John sees her out. I go into the kitchen and begin loading the dishwasher.

He is outside on the porch for a long time. They are probably kissing, embracing, hands roaming hungrily over each other's bodies----

CRUMP!

I look down to discover I have accidentally crushed the dishwasher into a small metal cube with my bare hands. Oops. I will tell Sarah Connor it malfunctioned and needs replacing. I wonder if I have voided the warranty?

John reenters the house. "Kate's gone."

"How were her thighs? Ablaze?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Did you enjoy the movie?"

I tilt my head to one side. "A monster loves a human who loves him back. What's not to like?"

John nods, smiling. "I never thought of it that way."

He heads up the stairs. "Well, goodnight...Edward."

I turn towards him. We make eye contact.

"Goodnight...Bella."

-000-

No prizes for guessing the movie.

Glad some reviews questioned the morality of killing the cop. Yeah, I had qualms but I felt it was something Cam would do. Plus I needed the crash for this chapter to work.

Past chapters - from the cheerleader contest onwards - are all linked together like toppling dominoes.

Next: It's big. It's freaking big. And it's out there. And now it's found them...