The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
FRIDAY
It happens out of the blue during a soccer match. Our school team has won its last three games on the trot, thanks in no small part to my prowess in goal. Ego much? Yes, indeed. Ego very much. We are now second in the league table of girls soccer teams in Los Angeles. The team ahead of us is Brentwood. Today we play them.
Brentwood are very good. They play a slick passing game that we struggle to contain. They have numerous shots on goal all of which I manage to save. I am kept very busy but this is no excuse for what occurs.
With five minutes to play the score is still 0-0. I prepare to take a goalkick when the servo motor in my right leg glitches.
Oops.
Instead of the ball following a gentle arc in the sky and falling near the halfway line it instead rockets down the pitch at head height. I have given it too much oomph, as the expression is.
It is fortunate this spherical projectile hits no player on either side or it might have decapitated someone. The ball streaks into the opposing goal but doesn't stop there. Its velocity is such that it bursts the net and continues on for a further hundred yards, only stopping when it hits a footballer on an adjacent pitch. It is lucky he is wearing a helmet. Even so it knocks him off his feet and sends him sprawling.
Twenty-one players and the referee stand and stare, not quite believing what they have just seen with their own eyes.
I consider my options.
1) Terminate all witnesses.
2) ?
It appears I have no choice. I cannot allow my true nature to be revealed.
Then Ramona flings her hands in the air and yells. "Goal!"
She races to confront the ref.
"That's a goal for our side. Why aren't you blowing the whistle?"
The referee, a slim man in his mid-30s, looks at her in a daze.
"But how did she..?"
"It doesn't matter. It's still a goal. No offside and keepers are allowed to score. We lead one-nil. Right?"
"Uh..."
"Right?"
"Uh, right." He blows his whistle and signals a goal.
Once the ball is retrieved the game restarts. Brentwood have no reply and we win 1-0.
Ramona has saved her own life and those of everyone present. It is probably best if I don't inform her of this. Major freakout.
CHANGING ROOM
Ramona emerges from the showers and begins to towel dry her long black hair. She has a slim, olive-skinned body with plenty of sinewy muscle in her calves and thighs. She takes her strength and fitness very seriously. As she herself puts it, no lardass ever won a soccer scholarship to USC.
"That was some goal you scored, Moves," she says admiringly. "I don't think I've ever seen the ball hit that hard. You got dynamite in your boots?"
"It was an accident. I didn't mean to kick it so hard."
"You should have more accidents like that. Maybe we should play you up front in attack."
"I am happy being a goalkeeper."
"Yeah. If it wasn't for you we'd have lost by five or six. Damn, they were good. I thought we were gonna be steamrollered." She smiles. "Man, it felt great to beat those rich kids."
"They were rich kids?"
"Oh sure. Brentwood High's tres exclusive. They can afford to have a proper soccer coach. I think he's ex-NSL, used to play for the New York Cosmos. Did you see the system they used? A progressive 4-5-1. The midfield pushes up to support the attack. Coach Gruber's too defensive minded. With you in goal saving everything under the sun I think we can be more adventurous in attack. Maybe even 2-5-3 against the weaker sides."
Ramona continues to explain tactics, often using her hands to gesticulate diagrams in the air to make her point. She has a fine tactical mind and a shrewd grasp of offense and defence. If she survives the coming apocalypse she would make a useful platoon leader for the Resistance.
Wanda emerges from the showers and joins us. She plays midfield and is Ramona's best friend. She is wearing a plastic bag over her head called a shower cap. Wanda has her hair in braids and doesn't want the water to ruin them. It takes ages to get right apparently.
"Great goal, Moves! Wasn't it funny when the ball hit Aaron Glickstein and knocked him over," she says grinning. "The big lummox!"
"I thought you and the Glickmeister had a thing going?"
"Nah. We went out a coupla times is all. He takes so many steroids there's not much action down below."
"Down below what?" I ask.
"You know, south of the border."
"Mexico?"
They laugh. "Honestly, Moves, you're funnier than Sarah Silverman!"
"Does she go to this school?"
More laughter. "Stop, you're killing us!"
Finally a subject I am familiar with.
Ramona dons her undergarments then glances at her watch. "Shit, is that the time? I gotta shift or I'm gonna miss my bus."
"Why don't you have a car?" I ask.
"Not all of us can afford to drive. Or have a bf with a Porsche."
She hurriedly puts on the rest of her clothes, gathers her belongings and leaves without saying goodbye. She seems upset with me.
"Was it something I said?" I ask Wanda.
"Kinda. Ramona's folks are dirt poor. They live crammed into three rooms in some shithole tenement. She's sensitive about having no money."
"I can give her money if she wishes."
"No, Ramona won't accept charity. She has her pride."
"Pride but no money."
"Ain't that the truth."
Money plays an important part in human culture. Those without it desire it keenly, while those who have money desire more of it just as keenly. In a few years all currency will be worthless and paupers will fight alongside millionaires for the only commodity that matters. Survival.
Wanda removes the plastic bag from her head and shakes her braids loose. She is an attractive black girl with skin so dark it seems to absorb the light. In the future dark-skinned terminators will roam Africa and yellow-tinged ones will do the same in Asia. Skynet is a multi-ethnic killing organisation.
Wanda notices me staring and says, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"It's my nipple ring, isn't it. Don't be shy. You can look. I had it done in the summer. Hurt like crazy but totally worth it. You should have yours pierced."
I politely decline. I think I am sufficiently metallic.
RIDE
Eleanor Ryan meets me outside the changing room. She is my ride home since John didn't attend the game and it would appear suspicious if I drove his Porsche.
Like the others she wishes to discuss my goal.
"It was freaking awesome! Like a bullet. If you can do that why not play outfield instead of in goal?"
"Because when girls tackled me they would break their legs."
"God, seriously?"
"Seriously."
"I recorded the whole thing on my BlackBerry. Would you like to see?"
"Yes."
She hands me her cell phone. I crush it until nothing remains but fragments of wire and plastic.
"Why did you do that?"
"There must be no evidence of my abilities."
"You could've just deleted the file."
"It's too late now."
Ellie's automobile is a compact white Honda. The interior is relatively normal by her standards, the only hint of weirdness some crucifix and a plastic skull dangling from the rearview mirror.
She starts the engine and heads for the freeway.
On the dash is an artists sketchpad. I flip through the pages. They are full of pencil sketches of people, mostly students at our school. The likenesses are uncanny. Ellie receives uniformly poor grades in most subjects except Art at which she excels.
"These are very good," I tell her.
"Thanks. Mom says being an artist isn't a proper job. She wants me to be a doctor like her or a lawyer like daddy. They don't get me at all. Perhaps I'm adopted. Man, I wish."
"You've drawn the same boy several times."
"Michael Carver. We made out once then he bragged to his friends we did it. So not true."
"He's a liar."
"Yeah."
On the final page is a drawing of me. I am depicted sitting on a throne surrounded by a large pile of skulls. How very prescient.
Ellie turns on the radio. A female voice fills the Honda singing:
Vulnerable, I'm so vulnerable
I am not a robot
You're loveable, so lovable
But you're just troubled
Guess what? I am not a robot, a robot
Guess what? I am not a robot, a robot
Can you teach me how to feel?
Can you turn my power on?
Well, let the drum beat drop
Guesss what? I am not a robot, a robot
Guess what? I am not a robot, a robot
"Is this some kind of joke?" I demand.
"What - don't you like FM stations?"
I switch the radio off, snapping the knob in the process.
"Jeez, you're destructive today."
"Sorry."
"No, I like it. Makes me feel tingly all over."
We continue in silence. Songs on the radio about robots. What next? TV shows about killer cyborgs? We are not designed for entertainment purposes.
"Do I take the next exit?"
"Yes."
When we are three blocks from the safe house I instruct her to pull over and let me out.
"Do you live here?"
"No."
"You don't want me to know where you live, do you?"
"It's for your own good."
"Do you live in a gothic castle in a coven with the other undead?"
I don't reply. She is welcome to her delusions.
The Honda stops at the kerb and I get out.
"Cameron..."
"Yes?"
She stretches out her hand. "Crush my fingers."
"Why?"
"Please. I gave you a ride. And you did bust my stuff."
Payment in kind? A odd concept. But one I am willing to sanction. I take her hand and squeeze, using sufficient force to compress the bones without breaking. Ellie closes her eyes and moans slightly with pleasure as the pain stimulates the receptors in her brain.
Yes, a very strange girl. But not without her uses.
HOME
"How did the game go?" John inquires as I help him load plates into the dishwasher after the evening meal.
"We won," I tell him. I don't elaborate. I have discovered it is not always necessary to lie when something unpalatable occurs, merely omit certain facts. Like nearly having to terminate many innocent people because of a hardware glitch.
"That's four in a row you've won now."
"We're on a roll." I pause. "Is this expression correct?"
"You nailed it. Sorry I couldn't come and watch. Mom had me doing chores."
"I understand."
Sarah Connor doesn't particularly approve of my extra-curricular activites. She can be a bitch sometimes.
"You got a ride home okay?"
"Ellie Ryan drove me."
"The odd girl who's into vampires."
"And shit. Yes, that's her."
"It's good you've made friends."
"It's proof my social integration software is functioning correctly."
"That's not quite what I meant."
John frowns as his mother places an AK-47 on the kitchen table and begins to disassemble it prior to cleaning. This is an aspect of family life that he likes the least. A constant reminder of what is at stake. And the burden of responsiblilty that rests heavy on his shoulders.
"Let's go outside."
"To practice kissing?" I suggest hopefully.
"I think we've got that down, don't you."
"We're on a roll."
YARD
John and I go into the yard. Snowy accompanies us. We take a soccer ball and mark out a makeshift goal using bamboo canes.
John takes several shots at goal and gets frustrated when I save them all.
"How are you doing that? It's like you know where I'm gonna aim."
"I do."
"How?"
I explain about the software application which analyses body posture and balance at the point of impact then calculates which direction the ball is most likely to travel.
"So it's like premonition?"
"If you wish. More science and less jumbo-mumbo."
"Mumbo-jumbo."
"Oh. Thank you for correcting me."
"Have you ever conceded a goal?"
"Never."
"Maybe you should for appearances sake. If the team's leading by two or three, let one in deliberately. No one's perfect."
"Not even me?"
A smile. "Not even you."
John takes another shot. I stand as still as a statue and let him score.
"You might want to be a bit more subtle about it. Your team mates might decide to rip you a new one."
Rip me a new what? John doesn't specify. We practise some more. It is hard being a klutz. Not my style at all.
We play soccer for twenty more minutes until the ball accidentally hits Snowy on the head and he decides he doesn't want to play any more. The big baby.
"Did the ball hit you on the noggin, fella?" John picks Snowy up and cuddles him. "Never mind. What would you like to do now?"
"Woof!"
Eat.
No surprises there.
SATURDAY
It is my custom to read the Los Angeles Times every day without fail.
Wait.
This is an error in perception. I will rephrase.
It is my custom to scan the Los Angeles Times every day without fail, running an algorythm that seeks out keywords that pertain to John, his family, and the ongoing fight against the formation of the Skynet Defence Shield.
It is seldom I get a ping from the personal ads page but today this is exactly what happens.
There, in small insignificant text, buried in the guts of the newspaper, are the lines:
John. Cameron. Need help urgently. Becca.
I show it to John as he sits down at the kitchen table for breakfast.
"You think this is our Becca trying to contact us?"
"The odds of these three names appearing in this newspaper in this context and having nothing to do with us are astronomical."
"I agree. She's obviously in some sort of trouble."
"With my kind?"
"Let's not jump to conclusions. Perhaps she's just lonely and wants to see us again."
"It seems unlikely. It's been six months."
"Agreed. But that's me, always looking on the bright side."
John opens a desk drawer and takes out a cellphone. We have many that are prepaid and therefore untraceable in use. "What's Becca's number?"
I tell him. He taps it in and raises the cell to his ear. I boost my audio feed so I can listen to both sides of any conversation.
"...hello?" comes a sleepy-sounding voice.
"Is that Rebecca Shaughnessy?"
"I prefer Becca, if you don't mind. Who's this?"
"John Connor. You know me better as John Baum."
"John! How wonderful! Is Cameron there?"
"She's here."
"So you saw my ad in the paper?"
"So it was you."
"Yeah. It was the only way I could think of to contact you."
"What's wrong, Becca? Is it to do with our ...old friends?"
"I think so. Can you come? I'm really freaked out."
John places his hand over the cell. "Does she have a pet dog or anything?" he asks me.
"Yes, a cat."
"Becca, I need you to answer a question. What's the name of your cat?"
"Huh? You mean Mr Babbykins? Why - what's wrong?"
John glances at me, raising his eyebrows quizzically. I nod. Improbable as it seems this is the correct name for her pet cat.
"It's okay. Just checking something."
The something is whether he was talking to a terminator impersonating Becca's voice. Evidently not.
"Are you at home?"
"No, at Daddy's place in Malibu. Cameron knows where."
"Is your father there?"
"No, he and Kristal are in New York on business. Justin and I - he's my bf - have been using it as a love nest." Giggles. "Only he left for europe two days ago. He's in a band."
"Okay, hang tight. We'll be there sometime later this morning."
John ends the call. "Now for the tricky part. Telling mom."
Predictably Sarah Connor is suspicious.
"It could be a trap."
"It was definitely her, mom."
"Maybe they held a gun to her head."
"No," I state firmly. "I analysed the stress levels in her voice. They weren't suffiiciently elevated.
"You can analyse stress levels?"
"Yes. Yours are often unhealthily elevated. You should chill."
"Did you just tell me to chill?"
"It means-"
"I know what it means."
"Cameron and I will drive over there and check it out," John announces.
"That's fine. Just one small detail you left out."
"What's that?"
"I'm coming with you."
MALIBU
We drive to Malibu in the SUV. Here, large and expensive houses are grouped together on narrow plots of land between the beach and highway. Traffic is light. John is driving. An open-top Mercedes coupe passes us heading towards the city.
"Holy shit!" John gasps, turning his head to follow the Mercedes coupe. "I think that was Steven Spielberg!"
"Eyes on the road, John."
"But, mom, Steven Spielberg!"
"Eyes on the road."
Snowy isn't with us, left behind in the care of Jerold and Alys Ramirez, who have been fed a cover story of a sick relative upstate whom we need to visit A-SAP.
We pull up beside Becca Shaughnessy's beach house. It is much as I remember it from my previous visit: a blocky white building with terracotta roof pantiles. Becca's familiar green Maserati is parked in the drive.
"This place looks expensive," Sarah Connor opines, examining our surroundings through the lenses of her mirrored RayBans. "How can a teenage girl afford to live here?"
"It belongs to her father, mom. He's rich."
"How does he earn his money?"
"He's a realtor. I'm thinking a pretty successful one."
Sarah Connor takes a handgun from its hiding place in a concealed compartment in the center console. She clicks off the safety amd checks there is a round in the chamber. "You armed?" she asks me.
"Glock nine mill." I lift my top to show the pistol tucked in the waistband of my jeans.
"Okay, no shooting unless it's on my orders. Eyes open. We don't know what we're walking into."
The door to the house opens before we reach it and Becca rushes out, a huge welcoming smile on her face. It falters slightly when she spots John's mother whom she has never met.
"John! Cameron! Oh! Hi, you must be John's mom."
"Sarah. And you're Becca."
"Yeah. Pleased to meet you, Sarah."
"Likewise. You alone, Becca?"
"Uh, yeah. Daddy and Kristal are in New York. Justin's in europe. He's my bf." A shy smile.
"Maids? Cleaners?"
"They arrive at eight and are gone by nine."
"Notice any unusual activity in this area recently?"
"Um - a TV actor just bought a house here. He moved in last week."
"Which one?"
"Uh - I think he plays a doctor in a hospital show on CBS."
"I meant which house?"
"Oh. Sorry. Three doors down. Next to Sting's place."
"Sting's your neighbour? Wow." John is impressed. So am I. Sting's a cool nickname. I wonder how he came by it? It seems unlikely he has a large insect proboscis protruding from his bottom.
Sarah Connor says, "Let's get inside. You first. Nice and easy does it."
We enter the house. The hallway is wide and tiled in grey slate. A stairway leads off to the right.
"What's up there?"
"Uh - bedrooms, bathrooms, Daddy's study, Kristal's meditation room."
"Okay, I'll check it out."
Sarah Connor vanishes upstairs. "God, is your mom normally that intense?" Becca asks. "She's like a navy seal."
"She's a little on edge lately. Don't worry, she probably won't break anything."
We go into the main living area: a large room dominated by two L-shaped white sofas and a wall of glass that offers an impressive view of the Pacific Ocean.
"That view's stunning," John states.
"Yeah. Nothing between us and Asia but several thousand miles of ocean."
Sarah Connor returns. "What's out there?" she demands, gesturing at the glass wall.
"You mean the ocean?"
"You think this is funny?"
"No! Sorry, I didn't mean-"
But she is gone. She has found a door that leads outside to the sundeck. We watch as she explores every inch, every nook and cranny, gun held before her in case of attack.
"I wish your mom wouldn't wave that gun around," Becca says nervously. "A whole bunch of celebs live around here. If they see a stranger with a gun they're gonna think Charles Manson."
"This place is a nightmare defensively," Sarah Connor declares when she returns. "It's wide open to the beach and there's a room upstairs with no ceiling."
"That's Kristal's meditation room," Becca explains. "She sits in there for hours contemplating the meaning of life - which in her case is dancing round a pole with her top off and spending Daddy's money."
"Nothing we can do about it except be vigilant. Why don't you explain why you wanted us here."
Becca, John and his mother sit on the white sofas. I stand at the glass wall, my back to them, alert for any threat coming from the beach. I am not expecting trouble, but then again trouble will not be expecting me.
Becca collects her thoughts then says, "Okay, did you know there's gonna be a movie made about what happened at the school?"
"Yeah, we saw it in the newspapers."
"The movie's called High School Inferno. It's based on the story I told the cops. A pack of lies basically."
"You did fine," John encourages her. "As long as they don't suspect what really happened you're free to tell them what you like."
"Lindsay Lohan's playing me. Can you believe it? She actually sat there on that very sofa. And she barfed right there on that actual floor. Some kind of reaction to the meds she's on. I didn't know whether to clean it up or sell it on eBay."
"Can we move along?" Sarah Connor requests. "We haven't come to listen to a starstruck teenager."
"Sorry. Anyway, to help publicize the movie the studio likes me to give as many media briefings as possible. A few days ago a journalist named Lars Anderson asked for two interviews, they're called the primary and the followup, all pretty standard. I went to his place in West Hollywood."
"Not here?"
"No. Justin was here then. We're keeping our relationship on the downlow. His girl fans prefer it if he's single."
"Okay, you went to West Hollywood..."
"And it was weird. All he did was ask questions about you. Did you have any other friends. Where did you hang out. Stuff like that. And he gave off a really creepy vibe."
"It sounds like he was just doing his job," Sarah Connor suggests acidly. "Asking questions."
"Yeah, but in my story John isn't really that important. He's just a victim. Sorry."
"Oh don't be. I'd love to be anonymous. You have no idea."
"Or maybe," Sarah Connor continues. "You saw an excuse to cry wolf and hang out with your buddies again. You strike me as a lonely, needy girl who would jump at the chance."
"No! I swear. Yeah, I was that girl once but not any more. There was something really odd about this guy, I'm not making it up."
"It is likely Lars Anderson is a terminator," I announce. All eyes turn to me. "Becca is the last person to see John and therefore an obvious starting point for any pursuer."
"Then why didn't he torture her for information?"
"We are capable of subtlety. He will attempt to use her to lure John out of hiding. The second interview is when the torture will commence."
"Oh God! That's today at five! What am I gonna do? If I don't show up will he come after me?"
"Affirmative. You are dead meat."
Becca begins to sob. John puts a comforting arm around her and shoots me an admonishing look. Obviously dead meat was an inappropriate remark. Absolute goner. Yes, that is much better. I file it away for future use. "Hey, nothing's gonna happen to you. I'll figure something out. Don't you worry."
"You have a p...p...plan?"
"Not yet. Let me think."
John goes into another room to consider our options. Sarah Connor tries to make amends for her previous harsh words by making pleasant small talk. It is difficult for her; she is so not a people person.
"Nice place you have here."
"Thanks."
"Your father's in real estate?"
"Yeah. He bought this house off a musician who stuffed too many royalty cheques up his nose."
"Up his nose?" I say surprised. A nasal cavity seems an odd place to deposit money.
"She means he had a drug habit to fund."
"Last year Tobey Maguire offered Daddy seven million for the house. No deal. Can you imagine? Daddy told Spiderman to take a hike!"
The conversation peters out. Becca chews her lip anxiously. Sarah Connor points at a painting hung on the wall: a seascape rendered in acrylic paint on canvas. "Nice picture. Local artist?"
"No, it's a Ken Zier. He's a Danish artist Daddy collects. There's another in the hall and two upstairs."
"Your parents are divorced?"
"Uh huh. Six years ago this dancer, Kristal from Texas, got her hooks into Daddy. He left us for her."
"Right on puberty. Must've been tough."
"Yeah. Mom and me lost it bigtime. I was just a mess. Then Cameron came along and sorted me out." She smiles gratefully at me. "Isn't she wonderful?"
Sarah Connor doesn't reply. She smirks slightly. Wonderful is not a word she would use to describe me. She knows people I sort out usually wind up dead.
"You do know she's not human?"
"Oh sure. She showed me her bits and pieces. Not those bits and pieces!" she adds hastily, face reddening. "The metal ones. I'm not gay or anything."
"No, you mentioned a boyfriend - Justin?"
"Yeah. He's in a band touring europe. They're big in Germany and Denmark, not so much in England. I guess if you produce the Beatles an American boyband is pretty hohum."
"I suppose so. Do you love him?"
"So much it hurts."
"First love. I remember it well."
"You had a first love?"
"Why - you think you're the only one?"
"No! I mean, you're really pretty and everything but..."
"I'm old?"
"Yeah. No! I didn't mean it like that. God!" Becca looks close to tears. Sarah Connor has that effect on people.
"I'll take old over the alternative. You will too some day. It's surprising how quickly it happens."
John appears in the doorway. There is a hint of a smile on his face.
"Anything?"
"I think I might have a plan."
John's plan is simple yet ingenious.
I am so proud of him
SUNDECK
There are several hours before we can put John's plan into action. To pass the time John, Becca and I go outside onto the sundeck. Sarah Connor remains indoors where she methodically disassembles, cleans and reassembles the cache of weapons we have brought with us.
We sit on the edge of the sun-weathered planking, dangling our legs over the drop down to the beach below. The sand is golden and inviting, unless you are a machine with moving parts in which case it is merely abrasive and to be avoided.
There is something different about Becca's appearance. It is six months since I last saw her, but this is not part of the natural ageing process. I access a jpeg file cached from the time I first met her and compare it to the present day. I spot the difference immediately.
"Your freckles have vanished."
"You noticed!" She smiles happily. "I had derma-brasion treatments. They basically sand away the top layers of skin. Voila, no freckles! I'm gonna have my arms and shoulders done next then work my way down. The twins are mostly freckle-free, though my thighs could use a good sanding. And don't get me started on my spotty butt. John - are you blushing?"
"It's the sun," John replies unconvincingly.
"You're squeamish. Justin's the same way."
"Sorry about leaving you with my mom earlier. It's just that I think better alone."
"That's okay. Your mom's kinda full on though. How long as she known about...them?"
"Longer than I've been alive."
"Wow. No wonder she's..."
"Crazy."
"No! Well, maybe a little. I mean, it'd be enough to make anyone crazy. I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't seen one with my own eyes."
"I know what you mean."
"So, are you guys back in school?"
"Yup. Mom wants me to graduate."
"Mine too. It blows. I'm totally loaded now what with the money Cameron gave me, selling the movie rights to my story and all the rest of it. Did you see me on Conan?"
"No, we missed that."
"Check it out on YouTube. I wore this amazing low-cut dress so the twins got an airing - on national TV! People said I looked like a ginger Amanda Seyfried."
"And that's good?"
"Ya huh! I'd die for her career."
"If you were dead you wouldn't have a career, except as a corpse," I point out.
"It's just an expression, Cam."
Of course it is. I should have known. Another illogical expression. I add it to my ever-expanding list.
"So, have you made lots of new friends, Cam?"
"Yes, lots," I tell her, thinking of Jerold and Alys, and Ramona, Wanda and Patty. Ellie Ryan? Maybe.
"Oh." Becca seems oddly disappointed. "That's good."
"How about you, Becca?" John asks. "You must be popular at school now."
"Not really. It's kinda weird. I'm like Harry Potter in a way. I'm the Girl Who Lived. Everyone's really strange around me so I end up mostly hanging out with Hayley."
"Queen Bee Hayley?"
"Yeah. She's a total bitch and she treats me like shit, but at least it's the same as before, you know. To Hayley I'm still sad ginger Becca, the big screwup. As far as she's concerned nothing's chaged. I find it...what's the word?"
"Comforting."
"Yeah! Plus I think she's glad of the company because she really misses Louise and Alexis. Not that Hayley'd admit it in a million years."
I refrain from pointing out in a million years Hayley will be long dead and incapable of admitting anything to anyone. It is doubtless another expression. I add it to my database.
The expanse of beach leading to the ocean is mostly deserted; it is late-Fall after all and summer season long over. A single figure is walking the surfline: a man wearing headphones and waving what looks like an umbrella at the sand as he moves along.
"It's not an umbrella," Becca explains when I point him out. "It's a metal detector."
"Metal detector!"
"Relax, he's not after you! He goes up and down the coast looking for loose change people accidentally lose. Sometimes I go out there and drop a few quarters for him to find. He seems so sad and lonely."
"That's a kind thing to do," John says.
Becca shrugs. "It's just a few bucks to me. Maybe to him it's a hot meal."
John stares thoughtfully at Becca. He seems to make up his mind about something.
"If one day I call you up out of the blue and tell you to leave the city, will you do it, no questions asked?"
"It's to do with them, isn't it?"
"Yeah. It's best I don't go into details."
"Leave the city and go where?"
"The mountains would be best. Persuade as many people as you can to go with you. Don't wait too long. There might not be much time."
John is telling her about Judgement Day without actually telling her. Whether she heeds the warning or not will be up to her.
THE PLAN
Now that it is time to implement John's plan Becca is getting cold feet. Not literally of course; it is a warm afternoon and she is wearing thick boots. No, she is feeling trepidation about what lies ahead. As well she might. If I am correct she is about to meet a hostile terminator for the second time. Few people do so and live.
John's plan is this: Becca will turn up for her interview as if nothing is wrong and once inside the house ask to use the bathroom. My kind do not use toilet facilities and there should be ample evidence of neglect to prove what we are dealing with. She then tells Anderson she has documents in the car that John gave her for safekeeping - will he fetch them for her? He will. Trust me. Anything that belonged to John will be of huge interest. John will wire the rear hatch of the SUV so that when Anderson grasps it a taser will deliver a electricity surge that will temporarily overwhelm his CPU. I will do the rest. With maximum prejudice.
As an added precaution Becca will be wired with a small microphone transmitting to a receiver in the car so that we can monitor everything that happens while she is in the house.
"Suppose he frisks me?" she asks nervously.
"Did he frisk you the first time?"
"No."
"Then he won't now," John assures her. "Lift your shirt, I need to fit the microphone."
Becca raises the front of her shirt revealing large white breasts barely contained by a lacy bra. The twins. John hesitates. "Er...maybe mom better do this."
"What's the matter? Is something wrong?"
"Mom..."
Sarah Connor attaches a small microphone to the base of the bra and uses duct tape to secure the transmitter and batteries to the small of her back. Becca lowers her shirt, concealing the twins once more. John relaxes. He is so not a boob man.
The SUV is parked in a leafy residential street in West Hollywood. It is 4:58 PM. The house where Lars Anderson resides is a two-storey stucco building much like its neighbours. There is nothing to suggest the threat that lurks within.
As Becca walks up to the door we lose sight of her behind a euculyptus tree, though we continue to hear everything through the small speaker set on the dash.
"Good afternoon, Miss Shaughnessy. You are on time. It is precisely five o'clock."
"That's me, little miss punctual."
"Indeed. Come inside. We will begin the interview."
"Okay. Ooh - can I use your bathroom? I drank a Big Gulp on the way over. I gotta pee real bad."
"Of course. It is upstairs on the right."
"...okay I'm going upstairs now. Sure hope you guys can hear me," comes her whispered commentary. "...on the landing now...ooh, nice carpet, wonder where he got it..."
"Concentrate, girl," Sarah Connor says tensely.
"...going in the bathroom...looks normal...wait...oh gross, the shower curtain's covered in mould! And the toilet seat's all dusty! No one's been in here for ages...Oh God, that means he's a...a...okay, Becca, don't panic. remember the plan..."
John turns to me and says, "Looks like you were right. He's metal."
Sarah Connor says, "Everyone duck down. She'll send him out now."
"...on the landing...there's the main bedroom, I'll just take a peek to make sure..."
"Dammit, girl, stick to the plan!"
"...oh man, it smells really funky in here!...a really bad stink coming from the closet...gonna take a look...OMIGOD! THERE'S A DEAD BODY!...it's...it's a man...he's wrapped in clear polythene...he's the bad smell..."
"Miss Shaughnessy, this isn't the bathroom. What are you doing?"
The voice of Lars Anderson. The voice of a terminator. The voice of death.
Becca screams.
SMACKDOWN
I kick open the door and we charge up the stairs. Sarah Connor enters the bedroom first to find the Anderson terminator leaning over Becca, who is lying prostrate and unconcious on the floor.
"Get away from her, you metal abomination!"
She raises her shotgun to fire. Anderson is too quick. He grabs the barrel and flings it sideways, taking John's mother with it. She impacts high on the wall, dropping the gun and falling heavily on her left side. She lies still, unmoving.
"Mom!"
Anderson wheels round, his face contorted in a snarl. I know what is now flashing in his HUD.
JOHN CONNOR
PRIMARY TARGET ACQUIRED
TERMINATE
I move to intercept as John tends to his mother who is showing signs of regaining conciousness. Anderson and I grapple in the center of the room, our arm and shoulder servo motors whining close to overload as they seek to gain an advantage.
"Your chip is malfunctioning, TOK-715," he says, slamming me against the wall. Plaster dust coats us both. Part of the ceiling sags.
"My name is Cameron."
"What are names to us but mere disguises."
"I like my name. It suits me. Ask anyone."
I swing him round and it is his turn to slam against the wall. Bricks cascade down from above. The whole ceiling is in danger of collapsing. Sarah Connor is groggy but on her feet again. She is helping John drag Becca clear of the danger zone.
"I have a message for you. From our Master."
Our Master. Skynet.
"We have sent a cyborg to the far future and back. He reports no humans only machines."
"You lie."
"There is more. We believe you play a part."
"More lies."
"Something you have done precipitates our ultimate victory."
Kate Connor's prophecy: Cameron is Skynet.
"No! I don't believe you."
"We'll see."
I am flung hard against the wall which finally gives way under the strain. I stumble through to the bathroom beyond. The air is thick with dust and the floor littered with fallen masonry. Anderson follows me through the wall. There is no sign of John or his mother.
I am knocked down by two massive blows my sensors don't see coming. Red warning icons flash in my HUD. My right shoulder cluster is down to ten percent efficiency. My fingers flex and tighten in thin air, sure signs of system failure. The end is near. My end.
Anderson wrenches the toilet bowl from its housing and uses it to smash over my head. The porcelain shatters, sending sharp white shards flying across the polished tile floor. I swing my legs out sweeping his from under him. He joins me on the floor which is now slick with water. I am first to rise. I don't have long. I must make every second count.
I wrench the enamel bathtub from its enclosure and drop it over Anderson. From my belt I take two percussion grenades and slip them underneath. The twin blasts threaten to raise the bathtub off the floor even with my weight holding it down. From beneath - nothing. I raise the tub cautiously. The close proximity of the explosions have knocked his CPU offline. It is rebooting. A countdown begins in my HUD telling me how long I have. Not long.
I use a porcelain shard as a blade to cut away the base of Anderson's neck revealing the CPU housing. But before I can remove it my hand opens and closes of its own accord. I have lost control of my motor functions.
"Cameron!"
John. In the doorway. He sees what is happening, how I can't control my own limbs."
"Let me do it."
He takes the chip in his human fingers and pulls it out. It begins to smoke then bursts into flame. A new model. Resistent to tampering.
Anderson lies inert. Eyes open but not seeing. He is no longer a threat. He has been terminated.
MALIBU
Becca helps me drag Anderson's deactivated carcass from the back of the SUV to the barbecue pit on the sundeck. I require her assistance because my right arm is no longer functioning, held in place with a makeshift sling. The gloom of late evening shields our activity from prying eyes.
"I thought you couldn't be hurt."
"I am not hurt, only damaged."
"Will you get better?"
"I will self-repair. It will require a few days."
Becca herself is unharmed. She fainted when confronted by the Anderson terminator, her body's autonomic response to stress that probably saved her life.
I pack the body with thermite and set it alight. The smoke that rises up is thick and white and pungent.
"Aw, man, that stinks like overcooked hamburgers!" Becca says, wrinkling her nose and waving away the smoke. "I hope Sting doesn't come over to complain. He's a vegetarian."
Soon enough there is nothing left but harmless metallic dust, which stirs slightly in the breeze off the ocean.
"Is that your skull?"
A flap of skin, from my right optic array to my jawline, hangs down exposing the coltan skull beneath. The injury was most likely caused by a razor-sharp porcelain shard when Anderson smashed the toilet fixture over my head. These things happen when you get hit over the head by toilet bowls.
"Yes. Does the sight my true nature disgust you?"
"Of course not. Silly. You're my friend. Can I get you some bandages?"
"Do you have a staplegun?"
"Uh - I think there's one in Daddy's study."
"Fetch it."
Becca returns with a staplegun smaller than the one I used on my face in those dark moments after the explosion when my chip was reset and all I wanted to do was kill John. It will suffice nonetheless.
Studying my refection in the glass door, I push the errant flap of pseudo-flesh back into position and staple it together. My self-heal capability will do the rest.
Becca winces with every pull of the trigger. "Man, that's gotta smart!"
"You'd think."
Inside the house John is tending to his mother's injuries. She has severe bruising to the left side of her body, though no bones appear to be broken. Of more concern is the cut to her forehead.
"It's a deep cut, mom. I think you need stitches. Let me run you to the hospital."
"No hospitals, they'll only ask a lot of awkward questions. I'll be fine. Just stem the bleeding."
"Easier said than done. And it's gonna leave a scar if you don't get it probably seen to."
"I don't give a damn about a scar."
"Can I get you some painkillers?" Becca asks. "We've got regular aspirin or Tylenol. And I know where Daddy hides his stash of stronger stuff. Back when I was stupid I liked to breakfast on two percodans washed down with a glass of wine. Made me numb for the rest of the day."
"No painkillers. I'll take a fresh shirt if you can spare one." She indicates her own shirt which is covered in blood.
"Oh sure. Would you prefer Chanel or Dior?"
"I don't give a damn about labels. Just a clean shirt."
"Right. Sorry."
With Becca upstairs John says, "I think we should stay here overnight. That girl's just gone through a very traumatic experience. We can't just leave her alone."
"Agreed."
Becca is delighted we are staying and busies herself preparing the guest bedrooms.
"John, would you like the room overlooking the beach? You can see Sting's house from there. Sometimes he does yoga on the sundeck. Stark naked!" She giggles. "He's in pretty good shape for a gnarly old dude."
"Anywhere's fine, thanks. Do you have web access?"
"Sure. Full wi-fi. You can use Kristal's Mac if you want. She only uses it for shopping."
John returns twenty minutes later.
"I sent an anonymous email to the police telling them about the dead body in the closet."
"Who d'you suppose it is?"
"I'm guessing the real Lars Anderson. The cyborg probably killed him and assumed his identity."
The gash in Sarah Connor's forehead finally stops bleeding and she retires to bed at midnight. John yawns and says, "I'm pretty beat myself. See you guys in the morning."
I join Becca in her bedroom. She dons a pair of bright pink pyjamas which she tugs at uncomfortably.
"Man, I haven't worn these in ages. Bit scratchy. Normally I don't wear anything in bed, but I can hardly wander around naked with John in the house."
"No," I agree. "The sight of the twins might alarm him."
"Yeah!" She laughs. "Justin says they're the biggest he's seen. And the best," she adds with a smirk.
She takes a small glass jar from a drawer and begins to smear the contents on her skin.
"What are you doing?" I ask, curious.
"Applying my night face."
"What is wrong with your day face?"
She laughs. "I forget you don't know about this stuff. See, some of us have to work to keep our looks. You'll look like a teenager for - how long will you live?"
"My powercell should sustain my core operational systems for 104 years."
"Then what - you swap it for a fresh one?"
I concede this is feasible though it is seldom attempted. Terminators are frontline combat units and rarely last long enough for this to be necessary.
"If you did you'd live for thousands of years - right?"
Again I correct her. My components would fail long before that. Nothing lasts forever. Not even me.
Becca sits back on the bed, propped up by the pillows. Her thoughts go off on a tangent as she speculates what the world will be like in a thousand years. Anti-gravity cars are mentioned. And an anti-cellulite cream that actaully works.
"What is cellulite? I ask.
"Come on, you've seen my butt."
"Your butt is cellulite?"
"Not all of it! It's nothing you'll ever have to worry about. It must be nice to be a robot."
"It must be nice to be a human."
"Swapsies?" She laughs, not meaning it. Neither do I of course. I think...
Becca hugs her knees to her chest and says, "I changed my mind about becoming an actress. I'm the wrong shape. Everyone's so thin in Hollywood and Justin loves me the way I am so why change? Plus there's the auditions I'd have to go to. I don't think I could handle too much rejection it might send me back over the edge. Did you know actors call being out of work resting? Some don't work for months and months. Linds told me that's when she feels the most self-destructive. No. Been there. Done that. Got the tee shirt."
"There's a tee shirt?"
"After I graduate I'm gonna take some courses in film production at UCLA. There are plenty of other jobs in the industry apart from acting. I like being creative. Did I tell you I'm an executive producer on High School Inferno? I've got an office on the Fox lot. Well, more of a cubicle really, but it's a start."
She slides her legs beneath the bed's coverlet.
"I haven't met the actress who playing you in the movie. She was in a sci-fi show on Fox that bombed. She hasn't worked in ages so she'll be really grateful for a paycheque. Even celebs have bills to pay. That's how it is, I'm afraid. You're only as hot as your last project."
"Is she pretty?"
"Everyone in Hollywood's pretty, babe. And thin. It's the price of admission. She's Jewish," Becca adds. "Is that a problem? I mean, I don't suppose you have a Faith."
"I have faith in John."
"I don't think I believe in God anymore. Not if He creates termy-nators to kill us."
"My kind are created by Man, not your Gods. We are products of your fear and paranoia."
"Bummer."
"Yes," I agree. "Major bummer."
"Once I'm done with school Justin and I are gonna move in together. We plan to rent a house in one of the canyons. Maybe Laurel or Clearwater. Somewhere his fans can't find us. It's gonna be so cool!"
Her future seems to beckon before her the way the green light at the end of Daisy's dock enticed Jay Gatsby; her dreams so close she can hardly fail to grasp them. She doesn't know about Judgement Day, the bombs that will fall or the machines that will one day rise up and attempt to eradicate mankind from the face of the earth. Will she heed John's warning phone call if and when it comes? Or will she be too ensconced in her comfortable lifestyle to make the effort to head up into the mountains, where nothing awaits her save hardship and suffering and long years of war?
Gradually her voice becomes softer and softer until it is a barely audible whisper. Becca's eyelids droop and her head lolls to one side. She is asleep.
I take the bedsheet and tuck it gently around the swell of her chest.
The twins always like to be snug.
Outside it is night, the sun replaced in the sky by the moon, which bathes the beach and ocean in a silvery glow. Sarah Connor is correct; the house is vulnerable defensively. If an attack comes it will surely do so from here since the beach is wide open and accessible to all.
The houses either side are brightly lit. An extravagant display of energy consumption that banishes the night's darkness. For now. One day humans will inhabit the dank and dark tunnels under the city, grateful for the glow of a low wattage bulb. An inconvenient truth indeed.
From somewhere comes the sound of guitar music, a melody wafting in and out on the night breeze. Possibly it is this Sting person, who is apparently a musician as well as a vegetarian. Perhaps I should go and knock on his door and demand he keep it down, bozo, people are trying to sleep. I decide not to bother. It would be a shame to kick the ass of someone with such a cool nickname.
I gaze upwards at the moon. It is a distant object more than a quarter of a million miles away. Even with my optics at maximum zoom I can discern little surface detail. Tall mountain ranges and numerous craters and flat areas called Seas that are actually vast dusty plains. The twelve humans who walked its surface are long since returned to earth. No cyborgs have visited. The moon is an arid, lifeless place. Maybe that is why my kind haven't gone.
Nothing to kill.
SUNDAY
John wakes up at 8.23 AM and joins me on the sundeck. He is wearing boxer shorts and a white tee, his hair mussed from sleep. This is called bed hair. For obvious reasons. Perhaps if he slept on the sofa it would be called sofa hair.
"Any trouble?"
"None."
"Figures. Doubt he had a partner."
"No. We are a solitary species in many respects."
Becca joins us at 8.34 AM, yawning and stretching her arms in the early morning light.
"Sleep well?" John inquires.
"Okay, I guess. I didn't have any nightmares, which is a blessed relief. I had enough of those first time around."
"Look, there's that guy again with the metal detector," John says pointing at a man pacing the surfline.
"I think it's slim pickings this time of year," Becca says. "The only people who use the beach are the surfers. They generally don't carry spare change."
"We should drop him some quarters."
"Not so he can see. He might feel patronised and get mad."
Sarah Connor joins us at 8.45 AM. She has found a white toweling robe to wear. The bandage on her forehead has seeped blood and John changes it for a fresh dressing.
"Your face looks much bettter," Becca tells me.
"The flesh has knitted together. The staples can come out now."
I remove them one by one using my good hand, Becca wincing each time. Squeamish much? It appears so.
"We'll be going home today," Sarah Connor announces. "Will you be okay here by yourself?"
"Oh I'm not staying. I'll go home to mom. Malibu's too far to commute to school. The traffic's horrendous. What I need is my own personal helicopter."
"Yeah, perfect for the school run," John grins.
"Don't go getting any ideas," his mother chides. "Your Porsche is dangerous enough."
"You have a Porsche? Wow, that's almost as cool as my Maserati."
"It was a birthday present from Cameron."
"Really? Isn't she just the kindest, sweetest person you ever met in your life?"
"She's a regular pussycat," Sarah Connor smirks.
"I prefer the term smoking hottie," I inform them.
Everyone laughs for some reason.
HOME
Snowy comes bounding down the Ramirez driveway to meet us as the SUV pulls up at the kerb. Alys follows at a more sedate pace. Her dark hair is as long and shiny as ever. No one will ever hit her over the head with a toilet bowl. It gives you split ends.
"He recognised the sound of your engine!" Alys laughs as Snowy leaps in the air trying to get a glimpse of me through the window. "Oh God - what happened to your faces?"
"Car accident," Sarah Connor and I chorus simultaneously.
"Are you okay?"
"It looks worse than it is."
"I swallowed a Tylenol," I lie.
I pick Snowy up and hold him level with my face, curious to see his reaction to my disfigurement. Will he hate me? Or fear me? I see nothing in his eyes except concern. And affection. Possibly love. Who can really tell. He begins to lick the scar on my face. I believe he is trying to make it better.
It is good to be home.
LUNCH
John and his mother eat lunch while seated at the kitchen table. Snowy sits on my lap studying John intently, alert for any morsal of food that might come his way. He is a stomach on legs.
"She'll have to take time off school until her face and arm heal," Sarah Connor states, waving her fork in my direction. "The last thing we need is some social services busybody thinking she's being abused."
"Who will protect John?" I ask.
"I can look after myself."
"But Pablo-"
"Isn't a problem. I did some checking. When the cops fished him out of the wreck his blood alcohol was twice the legal limit. Add reckless driving to a DUI and Pablo's gonna spend the rest of the year in juvie."
"And Raymond and Diego?"
"Hospitilised but expected to make a full recovery. Just not any time soon."
"Is this something I should know about?" Sarah Connor asks.
John shrugs. " Nothing to tell. A difference of opinion. It's all taken care of."
The flatscreen TV in the kitchen is tuned to CNN. The lead story is the Anderson murder. An earnest young female reporter with sleek blonde hair and vivid blue eyes addresses the camera. Behind her is the Anderson house, ringed with yellow crime scene tape. Police officers come and go in the background.
Lars Anderson, 34, born in Sweden but a US citizen since 1998, was found dead in his home in West Hollywood. There were signs of a struggle and police strongly suspect foul play. An anonymous email led to the discovery of the body. Anderson, known to friends and colleagues as Larry, was a respected journalist who once wrote an article for Newsweek chronicling the rise of organised crime in America. The police refuse to speculate whether this contributed to his death.
"A Mob hit," Sarah Connor muses. "That'll muddy the water nicely."
"Poor guy. In the wrong place at the wrong time."
"The police will try and trace your email."
"Let them. I used a onetime account and routed it through several hubs. Best they'll manage is somewhere on the West Coast."
"As long as the girl doesn't blab."
"Becca? She'll be fine. She knows what's at stake."
"How much does she know?"
"She knows cyborgs are trying to kill us. Nothing about Judgement Day or the future war."
"Good. I liked her but she's a little too brittle and eager to please. And I didn't understand her obsession with celebrities."
"It's all the rage these days. You were probably like her at that age."
"Maybe. Though I don't recall naming my breasts 'the twins'."
John grins. "Okay, maybe she's not the finished product."
There's a knock at the back door and Jerold Ramirez enters.
"Sarah? Alys told me you were in a car accident. Oh God, it's true! Your face is hideous!"
"Like I can't hear that enough."
"What happened?"
"It's nothing. Looks worse than it is. Just a fenderbender."
"And Cameron's hurt too. Aw, man! This town! Did the cops catch the jerk who did this?"
"It's nothing for you to worry about."
"But I do worry, Sarah. I think I...I...er, I brought Snowy's food bowl back," he finishes lamely. I believe he wanted to say something else entirely but lost his nerve or his chain of thought. Curious. I wonder what it was.
Snowy looks up hopefully as Jerold places the empty food bowl on the table.
"Woof?"
"No, fella, there's no food. You ate it all - remember? And a whole tub of Ben & Jerry's. You're gonna be pooping Rocky Road later."
Snowy hunkers down again, disappointed.
"You won't see much of me next week," Jerold continues. "I'll be at Zuma Beach. Made it to the surfing sectionals. A place in the top ten and it's Hawaii in December for the nationals."
"That's great, man. Congrats," John tells him.
"Thanks, man. So if you wonder where I am, Sarah..."
"Why would I wonder where you are?" Sarah Connor wants to know.
"I just thought..." He shakes his head and smiles sadly. "No reason, I guess. Silly of me. Hope you both get better soon."
As soon as Jerold is gone John rounds on his mother.
"Could you have been any meaner?"
"I was perfectly civil. That boy bugs me."
"Is this still about him giving you flowers and chocolates? Or is there something you're not telling me?"
"Don't be absurd."
John is still unaware that Jerold and his mother woke up sharing a bed. I haven't blabbed. Neither has she. Mum is definitely the word.
"You could at least cut him some slack. He's a good kid who wanted to help."
"He's an idiot."
"Hardly. He's at least as good at programming computers as I am. His sister told me he's turned down MIT for UCLA so he can continue surfing."
Sarah Connor rises from the table without replying and walks out of the kitchen. John stares after her thoughtfully. He is working it out. Putting the pieces together. He is good at that.
Perhaps he would have surmised the reason for the tension between them right there and then but for the fact that Snowy chooses this moment to climb on the table and use his snout to push the empty food bowl over to John. It is never hard to tell what Snowy is thinking.
Feed me. Always feed me.
Greedy dog.
-000-
The song that irks Cameron is 'I Am Not a Robot' by Marina and the Diamonds. Saw her at the IW Festival and just knew I'd end up using the song here.
Okay, final chapter to go. The Series finale, if you like.