The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
SATURDAY
I am attempting to teach Snowy ballet. It is not going well. In fact, it is going very badly. He finds it impossible to dance enpointe, complaining it hurts his little paws. The big cry baby. He also absolutely refuses to don a tutu or a leotard.
"Watch me," I tell him. "See how graceful I am? How fluid my movements are and how I seem to glide across the floor? This is a sequence from Swan Lake."
"Woof?"
"No, there are no swans for you to chase."
"Woof?"
"Or a lake to swim in. Please concentrate."
But it is to no avail. Having four legs is a definite disadvantage in ballet and one Snowy finds impossible to overcome. Instead he demonstrates a breakdancing move Jerold Ramirez taught him whereby he lies on his side and spins around propelled by his hind legs.
It is not ballet, but at least it polishs the floor nicely.
During my time off school Sarah Connor and I have bonded and become very close friends.
This is a joke.
It is funny because it is so not true. As if!
John says my sense of humour is improving. I am now capable of formulating my own jokes, not merely stumbling upon them by accident. An example:
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Terminate.
Terminate who?
Terminate you.
John says this one may need some more work. Snowy wonders why the person knocking doesn't use the dog flap like he does. Foolish dog, taking everything so literally. John smiles when I say this and asks if it reminds me of anyone.
No one springs to mind.
SUNDAY
"Your hair's getting too long," Sarah Connor informs me as I sit at the kitchen table watching John eat breakfast.
"Too long for what?"
"Just too long. When did you last cut it?"
"I have never cut my hair."
"Never?"
"Why would I?"
"Because it's starting to look untidy. It's almost reached your waist."
"I like my hair long. John likes my hair long."
"Hey, leave me out of it," John says over a forkful of pancake. "That's girl stuff."
"I'll cut it for you if you like," Sarah Connor offers.
"I don't like."
"Fine. Suit yourself."
"Thank you. I will."
A frown.
A pout.
Impasse.
PARK LIFE
It is a week since I last attended school. My enforced absence while my arm and face heal means I can spend quality time with Snowy. Every day we visit a nearby park where I throw a stick which Snowy fetches. Over and over we do it. He never appears to tire of this seemingly pointless ritual, urging me to throw it further and further for him to retrieve. Finally I offer a glimpse of my true capabilities and throw the stick the full length of the park, almost a quarter of a mile, startling some rollerbladers in the process. Snowy sits on his haunches and complains, saying I have thrown it too far and he is not going to run after it this time. This is outrageous. He's making the rules up as he goes along.
Snowy sulks when I tell him I must return to school tomorrow.
"We will visit the park at the weekend," I assure him.
"Woof?"
"Yes, I promise."
He grudgingly steps forward and lets me scratch behind his ears. In the future dogs are used by the Resistance to clear paths through minefields, many losing their lives doing so. I resolve never to allow Snowy to be used for this purpose. The thought of his tiny body being blown to smithereens makes me feel...what? I don't know. Not very good. Like a strong magnet passing over my CPU.
MONDAY
Back in school and Ramona is pleased to see me. Sort of.
"Where have you been, Moves? Flu? That's no excuse. We lost two soccer matches while you were away. The girl who replaced you in goal sucked ass."
"She did? This is not part of a goalkeeper's duties. Whose ass did she suck?"
"This is no time for jokes. She let in four goals against Palmdale. And another four against Santa Monica. My scholarship's hanging by a thread. You gonna be okay for the next game?"
I assure her I will be and she goes away somewhat mollified. Our friendship appears to be based on my soccer skills and what they can do for her.
Eleanor Ryan is also pleased to see me return. In her own peculiar fashion. With her I am able to be more forthcoming about my absence since she is borderline crazy and speaks to no one apart from me.
"One of my kind was troublesome and required terminating. I sustained injuries that needed time to heal."
"Your kind? The undead?"
"In a manner of speaking."
She nods solemnly. "And then you had to recuperate by sleeping in a coffin in the family crypt."
I don't bother telling her there is no coffin. Or family crypt. She would only be disappointed.
Miss Womack, the science teacher, approaches our table. She smiles at me, teeth a white crescent of orthodonist perfection in her otherwise black face.
"Good to have you back, Cameron. Flu, was it? Yes, there's a lot of it about. Coach Gruber is off sick too. Stay behind at the end of the lesson and I'll give you the assignments you missed. You shouldn't have any trouble, your work is excellent." Her smile turns to a frown. "Which is more than can be said for you, Eleanor. Your grades are abysmal. If you want to get into a good college you'll have to work considerably harder from now on. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Yes - what?"
"Yes - Miss Womack."
The teacher moves away and Ellie whispers, "God, I hate that bossy cow! Will you drain her blood for me?"
"Why would I do that?"
"You heard how she spoke to me. Suck the old bitch dry."
"She is a competent teacher. And your grades are abysmal."
Ellie rummages in her bag and hands something to me.
"Here. I made you this for you while you were away."
It is a small glass vial filled with a red liquid suspended on a thin, silvery necklace.
"What is it?"
"It's a vial of my blood. I thought you could wear it as a symbol of my obedience."
I throw the vial and necklace in the trash.
"You don't like it?"
"No. It is not a tight present."
She lowers her eyes. "I have displeased you."
"Yes."
"Will you punish me? I deserve it."
"If you enjoy being punished then it is not punishment."
She sighs. "That's just what my psychologist says. Fine. I'll do it myself."
Ellie takes a long wooden ruler from her bag and uses the thin edge to rap herself hard over the knuckles of her left hand. She closes her eyes and moans slightly as the pain registers in her brain.
Odd even by her standards.
RIVAL
Because Miss Womack kept me behind to pick up the assignments I missed I am late meeting John by the lockers for our daily snogging session. When I arrive I find him talking and laughing with another girl.
Talking and laughing. With another girl.
A girl who is not me.
When the girl sees me approaching she turns and walks away.
"Who is that?" I ask.
"Her name's Caroline."
"What did Caroline want?"
"She - uh - asked me out on a date."
"I see. Please excuse me while I kick her skank ass."
"Come back here." John grabs my arm before I have taken two steps. "Nothing happened. I told her I wasn't interested."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Flattered but not remotely interested."
I study Caroline as she removes some books from her locker and heads off down the corridor. She is blonde with springy boobs and long, slim legs. Of course John isn't interested. What boy would be interested in a girl who looks like that?
SOCCER
With Coach Gruber absent with flu Ramona takes charge of soccer practice. She announces her intention to use the period to trial new girls in an attempt to rejuvenate the team.
"We sucked in our last two matches and now we're mid-table. Remember, the team that wins the league gets to go to Florida for the state championships. And we all know what Florida means."
Several girls nod and smile. I raise my hand.
"Yeah, Moves?"
"What does Florida mean?" I ask.
"Florida means the beach and boys and booze," Wanda replies. "Girls gone wild, baby!"
So that is what Florida means. No wonder it is a popular holiday destination. I wonder if Snowy would like to go if we win the league. He likes the beach. And alcohol - booze. Boys? Well, he likes John and Jerold. Dogs gone wild, baby!
"Okay, all positions are up for grabs except goalkeeper," Ramona informs the new girls. "Cameron's irreplaceable. She's the best keeper we've ever had. She never lets any goals in. She's like a machine!"
Like a machine?
"She's like the Jonas Brothers," Wanda says, grinning. "No one ever scores!"
Everyone laughs except me. Why don't the Jonas Brothers ever score? Is there something wrong with them?
I take my position between the goalposts. I notice one of the new girls trying out is Caroline, the blonde skank who tried to get her hooks into John. She is a defender on my team and stands nearby to my right with her back to me. Her butt looks very firm and pert in her tight soccer shorts. I am glad John isn't here to see it.
Ramona blows her whistle and the game begins.
My form is off today. I catch the ball easily enough but when I try and throw the ball out for the strikers my aim is totally awry. Instead of going where my targeting graphics predict the ball swerves violently right and strikes Caroline on the head. Twice this occurs until she is helped from the field suffering from concussion. After this my aim returns to normal. Odd. Obviously some kind of temporary software glitch. I will run a full diagnostic later.
At the interval Ramona comes over to chat. Her voice is hoarse from yelling instructions but she seems happy enough.
"I think we've found a new winger and maybe a half-decent holding midfield player," she says. I nod despite not knowing what this means. "Bit rusty at first, weren't you, Moves? It was like dodgeball the way you kept hitting that girl on the head."
"Her name is Caroline."
"Yeah? Well, I don't think Caroline's gonna want to play soccer again. I hear she's been taken to hospital for a precautionary brainscan."
"Bummer."
I don't think.
TUESDAY
"Paws off the table."
Snowy obeys immediately. Sarah Connor has an authority to her voice that he fears and respects, especially as it often accompanied with a slap to his hindquarters if he disobeys.
"Why do we have a dog at the breakfast table anyway? It's unhygenic."
"Snowy likes to watch John eat," I explain. "It makes him feel like part of the family. Ideally, he would like to eat his meals here at the table with us and not off the floor from plastic bowls."
"Yeah, and I'd like to be the Queen of Sheba."
"You would? Is it the grass skirts you get to wear?"
"I thought we might drive to the arcade after school," John suggests to me. "I hear they have the latest Laser Tag in stock."
"Aren't you getting a little old for computer games?" his mother chides.
"It's an active combat sim, mom. Develops amazing hand-eye coordination."
"John rocks at Laser Tag," I tell her.
"No, you rock at Laser Tag," he counters.
"No, you rock at Laser Tag."
"Okay, okay. Put a sock in it."
"I am not wearing socks," I point out. "Shall I put a sandal in it?"
She ignores my perfectly reasonable question and asks, "How's school? Have you managed to convince people you're boyfriend and girlfriend?"
"I think we've got that covered, mom," John says, suppressing a smile. "Anyway, we're giving it our best shot just like you wanted."
"I have a reputation now," I add.
"A reputation?"
"Yes. I am the girl who puts out. I'm thinking of adding it to my resume."
"I see," Sarah Connor smirks. "I'm sure you'll be in great demand in the job market."
"Why, is there much work for girls who put out?"
"More than you think."
This is good news indeed, not that I require employment of course. I just wish I knew what putting out entails - something to do with administration?
"Don't spend too long at the Mall. You still have homework to do. You haven't graduated yet."
John's reply is drowned out by Snowy's sudden barking.
"What's wrong with that dog now? If he needs to poop throw him out in the yard."
"Snowy is warning us," I decipher. "He senses there is someone lurking outside. Someone bad."
UNWELCOME VISITOR
As before with Kate Brewster, we all select weapons from the floor armoury. John guards the backdoor while Sarah Connor and I advance carefully towards the front.
"Easy does it. We don't want to give the mailman a heart attack if that dog's over-reacted."
"It is not the mailman. Snowy likes the mailman. He scratches Snowy's ears and calls him champ."
There is no shadow at the window. From somewhere at the base of the door comes the sound of scratching, like an animal using its claw to try and gain entry.
Sarah Connor raises her eyebrows. I shrug. We will only know what it is when we open the door.
"On the count of three," she whispers. "One...two...three."
She flings the door wide.
Slumped on the porch step is a dark haired woman in a bloody and torn business suit. Her hair is matted and there are cuts and bruises to her face. Her fingers are also red with blood and leave long smears on the door whcih she has been trying to claw.
We know this woman. We have had dealings with her in the past.
Chola.
CHOLA'S STORY
"Kristov did this to you?"
"His goons. They came for me yesterday. The buyer for the Faberge eggs you stole got careless and bragged about what he had. Word got back to Kristov. It didn't take much to give me up."
John applies a bandage to her nose. The pretty nose he warned her not to ruin. She didn't listen; it is broken and bloody.
"How's that feel?"
"How'd you think it feels?"
The worst damage is to the fingernails on her left hand, three of which have been removed. By force.
"How did you escape?" Sarah Connor demands.
"Broke my bonds and climbed out the window while his goons took a break to watch a soccer match on TV."
"Why come here? If you want money we don't have much."
Chola shakes her head, wincing at the pain this movement brings. "I want you to take care of Kristov."
"We're not in the assasination business," John tells her, glancing briefly in my direction. I say nothing. I hold my tongue. Not literally of course; that makes me look foolish.
"Then next time he catches up with me I'll spill my guts. About you. About her. I won't have a choice."
Once she is patched up and the bleeding staunched, Chola is sent up to my room with two percodans and orders to rest. She complies meekly. The stuffing has certainly been knocked out of her. In more ways than one.
"What do we do?" John asks.
"We don't have too many options. She won't stand another going over."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we pay Kristov a visit. Cameron and I. He's a business man not a psychopath. We tell him to back off or else."
"Or else - what?"
Sarah Connor nods in my direction. "We unleash the Tin Miss."
I smile. I like to be unleashed.
BEL AIR
John, his mother, Snowy and I are in the SUV. Chola remains at home recuperating. She wished us luck.
Opposite is the apartment building where billionaire Oleg Kristov occupies the top two floors. It was here I broke in and stole the Faberge eggs, part of the deal necessary for Chola to tell us who was pursuing us.
Snowy is trembling; he senses danger in the air. I stroke his neck.
"We will be fine," I assure him.
"Woof?"
"Yes, I promise."
Sarah Connor and I exit the SUV. I am wearing mirrored RayBan sunglasses. I rarely get to wear them because they make me look menacing. Me, menacing? I'm a pussycat. This is another joke.
We enter the lobby. The two guards look up from their desk. They are Ferrigno big but not green. No. Tan and muscular, their white shirts straining to contain the bulk beneath.
"Can I help you ladies?"
"We're here to see Kristov," Sarah Connor informs him.
"That's Mister Kristov. And he doesn't see anyone without an appointment."
"Oh I think he'll see us."
"And why's that?"
"We're the ones who stole his Faberge eggs."
Guns are drawn. The lobby goes into lockdown. One of the men talks on the phone, presumably alerting the penthouse to our arrival.
"Okay, you can go up. Gotta search you both first."
The bodysearch is brief yet thorough. Any hidden weapons would've been discovered instantly. We are waved toward the elevator, the private one that services the penthouse suite alone.
One of the men accompanies us up. Sarah Connor quips, "No muzak? They play muzak in the Bloomingdales elevators."
"This ain't Bloomingdales, lady. And I'd cut out the wisecracks when you meet Dmitri. He ain't known for his sense of humour."
The doors open. A man awaits us. Tall, average build, short cropped hair. A smart three piece suit. The humourless Dmitri perhaps.
"You searched them?" he asks in heavily accented english.
"Yessir. They're clean."
"No one in or out. Understand?"
"Yessir!"
Dmitri motions us ahead of him. We comply and are led into a large sitting room, furnished in white. White furniture. White carpet. White walls. It is like a snowscene only without the snow. Or the cold.
A short, overweight man comes out of an adjoining room. Oleg Kristov. He is wearing a silk brocade dressing gown and slippers. He as a bald head and a chubby face.
"Sarah! Cameron! Welcome! May I get you anything? I stock the finest wines the world has to offer."
"You know us?"
"But of course! I see you've met Dmitri. I advise you not to try anything foolish. He is ex-KGB. A walking weapon - in his own words."
Dmitri, the ex-KGB walking weapon, crosses the room until he is just inches from my face. My nasal sensors detect his last drink: vodka. With a lime twist.
"I empitied a full clip into you," he says in thickily accented Russian. "Frag rounds. I saw them penetrate your body. You should be mincemeat."
I make no reply. It should be obvious even to the dullest observer I am not mincemeat.
"Then I personally cut the rope you were dangling from. I watched you fall twelve stories and land on a vehicle parked at the kerb, completely destroying it. Yet you walked away. How?"
"If I told you I would have to kill you."
"Ha! Did you hear that, Dmitri?" Kristov chortles. "She say if she tell you she have to kill you!"
Dmitri smiles a mirthless smile. "I heard what she said." He takes a step back but his eyes never leave me. He seems curious rather than antagonistic. One warrior respecting another perhaps.
"We're here to tell you to lay off Chola," Sarah Connor says. "You're dealing with us now, not torturing that girl."
"Torture? Who said anything about torture? She came to me of her own free will."
But...you pulled her fingernails out. Or your goons did."
"Foolish woman! She did that to herself. She insisted her supposed injuries had to look real enough or you would never agree to help her."
"She did it to herself?"
"Extreme, I admit. But you're here nonetheless, just as she promised.
Sarah Connor lips make a thin line. "She set us up. That bitch!"
"And she will be well rewarded. Are you sure you won't have that drink?"
"But what possible use could you have for us? Are you still bearing a grudge because someone outwitted your security?"
"A grudge? Niet. Chola brought me a business proposition. Some very important people are interested in you." Kristov claps his hands. "Gentlemen? Perhaps you would care to take it from here?"
A man and a woman enter the room from a side door, dressed in smart business suits..My facial recognition software pings.
NSA Agent Foster
NSA Agent Duffy
Agent Foster raises a gun to sholder height and pulls the trigger.
Instead of bullets two metallic darts emerge from the barrel and strike me in the chest.
WARNING
VOLTAGE OVERLOAD
Is all I know for sometime.
NSA SAFE HOUSE
I wake. Or rather reboot. I see bars. And through these bars more bars. Then Sarah Connor. She is wearing an orange jumpsuit. So am. When did I change? And what was I thinking?
"Don't touch the bars," she warns. "Yours are electrified. Do you know where we are?"
"Culver City."
"I didn't think it was far." She rattles the bars impotently. "Chola double-crossed us and Kristov sold us out to the NSA. I don't know what kind of deal you offer a billionaire but it was obviously enough."
"My HUD tells me two hours have passed that I have no recollection of. Please explain."
"You were hooked up to some sort of generator. Kept you out. It means they know or suspect what you are."
A man descends the steps. Agent Foster.
"So, our clockwork doll is awake."
Clockwork? I play along. "Put your head on my chest and listen to me tick."
He smiles. "Oh we're going to do more than that. Much more."
A woman appears at the head of the stairs. Agent Duffy.
"Uh - sir. Washington called. An extraction team is on the ground at Edwards. They'll be here before nightfall. Level three containment protocols to be observed."
"Thank you, Karen."
Duffy turns to leave. A small white object moving fast dodges through her legs and down the stairs.
Snowy!
Snowy weaves past a startled Agent Foster. He drops something through the bars of Sarah Connor's cell. She quickly covers it with her foot. Then he is off back up the stairs pursued by Foster who draws his gun and exits. We hear two gunshots and a dog's yelp.
Two gunshots.
A dog's yelp.
Agent Foster has shot Snowy.
Agent Foster has killed Snowy.
"CAMERON! NO! DON'T TOUCH THE BARS!"
I stop myself just in time.
She says, "It's a message from John, I think."
She picks up the tightly rolled piece of paper Snowy dropped. "Yes! He says he's at the electricity substation for this block. We have to be ready; there's a backup generator. He'll blow it up at six. They took my watch. What's the time?"
I consult my HUD. "Five-forty five."
"Fifteen minutes."
We wait in silence. Then: "I'm sorry about your dog."
"You never liked him."
"That's not true."
"You were always mean to him."
"No, I was strict. Never mean. Someone had to be the way you two doted on him. He had you eating out of his hands."
"Snowy had paws not hands."
"It's an exp-. Doesn't matter."
"I loved Snowy."
I wait for the inevitable roll of the eyes, the snide putdown that as a machine I can never truly know love.
It never comes.
She knows I speak the truth.
The clock ticks down.
5-4-3-2-1-0...Nothing happens. Has something gone wrong? Has John been captured before he could set off the explosion?
The lights go out.
Sarah Connor pulls back the cell door freeing herself as the electronic locks fail. I wrench my door off its hinges and toss it aside.
The lights flicker and come back on.
Neither Foster nor Duffy appear in the doorway. We do.
"Find and disable them. No killing," Sarah Connor whispers.
I find Agent Foster in his converted office. He looks up from his desk, draws his taser pistol almost immediately. Impressive speed.
The metallic darts once more fly towards me. I demonstrate some impressive speed of my own and step aside so the darts impact harmlessly on the door behind. Next a service pistol is drawn. Three bullets strike my chest. No lasting damage. But this is getting old.
Time for a little damage of my own.
I shove the desk so that it pins Agent Foster against the wall. He collapses across it with both legs broken. He seems sufficiently disabled judging by his groans.
I find John's mother in another office. She has blood on her face. A wooden chair is in pieces on the floor. So is Agent Duffy, although she is still in one piece.
"Problems?"
"She knew kung-fu. The chair seemed the simplest option."
"Brute force often is."
We exit the building. The SUV awaits. Sarah Connor climbs in the front with John, I in the back. Next to a familiar white object with a lolling pink tongue.
"Snowy!"
"Woof!"
"I hug him and run my fingers through his fur checking for bullet holes. There are none. Against all odds he is alive and well.
"Cam, are you okay?" John asks.
"Yes, my gunshot wounds will quickly heal."
"It's not that. It's just...well...you're crying."
I check my optical sensors. He is correct. They are leaking fluid. Odd. They not supposed to do this.
Two gunshots suddenly hit the vehicle. I look behind. Agent Foster has managed to drag himself out the door to aim his pistol at us.
"Drive!"
John needs no second invitation. It is fortunate the bullets hit nothing important like the fuel tank.
The SUV veers off course. Did I speak too soon?
"John! Omigod, you're hit"
John slumps against the steering wheel. The back of his shirt is red with blood.
"Get him out on the sidewalk! Quickly! We need to stop the bleeding."
There is an exit wound in the middle of his chest. Bad. Very bad. He looks up at me with shocked, frightened eyes.
"Cam..?"
He dies in my arms.
John Connor is dead.
John Connor, Mankind's best and only hope, is dead.
THE LAZARUS OPTION
It was the luckiest of shots. It was the unluckiest of shots. A chance in a million. A billion.
And it is all my fault.
By eluding the NSA's clutches I have undone Kate Brewster and the Anderson terminator's prophecy that I would become the mind of Skynet.
Out of the frying pan into the fire, is a human expression that springs to mind.
I have allowed Skynet to triumph by suborning my true nature: I exist to terminate. By not terminating Agent Foster when I had the opportunity, by granting him mercy, I have altered history.
"Something you have done precipitates our ultimate victory."
The words of the Anderson terminator. Prophetic, it seems.
John taught me that all living things have value and existence must be preserved at all costs.
And I believed him.
It was my one mistake. One I must now rectify.
New Mexico.
I park the Porsche beneath the shade of a eucalyptus tree. The furnace heat of noon in New Mexico assails me as I step out. So much for the shade.
I walk into the Bank of America, New Mexico branch. Established 1941, though the original building has been extensively remodeled over the years. The a/c banishes the heat instantly; humans do enjoy their creature comforts.
I approach one of the client desks. A blonde woman looks up and smiles in greeting. The nametag on her jacket's right lapel suggests her name is Angela. I have no reason to believe she is trying to deceive me or anyone else.
"May I help you?"
"I wish to access my safe deposit box."
"Certainly, Miss..?"
"Phillips. Cameron Phillips."
"Certainly, Miss Phillips. Do you have your key and some form of ID?"
I produce both. She inspects my photo ID. The picture is old but I look the same now as then. Not a day older. Not one minute. One of the advantages of being a machine.
"Thank you, that's all in order." She taps instructions into her computer. Information is displayed on the screen. "I see you've had this box in our care since 1941, when the bank was built. According to our records the account was opened by a...Cameron Phillips. Oh. A relative presumably?"
"My grandmother," I lie. Adding, "I miss bobbysox. And Big Bands."
Angela smiles tentatively. "Well, if you'll come with me..."
Angela leads me downstairs to the basement vault. She inserts my key and the bank's duplicate into a wall of safe deposit boxes. She withdraws the box within and carries it to a curtained booth, grunting slightly with the effort. The box is heavy. Or she is weak. Possibly both.
Once she departs I open the box and remove the attache case inside. The leather is cracked and faded with age. I pop the locks and check the contents. All seems to be well. All must be well if my plan is to succeed.
HOME
When I enter the safe house Sarah Connor is still slumped on the sofa in much the same position as when I left two days previously. Her hair is lank and greasy and her clothes apparently unchanged. She is surrounded by empty takeaway boxes and liquor bottles. She hasn't washed recently and is starting to smell.
"Where have you been?" she demands.
"Errand."
"I thought you'd left for good. Wouldn't blame you. There's nothing for you here. For either of us. John's dead. It's over. It's all over. We've failed. They've won."
I look around. Someone is missing. "Where is Snowy?"
"Locked in your room. His barking was driving me crazy. Oh don't look at me like that! I threw some food and water in with him."
I decide Snowy's welfare is not an immediate priority. I begin to unpack the attache case, laying the components out on the floor.
Sarah Connor sits up, detritus from the food cartons falling from her dishevelled clothing. "Is that what I think it is?"
"I don't know. What do you think it is?"
"A time machine, like the one in the bank vault."
"Then yes, it is what you think it is."
"You've got a plan, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"You can bring John back to life?"
"No. In this timeline John will always be dead. I cannot change that."
She slumps back on the sofa. "Then what's the point?"
"I may be able to travel back and prevent his death from occuring, creating a branching timeline."
"Do I come with you?"
"No."
"Why? There's nothing for me here."
"On the contrary. You have an important task to perform."
"What?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me."
"You must take care of Snowy."
THE FUTURE. PART TWO
All Thing Must Pass.
This is a Hindu saying meant to convey the transitory nature of life, its lack of permanance, the inevitable slide into entropy.
All things must indeed pass.
Some more than once.
Humans are born, live, grow old, then die. This is the way of life. All that remains is the slow disintegration back to the component atoms. Even then it is not over. Nothing is ever truly over. The molecules recombine with other molecules to form plants or other animals, soil or the ocean, even the very air they once breathed. This process has occurred from the moment the planet was born out of chaos and will continue until it is detroyed by an aging, swollen sun, the atoms reseeding the void to become - what? I don't know. In time another world possibly. And it all begins again...
It is possible to intervene, to break this cycle. Mold it and shape it to your own design. If you have the means.
I have the means.
Does this make me a God?
No. I am a cyborg. Model TOK-715. Made to ressemble a teenage girl.
But I am much more than that.
I am Cameron Baum.
I am about to alter history.
Again.
And so it goes...
Chola double-crosses us.
And so it goes...
Oleg Kristov sells us out to the NSA.
And so it goes...
I watch as the black, nondescript van pulls up outside the NSA safe house and disgorges its cargo. Me. And a handcuffed Sarah Connor.
I watch as as I am carried in on a gurney, my CPU disabled by a constant stream of high-voltage electricity.
I watch as John drives by in the SUV searching for the power substation he intends to sabotage.
I watch as Snowy races out of the house, narrowly avoiding being shot.
I can watch no longer. Time for action.
I kick open the safehouse door and shoot Agent Foster three times in the chest, on this occasion affording him no mercy. Mercy comes at too high a cost. If he knew what was at stake perhaps he would not mind dying in the cause. He is not an evil man; merely misguided. And a threat.
Agent Duffy appears in the doorway of her office clutching a styrofoam cup of coffee. I shoot her once in the head. She drops the styrofoam cup, spilling the coffee on the floor along with her blood. It will likely stain. It is of no consequence to either of us.
Down the stairs to the cells in the basement. Myself and Sarah Connor look round as I approach.
"Cameron? There are two of you? How...?"
I explain the sequence of events in as few words as necessary. I watch myself nod as I mention the bank vault in New Mexico. I knew I would understand. I am very bright. And pretty. Even in a vile orange jumpsuit. So not my colour.
The lights go out. John has just blown up the power substation. Sarah Connor slides her cell door open; I wrench mine from its hinches. The light comes back on. The bars of my newly vacated cell hum like so many angry wasps.
"What do we do now?" Sarah Connor asks.
"Leave."
I watch as John embraces his mother.
I watch as I climb in the backseat and exclaim 'Snowy!' the tears staining
my cheeks. I have never looked more human.
I join them in the SUV, answering all of John's inevitable questions. We have time now. A new timeline, one where Agent Foster doesn't crawl out the door and fire the fatal shots.
He is pale, shocked by the revelation of his death and subsequent resurrection.
"What now?"
"We make some new memories."
HOME
"I am Cameron prime," I explain for John's benefit.
"And I am Cameron subprime," my doppelganger explains standing side by side.
"Catchy."
"We thought so."
"I have seniority since I am the one who instigated Operation Lazarus."
"I would've done the same," Cameron subprime insists.
"I know you would."
"Because I am you."
"And you are me."
"So you had a spare time gadget?" John asks.
"For emergencies."
"Why didn't you use it when Derek was killed? Or Riley?"
"They were not vital to the war effort."
"Derek was pretty important."
"Important but not vital."
John nods, reluctantly accepting my appraisal of a man he liked and admired.
"What do we do now?"
"We have some thoughts on that. We thought you might like to join us in bed."
John grins. "I'm listening."
"We hope you will want to do more than listen."
We needn't have worried.
He does.
WEDNESDAY
"Lately it seems all we do is bury stuff in the desert."
John's comment is an exaggeration but I let it pass. I know what he means. First the Whitford terminator. Then Kate Brewster.
Now it is the turn of Cameron subprime, who lies at the bottom of a pit I have just excavated. Her chip has been removed and her body covered with a shroud. I don't want soil getting in my/her hair.
"Remind me again why we can't keep her activated."
"There cannot be two of me. We are exactly alike. It would create confusion and suspicion."
"She could be your long lost sister from Des Moines."
"I don't have a long lost sister from Des Moines. Or anywhere else for that matter."
"At least you have a ready source of spare parts if you get damaged."
"Yes."
"I liked Cameron subprime."
"Better than me?"
"She is you, doofus. Just a few days memories different."
Snowy bounds up barking excitedly. He has been exploring the desert and discovered a lizard. He wants to know if it is good to eat.
"Possibly," I tell him. "Or possibly it will find you good to eat."
Snowy decides to live and let live. A prudent choice.
"I don't think we should tell mom about us," says John, taking me in his arms.
"She knows about us."
"The new intimate us."
"Oh."
"Let's keep it on the downlow."
"Not the uphigh."
"Ri-ght..."
He kisses me. I kiss him back. Quid pro quo.
"We'll have to be discreet."
"I can be discreet."
kiss
"And careful."
"I can be careful."
kiss
"Not just mom. Alys and Jerold."
"No problemo."
John smiles. "Is this what it's like with Future John?"
"No."
"No?"
"He has a beard."
"I'll have to remember to grow one."
"I'll remind you."
"Yeah."
"I require a favour," I inform John after the soil completely covers my doppelganger. "I need to borrow the Porsche."
"Because..?"
"No questions asked."
"Oh one of those favours."
"Yes, one of those."
"Okay, fine."
"You trust me?"
"You saved my life, didn't you. I think the Porsche is in safe hands."
"Thank you."
I kiss him on the lips again. He kisses me back tenderly. It is becoming a habit. A nice habit. Snowy watches then raises his right paw to cover his eyes. He hates the slushy stuff.
THURSDAY
I am in pursuit. My quarry is clever and resourceful. So am I. My quarry requires sleep. I don't. It is an advantage that makes all the difference.
A motel. A place for transient humans to sleep. Just off the freeway close to the Mexican border. I park in the lot.
Snowy is dozing on the seat beside me. He looks up as I engage the handbrake.
"Stay here. I'll be back."
A large illuminated sign welcomes me as I approach the main building.
MODESTO MOTEL
WELCOMES WEARY TRAVELLERS
XX ETERTAINMENT CHANNELS IN EVERY CHALET
XX? Presumably the Roman numerals for twenty. It doesn't seem that many channels. Our TV in OC can receive ten times that amount.
I enter the lobby. It is 2.23 in the morning. The Night Shift is on duty.
The clerk, a young spotty youth looks up from his desk, images reflecting from the TV screen he is watching onto his eyeglass lenses. Glimpses of naked, enjoined humans.
Oh. That XX.
"Help you, miss?"
"I believe so."
"Chalets are one-ten a night. Cash or plastic. No cheques. Payable upfront. The entertainment..." he glances at the screen. "...is extra. There's a card slot in the room."
"I am looking for someone."
I hand him a photograph of my quarry. And five one hundred dollar bills. This is the easy way. There is also a hard way. The choice is his. I am easy both ways. Like the figures cavorting on the screen.
He glances at the picture, nods and pockets the cash. He has chosen the easy way. Good. For him.
"Yeah, I seen her. Chalet 13. It's the cleanest one 'cause some folk are superstitious and won't book it."
I return to the door.
"Wait."
I turn slowly. Surely not the hard way? He was doing so well.
"She's not alone. She's with a man."
"Not a problem."
He smiles and winks for some reason.
Chalet 13 is off the main hub. The windows are dark. The door is locked. Not for long.
Two figures alseep on the bed. The closet to me, a naked male, rises at the noise of my entrance. He is powerfully built with tattoos down both arms. He swings a punch at me.
It is a good punch. A great one even. Thrown with balance and power and precision. Were I human my jaw would most likely be broken.
I am not human.
The man screams as his fist impacts my coltan skull and the bones fracture. The screams are loud. Too loud. Someone might hear and call the police. I slap the side of his head. He collapses to the floor, writhes briefly then lies still.
The remaining figure in the bed pulls the sheet to her chin and turns on the bedside lamp.
Chola.
"Is Cooper dead?" she asks.
"Cooper?"
She indicates the tattooed man on the floor.
"Most likely. He has sustained serious head trauma."
She nods. "He's supposed to be some amazing martial arts expert. It's the only reason he's here. He's lousy in bed."
"He's not so hot on the floor either."
"I thought you were after me."
"Your continued existence is a potential threat to John Connor. You have proven untrustworthy. You only have yourself to blame."
"So I cut a deal. I had no choice. Kristov really was looking to kill me."
"You think I won't?"
"I think the boy and his mother won't like it if you do."
"You're correct." A trace of a smile appears on her face. "Which is why they don't know." The smile vanishes.
"I have money. Name your price."
"I have no price. We spoke of this."
"I have several keys of pure cocaine hidden in my car. Street value into the millions. It's yours."
"I don't require stimulents."
"There must be something I can tempt you with?"
She drops the bedsheet, exposing firm dark-nippled breasts.
"I have my own, thank you."
I draw my pistol and shoot her once in the head which jerks back slightly while her eyes remain open. She no longer sees me or the Motel chalet. Possibly she sees Heaven or Hell, the twin realms humans suspect await them at the instant of death. If so she gives no sign and I do not bother to ask. What would be the point?
On a table by the door is a pizza box. Inside several uneaten slices. I take them with me for Snowy. I spoil that dog.
HOMEWARD
Snowy looks up as I slide behind the wheel.
"Woof?"
"Everything went to plan, thank you for asking. Here, I brought you this."
I open my hand revealing the pizza slices. His tail wags briskly as he eats them off my palm, his tongue coarse and wet against my skin sensors.
I start the engine. "Do you need to attend to any doggie business?"
Snowy shakes his head, no.
"Are you sure? You know what happened earlier."
What happened earlier was that Snowy indicated to me he needed to urinate. I was unwilling to stop on the freeway and dangled him out of the Porsche by the scruff of his neck, forcing him to take a whizz on the fly while travelling at 160 mph. He found it an unpleasant experience. As did the family in the vehicle behind who felt the full force of Snowy's emptying bladder. It was unfortunate they were driving a convertible.
We hit the Interstate heading north, the engine a throaty roar at my back. Late night traffic flows freely on the Interstate's many lanes. Humans in transit, restless, forever on the move. Modern day nomads who have swapped horses and packmules for the internal combustion engine.
South of San Diego I weave past a massive 18 wheeler flatbed truck hauling pigiron for the smelters in the north. The unseen driver blares his airhorn at me, either as a mark of respect for my driving skills or an aural curse for my impudence.
We have a long way yet to travel. Snowy hunkers down for the journey, curling into a tight furry ball next to me. John is far away in Los Angeles.
John. My once and only love.
John. My reason for existing.
John.
I am Cameron Baum.
This has been my story.
-OOO-
Cameron's musing on life and the universe is indebted to Peter Adolphson, a czech writer who postulates all existence is simply matter flowing seamlessly from one state to another, without beginning or end. Bit like the Arsenal midfield then.
Final chapter? I'll probably change my mind in a few weeks...
PJ
AUGUST 2010