The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

SUNDAY NIGHT

"I have been reading the Kama Sutra," I inform John in the confines of his darkened bedroom where we are lying side by side on the bed. "Or a more accurate description is I have downloaded the Kama Sutra, eliminating some positions it is inadvisible to attempt due to strength and weight incompatibility. This still leaves a large number."

"How large?" John asks.

"Two hundred and twelve."

"Wow, that's a lot of - uh - positions."

"Yes," I agree. "So we had better get started. I have chosen one at random called the Praying Mantis. It might be advisible to do stretching exercises beforehand."

MONDAY MORNING

"Are you feeling alright?" Sarah Connor asks her son at the breakfast table.

"I'm fine. Why?"

"I saw you wince as you sat down."

"I'm a little sore, that's all."

"It's those damn dirtbikes you keep riding."

"It's definitely something I'm riding," John replies with a rueful grin and a glance in my direction. I did advise him to stretch thoroughly.

"Paws off the table. You know the rules."

Snowy complies instantly. He is very obedient around Sarah Connor since he knows she is quite capable of delivering a swift kick to his tender parts if he disobeys.

"Woof, woof, woof!"

"Must he keep barking like that? It's as if the stupid dog thinks we can understand him."

"Yeah, weird," John grins. "Snowy's just being friendly, mom."

"Well, he can be friendly outside." She stares at John. "Does Ramona eat meat?"

"Who?"

"Ramona. Your girlfriend. She's coming to lunch, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Er - I think she eats meat. I'm not sure."

"She does," I confirm. "Though she hates anchovies. Their tiny dead eyes gross her out. Also she doesn't like cauliflowers because they look like brains. She thinks Green Day suck now they've gone all political, Charlie Sheen is a sleazy bully who deserves to be castrated, and she won't watch the blooper reel on DVDs because they spoil the magic."

John's mother smirks. "Hear that? She knows more about your new girlfriend than you do."

John smiles sheepishly then shoots me a look of annoyance. Something I said? Definitely. It is not my fault; I record every conversation I hear and cross-index the information to my HD. This is a facility humans lack. Many are unable to recall even simple details, such as the breakfast they consumed a week ago. I remember everything and have perfect recall. I am very anal. I like anal. John says I must never say this out loud in public or it might be misconstrued. This information is also downloaded and saved. It is indexed under A. A for anal.

"So lasagne will be fine?"

"Uh - sure. I guess."

"Today is the day of the Big Match." I announce.

"Big match? What's she talking about?"

"Cameron's soccer team play Brentwood today," John explains, pleased that Ramona, his fake girlfriend, is no longer the topic of conversation. "It's for the championship. The last game of the season. Everyone's excited at school. It's a pretty big deal."

"She's on the soccer team?"

"Sure. I told you ages ago."

"Must've slipped my mind."

"I'm the goalie," I tell her. "I wear the number one."

"Cameron has the most assists in the league."

"And that's good because..?"

"Because Goals Win Games," I say, echoing Coach Gruber's mantra, the one he drills into us at every training session.

"And soccer is the most popular team sport in the world" John adds. "She's learning teamwork, how to support others for the good of the side."

"Has she killed anyone?"

"Of course not."

"That's all I care about."

"You should come to the game today," John suggests. "Cameron's team must win to top the league. All the other soccer moms will be there."

"Do I look like a soccer mom to you?"

"You should still come. You're meant to be Cameron's mom and you've never seen her play. People are gonna think that's strange not supporting your daughter."

"Right. She's my daughter."

"Hey, you chose the cover story." John gets up from the table. "The team play in white. I'll loan you a scarf."

SCIENCE CLASS

Ellie Ryan is already seated at the desk we share when I arrive. She looks...different. The long dark hair she normally wears brushed forward to obscure her face is today pulled back into a ponytail. Also absent is the kohl eyeliner and black nailpolish. The effect is to make her seem younger, except for the dark circles under her eyes that suggest she hasn't slept well.

"I felt like a change," she replies when I query the new look. "I've thrown all my vampire stuff away. I'm so over that."

"Why?"

"Why d'you think?"

"Ren Taylor."

A nod and a furtive glance at the table in front of ours where Ren Taylor would normally sit if she wasn't dead, killed accidentally by Ellie's clumsy attempt at intimidation.

"I spent so much time obsessing, wishing I was something else," she confesses miserably. "Then it actually happened. I became a monster."

"And it wasn't what you expected?"

"No. I haven't slept much since it happened. All that blood..." She shudders. "What will happen? To Michael, I mean."

"He will be held in custody while the police investigate her disappearence."

"I saw it on the news. Her bra turned up in his MG. That was you, wasn't it?"

"Correct."

"Why not put Ren's body in the trunk for the police to find?"

"Forensics might tell them a different story. The Devil is in the details."

"I ruined Michael's life."

"Would you prefer to ruin your own?"

A shake of the head.

"Part of me wants to confess. I don't think I can live with the guilt."

I slide my hand over hers and press down slightly, enough to compress the bones. Her breath quickens.

"That would be a mistake," I tell her. "And you have made enough of those. Don't make it a habit."

CHANGING ROOM

It is the afternoon of the big match.Inside the changing room Ramona is attempting to give the team a pep talk. It is difficult because the enormity of the occasion is stressing her out so much she is beginning to talk gibberish.

"Okay, no biggie. This is only the most important game ever ever EVER! If we lose my life is basically over. Finito. So no pressure. It's just a game. Not life or death. It's way more important than that."

A hand goes up.

"Yeah, Katie?"

"Did you say the game's more important than life or death?"

"No! That's crazy talk."

"But you said it!"

"No, I didn't!"

"Did, too!"

"Are you calling me a liar? Right, outside - I'll kick your bony ass!"

"We all need to calm down," Wanda intercedes smoothly. "What Ramona means is we treat this like any other game but still do our utmost to win. Because who's the best team in LA?"

"WE ARE!" the team chorus loudly.

"And who's gonna kick Brentwood's ass?"

"WE ARE!"

"Damn straight, we are!"

Wanda takes Ramona to one side. "You okay, girlfriend? You seem a little tense."

"I'm fine. A little wound up is all."

"Chill, girl, we need you cool, calm and collected if we're gonna win this thing. Look at Moves there. Cool as a proverbial cucumber."

"She's always like that. She's got ice in her veins."

"No ice," I reply. No veins either, I don't add.

A knock on the door. Coach Gruber's voice booms through the plywood. "Twenty minutes to kickoff, girls! Can I come in?"

"No!" Ramona yells. "We haven't got our kit on! Go away, you dirty old perv!"

"Steady, girl, you'll be getting yoself expelled if you carry on like that."

Ramona smiles wanly. She hands me a newspaper. "Seen this, Moves? We got a pretty decent write up in the local paper. Maybe it's a good omen, huh?"

There above a banner headline that reads:

LOCAL GIRLS PLAY OFF FOR SOCCER TITLE

Is a photograph of the team.

A photograph of team including me.

A photograph of me.

I take the newspaper and leave the changing room.

"Hey, Cameron, where you going? The match is about to start."

I don't bother to reply. It is a very bad omen indeed.

-0-

I find John and his mother seated in the stands. There is a sizable crowd gathered to watch the match. Soccer is a very popular sport. Ramona has told me there are professional soccer players who earn a lucrative living playing the game. In England, home of the best league in the world, players can earn in excess of half a million dollars a week. For kicking a ball around a mown field? It seems unlikely. But then so does much about human cuture. Kim Kardashian, for example. What is she actually for?

John understands the implications once I show him the newspaper photo. He so gets me.

"You think if there's a terminator in the city he'll see this and come here?"

"Where I am you are likely to be also. We must leave at once."

John then surprises me by shaking his head. "No. This newspaper has a small circulation. It's a longshot a terminator will see it. And besides, this game's important. You can't run away and let down the school or your friends. And I want to be here to see you lift that trophy."

The two teams run out on to the field, greeted by applause and cheers. With John's blessing I rejoin my team.

"Jeez, Moves, don't do that to me!" Ramona scolds. "I thought you'd lost your nerve and split."

"I never lose my nerve," I assure her. How could I? No nervous system.

The game kicks off. Brentwood make the brighter start with fluid passing movements all across the pitch. I am kept busy dealing with a number of speculative shots while at the same time scanning the crowd for signs of terminator activity. Ramona spots this duality of purpose.

"Keep your eyes on the ball. Stop staring at your boyfriend. He'll still be there at the end of the game."

I hope she is right.

Towards the end of the half we finally find some width down the flanks. Wanda muscles her way past two defenders and delivers a low cross for Ramona to sidefoot home. 1-0.

This setback seems to demoralise the Brentwood girls and a slick exchange of passes between Wanda and the Juggster ends in our second goal. 2-0.

The whistle sounds for the end of the half and we leave the pitch to wild cheers from our own supporters.

Ramona is all smiles in the changing room, the tension of earlier forgotten.

"Okay, we're really kicking Brentwood's ass! If we sneak a third it's as good as in the bag. No way can they put three past Cameron."

This is true. I am the best goalie ever. Ego much? You do the math.

There is a sudden commotion at the door. Voices raised in anger.

"Hey, you can't come in here! It's the girls changing room!"

"Where is John Connor?"

"John who? Hey, come back here!"

Framed in the doorway is a T-888. Despite it being a dry sunny day he is wearing a long raincoat. Why soon becomes apparent: it is to disguise the shotgun he is carrying. He spots me, raises the barrel and pulls the trigger.

BOOM! BOOM!

The rounds strike me low in the abdomen as I advance towards him, knocking me off my feet. Girls scream at the top of their voices. My HUD is suddenly awash with red warning icons. I am flat on my back and can't seem to move.

The T-888 sees I am incapacitated and no longer a threat and moves further into the changing room to search the shower stalls. The majority of the girls take the opportunity to flee the danger area. Two remain. Ramona and Wanda. They kneel beside me.

"Shit, that SOB shot Moves!"

"I can't feel a pulse!"

"Is she dead?"

"That's generally what no pulse means."

"But we can't play the second half without a goalie!"

"Mona! Some respect for the dead."

"Are you sure she's not faking it? You know what a kidder she is. C'mon, Moves, haha, joke's over"

"Mona, she was shot and there's a huge hole where her stomach should be. This isn't a joke. But how come there's not more blood? She was shot at pointblank range. There should be blood and guts every where."

I can feel Wanda's hands probing my abdomen. Motor functions remain offline.

"What's that silvery stuff?" I hear Ramona ask. "Is she wearing bacofoil underwear?"

"What? Are you tripping, girl? Why would anyone wear bacofoil underwear?"

"I don't know! I said the first thing that came into my head. I'm freaking out here!"

"I think it's her skeleton. Look - see how it all connects? She has metal bones."

"No freaking way!"

"No, it all makes sense. Think about it. That freaky goal. Her strength. The way she seemed to know where the ball was going. I think Cameron was some kind of...robot."

"Omigod - the league will disqualify us for fielding an inelligible player! I'm pretty sure robots can't be goalies! I mean, it's not in the rules but it's probably frowned upon and-"

"Will you please stop obsessing about soccer! A girl is dead. Our friend is dead. And crazy as it sounds I think she was a robot."

Several icons in my HUD turn green. Partial system restore. I am able to sit up.

"Not a robot," I state. "Cybernetic organism. Living tissue over a coltan endo-skeleton."

"Moves, you're alive! And delusional. She's speaking gibberish. Must be the shock."

"No, I think she's telling us what she is. Are you an alien? Are you from outer space?"

"Ooh - d'you know C3P0?"

"Mona, get a grip!"

"Sorry, sorry! Still freaking out here. Oh shit, that creep's coming back!"

The T-888 reappears. "Where is John Connor?" he demands.

"Right here, asshole!"

John. In the doorway aiming a pump-action shotgun. The one with armor-piercing shells.

BOOM!

The first shell shatters the T-888's right shoulder cluster. The shotgun falls harmlessly from his grasp.

BOOM!

The second shell destroys his jaw and most of the left side of his face. Yet still he advances, remorseless, implacable.

BOOM!

The third shot is the charm. The T-888's head is completely severed from his body. He drops to his knees then slumps forward to lie prostrate on the floor, inert, harmless, terminated.

John helps me to my feet. Sarah Connor appears in the doorway. "The police are on their way. We need to leave right now."

"Sarah?" Ramona says, her face a study in confusion.

"Hello, Ramona. Nice goal earlier. Is there another way out of here?"

"There's a door behind the showers but it's usually kept locked."

"Not a problem."

Wait, Sarah, what is that...thing?"

"The enemy. Oh and Ramona, about our lunchdate..."

"Yeah?"

"Raincheck."

-0-

We finish loading the T-888's carcass into the back of the SUV. "The safehouse is compromised," Sarah Connor declares. "We need to head for the one in the countryside."

"No," I state emphatically.

"We have no choice. They'll have our address soon."

"I will not leave Snowy behind."

"Dammit, the cops could be waiting for you."

"I will not abandon Snowy."

"I'll drive Cameron in the Porsche," John says. "You go ahead, mom. We''ll catch up."

"Don't risk your life over a stupid dog!"

"I'll be fine. Go."

-0-

The safehouse is deserted. No sign of the police or anyone else. We hurry inside. I grab Snowy and my secret diary. I wouldn't want that to fall into the wrong hands. Someone might post it on the internet. How embarrassing! John takes some weapons from the cache under the floorboards and wraps them in a blanket. He nods at me. We leave.

Jerold Ramirez is outside in the driveway. He is wearing his rubber surfing outfit, hair wet from the ocean. "Hey, guys," he greets us. "Gnarly breakers today! Fifteen feet high easy." He frowns. "You two in a hurry to go someplace?"

"Uh - yeah, short vacation," John tells him.

"Cool. Whereabouts?"

"Uh - Long Beach."

"Awesome! Check out this club I know on the waterfront. Wall to wall chicks, man!"

"Will do. Listen, Jerold, if I don't see you - good luck with college."

"Thanks, man."

"And tell Alys good luck when you see her."

"Okay, dude."

We drive away.

We will likely never see Jerold or his sister again.

-0-

At the safehouse south of the city Sarah Connor is watching the TV news when we arrive.

"Nothing," she says. "Not a word. Despite multiple witnesses. They must be hushing it up again."

"The Feds?"

"Most likely. Leaning on the local cops. And our IDs are now a liability. I don't think you'll be graduating just yet."

"There is another problem," I announce. "My fuelcell was damaged by the proximity of the shotgun blasts. I am leaking radiation."

Sarah Connor crosses her arms over her chest and takes several steps away from me.

John says, "Okay, so we'll fix you."

"Impossible. I cannot reach the damaged parts. And if you try you will absorb a lethal dose of radiation."

"There must be something we can do!"

"In 53 minutes my fuelcell will reach critical mass."

"What happens then?"

"I explode."

-000-

On that bombshell...literally.

Oops - nearly forgot Cam's diary. Had to write an extra scene so she could retrieve it. I envisage it as an actual book she writes in pen and ink. Old school, baby!

Okay, promised you an explosion and an explosion you shall have...