The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
WEDNESDAY
My instructions are brief and precise. "You have a forty-five second headstart. After that I will hunt you down and shoot you."
Daniel offers a nervous smile. The sun reflects off his sunglasses hiding his eyes. We are in the desert. This is his second lesson on firearms tactics. So far he has proved a fast learner. Good. He will need to be.
"You're really gonna shoot me?"
"My Glock is loaded with a clip of rubber bullets. If you are hit it will not be a fatal wound. However I understand it can hurt like a sonofabitch."
The Toyota is a quarter mile away. Daniel's mission is reach it and toot the horn before I catch him. It will be a practical demonstration of what he will face in the future. Minus the agonising death, of course. And the tooting.
"Can I shoot back?"
"If you wish. Although small caliber ammo will have little or no effect on me. And it certainly won't slow me down."
"Couldn't we just play tag?"
"No. This is not a game. Your forty-five seconds begins...now."
I turn my back. The seconds tick down in my HUD. Precisely on forty-five seconds I turn around. There is no sign of Daniel. I had half-expected him to simply run hell for leather towards the distant Toyota, making him an easy takedown. This is not the case. The game is afoot, as Sherlock Holmes would say. If he was real.
I activate my infra-red sensor. Instantly my HUD is a whiteout. Even with filters set to max I cannot detect human body warmth above the background desert heat. If this was night it would be a different matter. He would be a sitting duck.
There are footprints in the sand. I compare them. Three sizes larger than mine. Daniel's. I follow them, Glock held in front of me. I have zero qualms about using it. Pain is a valuable learning tool.
The footprints end at a rocky outcrop. I stop and scan the surroundings. There plenty of hiding places: large rocks, mesquite bushes, Joshua trees and the everpresent segoura cacti that are dotted around like spiky sentinels. Any and all will provide a possible hiding place. Not for long. I will search them all if necessary. I am patient, methodical, deadly. And I look totally rad in my mirrored aviators.
Movement to my left. I bring the Glock to bear and fire a short burst. A cactus shredded, its spiny skin crumbles leaking moisture it has probably taken decades to store. No cries of pain as there surely would be if I had struck human flesh. A lizard possibly. Or a small snake unhappy that their domain has suddenly been invaded by interlopers.
I circle around, slowing heading towards the Toyota, inspecting each possible hiding place as I go. The rocky outcrop ends. I see no tracks. Then, a voice, in some agony.
"Cameron, a snake bit me. My leg's swelling up. Think I need a hospital."
A list of snakes indiginous to the area pops up in my HUD. If it is a rattlesnake bite then he will indeed require medical treatment. And fast.
"Cameron, a snake bit me. My leg's swelling up. Think I need a hospital."
I holster my weapon and head towards a large boulder from whence Daniel's pleading voice emanates.
"Cameron, a snake bit me. My leg's swelling up. Think I need a hospital."
"I heard you the first time. Please remain calm."
I reach the boulder. No Daniel. Instead his disposable cell phone lies on the ground. I pick it up.
"Cameron, a snake bit me. My leg's swelling up. Think I need a hospital."
It is a recording. Set to playback on a simple loop. I turn it off. Subterfuge. A diversion.
I look round in time to see Daniel sprinting for the Toyota. He has a hundred yards on me. I unholster my Glock and bring it to bear as I start to run after him. Targeting graphics attempt to find a lock. This proves difficult. The terrain is uneven, Daniel is running between bushes and cacti all of which throw off my aim. I fire twice. Both land short. I readjust. High. He is now just fifty yards shy of the Toyota. I am closing the gap but not quickly enough. Two more shots. I am almost sure the second struck him though he doesn't break stride. A dive behind the trunk. A dust cloud rises. The side door opens. Too late, too late...
PARPPPPPPPPPPPP!
The horn sounds. I reholster my pistol. I have lost. He has won. It is time to be gracious in defeat. "Congratulations. You have completed your mission successfully."
His head pops up and down again. "Promise you won't shoot if I come out?"
"Of course." I resist the temptation to be a sore loser and put a round in his butt.
"Pretty tricky, huh?"
"Pretty tricky," I agree. "Though in the future this ruse would have zero probablity of succeeding. A hostile terminator would ignore your distress."
"This isn't the future. And I'm pretty sure Sarah told you not to let me be harmed. I figured the prospect of me dying from a snakebite would be enough for you to lower your guard."
Daniel stands beside the Toyota, grinning from ear to ear. "Man, that last shot was close! I actually felt it fly pass my head. You really took this seriously, didn't you?"
"There would be no point otherwise."
"I think my heartrate's like six hundred a minute!"
I grasp his wrist, sensors go to work. "More like one-sixty. High but within safe parameters for a human of your age and health."
"Feel it. Like a triphammer, huh?"
He places my left palm against his chest. Some last vestige of my original promgramming suggests ripping it out and stomping it into the dust. It appears I am a sore loser. I quell the impulse then try and lift my hand away. Daniel holds it there. We are physically close, just inches apart. Close enough for him to lean over and place his lips against mine. Kiss me, in other words.
"Why did you do that?" I ask curious.
A shrug. "I don't know. I wanted to. Call it my reward for beating you."
"Your reward is a successful mission and the implementation of field tactics that might one day save your life."
"I figured out who you were upset about leaving behind. It's him, isn't it? John."
"Yes."
"So the middle-aged version sends you back so his younger self can have some fun. Talk about officer perks."
"It is not like that. We did not hook up immediately. It required several years. John had other fish to fly."
"Fry. Other fish to fry. And you mean other girls?"
"Yes."
"That idiot. He doesn't deserve you."
"And you do?"
Daniel looks away. "And you never answered my question."
"What question?"
"Do I have anyone in the future?"
"I don't know," I lie.
Daniel nods. He stares beyond me, at the seemingly endless desert landscape. "You know, I'm lived in LA all my life yet this is the first time I've ever really visited the desert. It's beautiful here."
"It has a primitve charm," I concede.
Daniel's cheerfulness persists during the journey home, his andrenalin rush showing no sign of abating. I add to his amusement by quoting large chunks of dialogue from The Big Lebowski, a movie I have now had the opportunity to view. My recall is more thorough than his and comes with the added advantage of perfect mimicry.
"Oh man, your Walter is amazing! You should come with me to the next Lebowski fest."
"What is a Lebowski fest?"
"It's an event where people get together who really love the movie. The last one was in san diego. Some even dress up as their favourite characters. I generally go as Jesus. You could go as Maude. No - as Bunny!"
"Bunny doesn't wear very much," I point out as I instantly recall her scenes in the movie.
A wolfish grin. "I know."
-0-
Mia's broken finger finally heals, the self-repair system all humans possess slowly gets the job done. All that remains is a return trip to the hospital for a check up and to have the splint removed. This involves a second meeting with Doctor Hank, or Doctor Hunk as John has begun referring to him. Sarah Connor takes Mia and Snowy leaving John and I with the house to ourselves. This allows us some one on one time. Or should it be one on top of one time? By the time they return our clothes are back on and no one suspects a thing - except Snowy who sniffs around me suspiciously. That dog can smell nookie at a thousand paces.
"Look - my splint's off!" Mia announces waving her finger in the air. "It's all mended. I can bend it and everything."
"Did you see Doctor Hunk?" John asks.
"Yeah! he said I was very brave. And he gave Sarah his phone number!"
"Really... Home or cell?"
"Home, I think."
John grins at his mother who stares back at him unabashed. "Well, can't hurt to have a doctor on call."
"Go and put your uniform on," Sarah Connor tells Mia. "I'll drive you back to school."
"What? Can't I have the day off?"
"You said yourself your finger's healed. And you have a whole afternoon's worth of lessons."
"But it's math! I hate math!"
"If you're good I'll drive slowly."
"Really?"
"No."
"Aargh! Te odio! Te odio!"
"Me lo agradecerás un día."
Sarah Connor returns in two hours. "I had a little chat with the Principal. Seeems Mia has quite a little feud going with this Van Buren girl."
"I hope you told him it's not always Mia's fault?"
"Of course. I got the usual lecture about discipline beginning at home. And apparently this girl's family are valued benefactors of the school. His words."
"Meaning they're loaded and the school can always count on a donation when they need a new library wing."
"And she'll get the benefit of the doubt whenever something like this happens."
"I've told her to be careful and turn the other cheek."
"I doubt she'll listen. She's like her father. Impetuous. And she'll stick up for herself if she's provoked."
"Can you blame her?"
"No. I'm the one who taught her self-defense, remember?"
"You know, one of these days we're gonna have to tell her about...everything."
"I want her to have as normal a childhood as possible. I owe Miquel that much."
"She has a talking dog. Somehow I don't think robots from the future will be that much of a stretch."
-0-
SUNDAY
The seasons change. Winter becomes spring. The daylight hours lengthen permitting Mia to spend time in the yard after dinner and the completion of any schoolwork. Sometimes she contents herself dangling her feet in the pool and swapping IMs with her friend Megan. On other occasions she patiently teaches Snowy various tricks, issuing instructions via the iPhone app I invented that allows human and dog to converse. He can now do a passable imitation of Michael Jackson's Thriller routine. A close eye is needed in case she decides to film Snowy's antics and post them on Youtube. Quite apart from the threat to our anonymity there is the prospect of Snowy becoming a viral sensation. Fame would undoubtedly go to his head and make him insufferable. And the world only needs one Uggie.
In the afternoon we play an impromptu game of soccer in the backyard. Bamboo canes are pushed into the turf to provide goalposts and we devide into two teams: John and Mia versus Snowy and I - although Snowy is a nominal team memeber at best due to his propensity for running in the opposite direction whenever the ball comes near him. Brandy Chastain he isn't.
Despite this handicap my ability as a goalkeeper means I acquit myself well, keeping the score level. My prowess doesn't go unnoticed.
"Wow, Cameron's really good, isn't she!" Mia declares as I save another goalbound shot.
"Cameron was a goalie for her high school team," John tells her.
"For real?"
"She won a state championship."
"I was pretty awesome," I confess. My team did indeed win a championship, although I never received a medal owing to fact that a triple-8 gatecrashed the final match of the season and tried to kill John. Unfortunately this occurence is not covered under FIFA regulations, hence no medal. Bummer.
John feints a pass to Mia. I am not fooled. He unleashes a fierce shot that I do well to parry away. The ball runs harmlessly across the grass towards Sarah Connor, who is kneeling by the pool cleaning the filter. She prefers to do all the pool maintenance herself to save money.
"Mom, little help..." John requests.
Sarah Connor stands up. Most of her concentration is still on the filter cradled in her hands. Possibly it is this inattention that causes what happens next. Or maybe Riccardo simply screws up.
Her right leg draws back to kick the ball. Contact is made. The ball flies off in a high parabula, easily clearing all our heads, the yard, the yard next door, the yard next to that, before finally falling to earth half way up the block. It is a prodigious kick, one a steroid bloated NFL linebacker would be incapable of emulating.
And she knows it. She points her finger at me, her mouth a thin straight line of barely suppressed anger. "You. Indoors. Now."
"What's Sarah mad about?" Mia asks puzzled. "It wasn't Cameron's fault. And did you see how far she kicked the ball?"
"Mia, I want you to stay out here with Snowy," John tells her. "Don't come inside the house. Okay, munchkin?"
"I guess. But what's going on? How did she-"
"I'll explain later."
John and I troop indoors. Sarah Connor is pacing up and down in the kitchen. She looks even angrier than the time I fed Snowy a whole box of laxatives and left him in the laundry room. Not a pleasant sight. Or smell.
"Okay, what the hell's going on?"
"A soccer match," I answer smoothly. "The score is presently-"
"You know what I mean! My leg. There's been something wrong with it ever since I was shot. You did something to me, didn't you?"
"I saved your life."
"Mom, Cameron had to...well, make some modifications."
"How so?"
"The muscle in your leg was beyond repair," I inform her. "I added a cybernetic component."
"You little bitch!"
"Without it you would be lame. You're welcome," I add. Possibly unwisely if the glare I receive is anything to go by.
"Mom, it's not as bad as it sounds."
"And you knew about this?"
"You coded out. Everything happened so fast. What was I meant to do, let you die on the table?"
"Cut it out. Now."
"No. Without it you would be disabled," I tell her. "A liability. A threat to John's well being."
"Cut. It. Out. Now. That's an order."
"Mom, be reasonable. It's not like you're...uh..."
"What? A machine? Like her? Like them?"
"Mom, please. Mia will hear."
"If she won't do it then I'll go to a hospital, have them remove it."
"How exactly? We don't have insurance. Any reputable hospital will want a full medical history before they operate."
"Then we'll go to Mexico. If necessary we kidnap a surgeon, have him operate or else-"
"Or else what - we shoot him? And if he calls our bluff, what then - we torture him? Listen to yourself."
"I WANT THIS THING OUT OF ME!"
"W...W...What thing? What's she talking about?
Mia appears in the doorway, her young face pinched with anxiety.
"Mia, I told you to stay in the yard. Go and play with Snowy."
John turns Mia around and leads her back outside. By the time he returns his mother has gone. We hear the sound of the Suburban being started, its engine harshly revved before being driven away at speed.
"Shit! Why didn't you stop her?"
"You didn't order me to."
"Go after her. She might really mean what she said, about kidnapping a surgeon."
"How? She has the only vehicle."
"Take the neighbor's. It's a Sunday. They spend all morning in the hot tub drinking champagne and the afternoon sleeping it off on the sun loungers. Every weekend like clockwork. Probably won't notice its gone. And don't let mom see you. She's mad enough as it is."
-0-
The neighbors have two vehicles at their disposal: a black Porsche Cayenne and a white Mercedes convertible. I select the former since I would be too easily spotted in the convertible and the Cayenne has dark tinted windows meaning Sarah Connor will be unable to glimpse the identity of the driver even at close range.
The Cayenne's door is locked but yields easily enough. I pull down the sun visor and a spare set of keys fall into my lap. This is a trick John taught me. He is so smart.
I reach the end of the block just in time to see the Suburban in the far distance, heading towards the city. With the windows sealed and the air conditioning off the temperature in the cabin has risen. My sensors show it has reached 109 degrees, far too hot for a human to comfortably withstand, yet well within my functioning parameters so I let it be. If humidity accompanied the heat it would be a different matter. I cannot tolerate humidity - it does awful things to my hair! Even terminators aren't immune to bad hair days.
My cell phone rings. John. I put him on loudspeaker. "Find her?"
"Yes." I divulge my current location and hear the sound of a keyboard as he tracks me on his laptop.
"Okay, there's a hospital less than a mile away. If mom's going there she'll take the next exit."
"You believe she will carry out her threat and coerce a doctor into operating on her leg?"
"I don't know. She was pretty mad."
The exit for the hospital comes and goes. The Suburban continues on. I relay the information to John.
"That's good. Maybe she- Wait. Doctor Hunk!"
"Hank," I correct.
"He gave her his number. Maybe she called him for help. Hang on, let me check for a listing...Okay, here he is. Doctor Franklin R. Hank. Shows a Holmby Hills address."
A shematic of the city appears in my HUD, so much handier than Google Maps. "Your mother is heading away from Holmby Hills," I point out.
"Maybe they arranged a renedezvous somewhere else? No, I'm being paranoid. He's a paediatrician , plus he could trace us through Mia's school. I don't think she'd take the risk."
"Unless she plans to kill him afterwards. Dead men tell no tales."
"I don't think mom's that far gone."
Yet I hear doubt in his voice.
"Okay, I want you to keep her in sight. If she goes to a hospital then restrain her. I don't-" His voice becomes muffled like he has his hand over the receiver. "Mia, I told you to go watch TV...No, it's Cameron...Mom's fine, she'll be home soon...No, none of it's your fault. You want me to fix you a sandwich? How about peanut butter and jelly?...Cam, I'll have to call you back."
The line goes dead.
I keep the Cayenne ten car lengths back from the Suburban, which continues to head west across the city. Finally we reach the ocean and the Pacific Coast Highway - PCH, for short - a sinuous ribbon of asphalt that hugs the coast from here to San Francisco and beyond. In the future much of it will be washed away as the sea carves a new coastline, one that is beyond the ability of a beleagured mankind to defend or repair. And Skynet cares little for where the sea ends and the land begins, as long as the humans are all dead.
We pass the Getty Villa, a billionaire's conceit, a modern recreation of an ancient Roman villa that thousands of years ago stood in Pompeii before being buried under the lava of an erupting Vesuvious. This simulcrum will meet a similar fate, inundated by sea water and land subsidence as a tsunami reconfigures this place in the wake of Judgement Day. There is no one to appreciate the irony. Except me. And I'm not big on irony.
On and on we go. We pass the million dollar houses of Malibu, perched precariously on concrete stilts on their tiny plots of lucrative sand. Soon the beach will be the seabed and these expensive domiciles become home to fishes and other aquatic lifeforms. Not a movie star in sight. Unless you count their bones.
The traffic slows and comes to halt at a stop sign. From the sidewalk a man approaches the Cayenne. He has long straggly hair streaked with grey and is of indeterminate age. Possibly an old man who has aged well or a young one who has led a dissolute life. He is wearing a faded khaki combat jacket which one day will comprise the uniform of the Resistance, although here in this time it is mere fashion apparel purchased for a few dollars from any thrift market. The man has a bucket and a sponge and begins to soap the windscreen of the vehicle. I do not know this man but I have encountered his type. Men who who lie in wait at junctions and clean automobiles without being requested to do so. John says these men are often homeless and many are ex-army veterans adversely affected by what they have seen or experienced on the battlefield. Society seldom treats them very well, despite their having served their country in conflict. John never fails to give them money so I do likewise.
"There you go, sir. All spic and span," the man states coming round to the side window to collect his due. His smile has several teeth missing. "Oh - beg pardon, miss. Couldn't see you in there," he corrects himself as the window rolls down revealing I am a she not a he, although technically...Oops, don't go there! I hand him a bill. His eyes widen in surprise. "A hundred dollars! God bless you, miss, I sure appreciate-"
I raise the window cutting off the sound of his gratitude. The lights change to green and traffic flows freely once more. I ponder how easily money changes things. Had I handed over a one dollar bill his gratitude would have been replaced by disappointment, even anger. Add a couple of zeros, a different dead President's visage on virtually identical paper and the effect is very different. Economics. I do not pretend to understand it. It matters little to my purpose here in this time. From what I have seen it works like this: Americans spend all the money they earn and then some on whatever they please. The Chinese loan them the shortfall. And so it goes until the amount of money owed is so huge few can even contemplate it rationally, including politicians who appear especially myopic where the nation's finances are concerned.
I slow and stop for another redlight. Sarah Connor is lucky and avoids the junction. I watch the Suburban recede in the distance and debate whether to break lanes and jump the light. No, this would be noticeable not only to Sarah Connor but any elements of the California Highway Patrol in the vicinity. I am in a stolen vehicle for which I lack any form of paperwork. An encounter with a law enforcement agency would ultimately end in violence and bloodshed. Theirs, of course. John will be very displeased if I embark on a killing spree. And I don't want to get blood on my new top. I have discovered that blood is easier to spill than to launder.
On this ocasion no homeless veteran appears to wash my windscreen. To my right is a sidewalk cafe with people sitting around small tables, shielded from the glare of the sun by colourful parasols. They ignore the stalled traffic too absorbed by their iPhones and iPads, updating their Facebook profiles and surfing the web whilst sipping coffee and nibbling bagels - organic wholegrain bagels naturally. This is California after all. These people owe the existence of these gadgets not to Steve Jobs or even Mark Zuckerberg, but to john Connor and his mother, who successfully prevented an earlier incarnation of Judgement Day. Without their intervention this area would be a wasteland and nuclear holocaust would be trending big time.
The lights change and I accelerate away keen to make up the lost ground. The Cayenne is responsive and more powerful than the Suburban, exhibiting sportscar performance. A veritible wolf in sheep's clothing. I will suggest to John that we upgrade. The temperature in the cabin is now 116 degrees. Toasty.
My cell phone rings. John's voice. "Where are you now?"
I give him the coordinates adding, "If we are heading for San Francisco I will have to stop for gas. This vehicle has less than a quarter tank."
"Won't be necessary. I think I know where she's going."
"Where?"
"Zuma Beach."
"What's at Zuma Beach?"
"Mom's Past."
"Explain, please."
"She has happy memories of Zuma from when she was my age. I think that's where she's heading."
"Her Past is gone and she can no longer reclaim it," I point out. "She is old now. As are the people she knew. And they are unlikely still to be in situ."
"It's a human reaction, to seek solace in a happier place," John replies. "She's had a stressful experience maybe this will chill her out."
I continue the drive in silence, pondering what John has told me. It is strange. Human's hold their Past dear, yet have a tenuous and often inadequate recall, seldom remembering what they had for breakfast just a few days previous.
It appears John's assesment of his mother's behaviour is correct. The Suburban slows and turns in to a parking lot directly adjacent to Zuma Beach. I make the same turn, driving to a distant part of the lot and stopping. In the rear view mirror I observe Sarah Connor exit her vehicle and head toward the dune trails. She doesn't look in my direction. I ask John for instructions.
"Follow her. At a distance. I want to make absolutely sure this isn't a renedezvous with Doctor Hunk."
"Hank."
"Whatever. I called the hospital. He takes Sunday's off. Probably at a golf course but it won't hurt to make certain."
I exit the Cayenne. The lot is crowded as people flee the confines of the city to enjoy the sunny weekend. Some surfers are unloading their boards from the back of a pickup prior to heading to the ocean where they will ride the waves over and over again without seemingly getting bored or realising the futility of it all. Whatever floats your boat. Or board, as the case may be. Near the surfers a group of people help each other load bulky rucksacks onto their backs and secure them in place. These are called hikers who walk nowhere in particular and for no particular reason. Locomotion is its own reward. Curiouser and curiouser.
I reach the start of the dune trail. Sarah Connor has a substantial headstart, although there are no trees or vegetation so I am unlikely to lose sight of her. Equally should she choose to look behind there is no hiding place to avoid my being spotted.
The trail follows the contours of the dune system. This is an arid and inhospitable enviroment where sea meets the land, a piece of natural topography that development has passed by. Humans are quite happy destroy vast acres of wilderness to build their homes and freeways and malls, yet some areas remain sacrosanct, even safeguarded by laws. Who chooses and why? It is all very mysterious.
Sarah Connor disappears over a rise. I follow at a sedate pace and crest the rise to see no sign of her, just sand and arum grasses swaying in the breeze. Then somethings impacts my legs from behind causing them to buckle. I sink to my knees and sustain another blow to my back which causes me to fall flat on my face in the sand. My sunglasses fall off. I twist my head just in time to see sarah Connor's cybernetically enhanced leg press her boot against my neck, pinning me to the ground.
"Think I don't know the neighbor's ride? I know the make and number of every vehicle in the way I know when things change. It's called being prepared."
She takes a pistol from the waistband of her jeans. A Glock nine milimeter. It has armor piercing rounds. I know because I loaded it. She presses the barrel against my head.
"I figured John would worry and send you after me. That makes it easier. You've become a liability. Not any more. I should've done this a long time ago..."
Her finger tightens on the trigger. At point blank range the bullets will rip my skull asunder. This is it. The End.
-0-
Or is it?
Sarah's 'bionic' leg was a bit of a problem since I wasn't enitirely clear in my own mind what Cameron had done. I have this weird mental image of her replacing the muscle with a piece of Stretch Armstrong.
No comments about my RIM job gag in the last chapter? You are obviously all very sweet and innocent while I am sleazy and depraved. Plus la change...