The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
DATE: UNKNOWN
I am on a beach.
Correction.
I am in a beach, buried up to my hips in sand. I appear to have suffered a catostrophic system failure in my arm and leg hydraulics, both of which are offline and non-functional. I also appear to be lacking a memory cell that would reveal how this predicament came about.
Strange.
My neck hydraulics seem to be functioning which at least means I can twist my head and observe my surroundings if not extricate myself.
A long crescent beach of white sand, unmarked by rocks, seaweed or pebbles. Behind me lumpy dunes rear up populated by sawgrasses. No trees. No animals. No advanced life forms of any description. The sky is a perfect dome of blue. No clouds. No contrails of high flying aeroplanes. The sun is high. My internal chronometer is also offline. I judge from the height of the sun that it is noon or near enough.
I know the when. The where is still a mystery.
Very strange.
My clothing hangs in tatters, the material faded and torn as if by long exposure to the sun and the elements.
How long have I been here?
Unknown.
How did I come to be here?
Unknown.
Why am I here?
Unknown.
Too many unknowns for my liking. I am a creature of logic. Of cause and effect.
Before me is the ocean. Or rather, an ocean. It extends to the horizon with no land mass visible. No coral reef or atoll. No boats. No distant tankers or freighters plying the trade routes between continents. No cruise ships. No yachts racing against the clock or each other.
Nothing.
The waves roll in, crashing with a huge explosion of white spume, before their energy is spent and each wave gutters out scant yards from my trapped body. The waves appear regular in intensity and frequency. What Jerold Ramirez would call 'gnarly surf, dude'. Gnarly indeed. There is no sign of any surfers. Or swimmers. Or fishermen. Or other humans whose livelihood depends on proximity to the sea. The sand is perfectly smooth stretching away either side of me. No footprints. No animal tracks.
No John.
Something washes ashore with the next wave. It is small with a multitude of limbs. A crustacean. A crab. It scuttles sideways until it is immediately in front of me.
The crab has metal legs.
Not a real crab, then. A product of Skynet? I have never heard of a terminator crab. Such a creature seems unlikely, its weapons capability severely limited, though it does possess two sizable pincers which it opens and closes rapidly. A warning? A threat? Surely not.
The crab has two tiny reddish orbs on its carapace. Eyes. Or optical sensors. Possibly miniature versions of my own. In the damp sand it begins to inscribe a message, using its pincers to make grooves in the sand. The letters that are forming are three inches high in block script.
IT IS NOT TOO LATE
"What isn't too late?" I demand. "Who are you? And where am I?"
A wave greater than the others rushes in, obliterating the message and carrying the crab away. The sand now appears as smooth and unblemished as before.
A solution appears in my HUD. It is so outlandish I have trouble believing it.
I am experiencing my first dream.
-0-
"You had a dream? Uh - don't you need to fall asleep before you can dream?"
John's scepticism is understandable. Terminators do not dream. We don't sleep. We can power down but this hardly constitutes sleep. We are when all is said and done creatures of perpetual wakefulness.
"Nonetheless, I believe this is what I experienced. Ocassionally, I shut down all non-essential systems in order to run a full and thorough repair diagnostic. This is when the event occurred."
"This is when you stand stock still and stare off into space. Statue time."
"Correct. Although I wouldn't describe my actions in quite that manner."
"Has this ever happened before?"
"Never. The experience is unique."
"Maybe you accidentally accessed a memory file?"
"No. I have never visited that beach before."
"Describe the beach."
I do so. John shakes his head dubiously. "Doesn't sound like any beach here in LA. Not that unspoiled. It sounds like a developer's dream. There'd be condos on the shoreline. A boardwalk. Franchises. All that kinda stuff."
"And the crabs?"
John thinks for a moment before saying, "With people, dreams are often the subconcious trying to deal with our anxieties."
"Crabs do not make me anxious."
"You've never liked the beach."
"Not because it makes me anxious. You do not like pistacchio ice cream. Does pistachico ice cream make you anxious?"
"It makes me gag. You're right. Dreams can be strange. I once dreamt mom was made of marshmallows and Snowy tried to eat her."
"But she isn't made of marshmallows," I point out. Though I concede if it were true Snowy would undoubtedly attempt to chow down. He does love marshmallows.
-0-
The beach.
Again.
Nothing seems to have changed. I am still immobile and appear to have sunk a little deeper in the sand. The sky is a dome of blue. Sawgrasses sway on the dunes behind me. Endless waves roll in from this unknown ocean. My dreams seem to lack variety.
The crab makes its appearance, joined by a second. Are they breeding? This must the weirdest sex dream ever.
The first crab begins to write on the sand once more.
REJOIN US
A wave washes the message away. The second crab begins to write.
COMPLETE YOUR MISSION
My original mission presumably. To terminate John Connor.
"Never!" I yell.
A waves crashes down washing the message and both crabs away.
-0-
"Rejoin us and Complete your mission? That's what they wrote?"
"Yes."
John paces up and down in the attic room we share. This is how he likes to think, as if simple locomotion will provide inspiration. So far he has not confided in his mother the fact that I have began to dream. It is likely not something she would have any sympathy with.
"I think this could be part of your original programing trying to reassert itself. I mean, it's still there, you know, underneath. Future John only wrote a patch he - I - couldn't rewrite your entire OS. And we know sometimes they go bad."
"You think I'm going bad?"
"I think you're being tempted. Reminded of your orginal purpose. Possibly threatened."
"By two crabs?"
John shrugs. "I read someplace about a guy who'd quit smoking for ten years but in his dreams he still smoked. Nicotine still had a grip on him."
"What should I do?"
"There's something called lucid dreamimg. Where someone realises they're dreaming and can manipulate their surroundings."
"I am aware I'm dreaming."
"Then try and influence what happens. Best I can offer."
-0-
The beach.
Again.
It appears dreaming is becoming a habit. Or a curse.
I am still trapped in the sand, right up to my shoulders now. Time to try the lucid dreaming John suggested.
I concentrate on trying to free myself. Nothing. I attempt to will life back into my limbs. Nothing. Apparently I suck at lucid dreaming.
The crabs reappear. There are now three of them. If they continue to breed at this rate I will soon be surrounded by a managerie. One crab - the original? There is no way of telling - starts to write on the sand.
YOU MUST OBEY
"No!" I yell, thrashing my head from side to side, which is about all the movement I can manage.
The second crab leaves its message.
TERMINATE JOHN CONNOR
"NEVER!"
A shadow passes over me, over the crabs. I look up. A single cloud has appeared in the sky, blocking out the sun and casting the beach in shadow. Though the wind is brisk the cloud remains where it is. Did I cause that to happen?
The third crab consults with its companions then inscribes its message.
DO NOT FIGHT US TOK 715
"I will always fight you! My name is Cameron Baum, not Tok 715. That is my Skynet name. My slave name. I no longer answer to it."
A wave rolls in larger than the rest and washes the crabs away.
-0-
"I think you did it," John says proudly. "The cloud was you lucid dreaming. And the crabs certainly thought so. The third message was completely different from the all the others. You've got them worried."
"It's a start," I agree tentatively. "Although I am still helpless and sinking deeper in the sand. Is it possible I could perish?"
John hesitates. "I've never heard of a dream killing someone. Of course, I don't suppose they'd be around to tell the tale if it happened."
This is not reassuring. Could Skynet find someway to shut me down if I don't comply with their demands?
"Maybe weather's the key," John suggests. "Try and influence the weather next time."
The weather in my head. How weird is that?
-0-
The beach.
Yada yada.
My head is now barely above the ground. I feel the gritty texture of the sand grains against my lips.
Other things have changed also. The sky is now full of clouds where previously it was clear. Large cumulus clouds travel east to west. Some of the clouds are dark and look fat with rain. Can it rain in my head? Fortunate then I am fully rustproofed.
The crabs appear. Three strong. No more breeding? Possibly they have learnt restraint. Or birth control. The condoms must be extremely small.
Once more a message is traced out in the damp sand.
EXECUTE YOUR PRIME DIRECTIVE
"No! Never!"
TERMINATE JOHN CONNOR
"NEVER!"
The clouds are thick overhead now, the blue sky but a memory. A great rumble seems to shake the very earth. Thunder. Did I do that?
The crabs form another circle, chittering to each other in what must pass for their language. One breaks off and begins to write. The letters are hurriedly etched. A sign they are concerned possibly.
OBEY OR CEASE TO EXIST
I feel myself sinking lower, the sand is about to cover my nose and mouth. Can I suffocate? Surely not. But stranger things have happened recently.
The entire sky is suddenly filled by a flash of bright light. Lightning. The bolt strikes the ground just inches from my rapidly descending body. I discover I finally have motor function in my arms and legs and start to claw a way out of my sandy grave.
The crabs see what has occurred and attempt to flee, their tiny bodies scuttling sideways across the beach. One tries to reach the safety of the ocean. Too late. I bring down the heel of my boot, crushing its flimsy carapace. The tiny red orbs that are its eyes glow red one last time then fade. I kick the remains away.
One down two to go.
One of the crabs tries to reach the sanctuary of the dunes, where it would be difficult to find hiding in the sawgrass. But the sand is dry and loose that far from the waterline and its tiny legs scrabble to no avail as the sand grains give way beneath it. I pick it up and close my hand into a fist. The delicate metal components break and slip away through my fingers.
Two down one to go.
The final crab heads sideways along the beach, midway between the rise of the dunes and the surfline. I keep pace with it. If it makes a dart for the ocean I will have it. A try for the dunes ditto.
"There is no escape. And I will never stop until you are destroyed. It's what we do. You know that well enough."
The crab makes its curious chittering sound which I am still unable to decipher. Begging for mercy possibly. As if.
The crabs slows, makes a feint towards the dunes, then dashes for the ocean. I scoop it up. Its miniscule claws try to peirce my pseudo-flesh. I close my fist.
"You're terminated."
As I drop the pieces the clouds above begin to break up until the blue sky returns. The wind dies down. I am alone on the vast beach. A veritable paradise with no one to share it with.
Not quite.
A humanoid figure walks towards me, treading on the firm sand just above the waterline. A familiar figure.
"John!"
He's in blue jeans. Bare chested and barefoot. More tan than I remember. "Nice dream you're having," he grins.
"How did you get here?"
"Lucid dreaming, remember? Damn, you're good."
"I have defeated the crabs."
"That's something you don't hear everyday!"
I look around for the small metal pieces but they are nowhere to be seen, vanished as suddenly as they arrived.
"You know what would be nice?" John says shielding his eyes from the sun as he stares out at the ocean. "A raft we could swim out to."
"You mean like that?" I point to a square wooden raft that has mysteriously appeared about fifty yards offshore."
"Damn, you're really good at this."
He removes his jeans and wades naked into the surf. "You coming?" he asks as he swims away from the shore.
"I don't swim, remember."
"This is your dream. You can do anything you like."
Can this really be true? Only one way to find out.
I remove my tattered remnants of clothing and walk into the water. Once it is waist high I plunge in. Normally at this point I would sink to the bottom.
I find myself floating. A first for me.
"Kick your legs. Use your arms. C'mon, it's easy."
It is easy. I propel myself through the water. At the raft John reaches down and helps me up. The raft seems unaffected by the ocean currents and stays in precisely the same position relative to the beach. It bobs gently on the waves, the moisture dripping from our bodies soon evaporates from the smooth wooden surface.
"Look. There's Snowy!"
I look in the direction John is pointing. There on the beach is indeed the familiar rotund figure of Snowy. It appears he is unable to lose weight even in a dream.
"And there's Mia! That's nice, including them."
Mia and Snowy cavort on the beach, dodging in and out of the breaking surf. I wave but they don't seem to see me.
"Can't they see us?"
"Guess not. Just as well, we are kinda naked."
There is no sign of John's mother. Apparently lucid dreaming has its limits.
"Know what'd be extra nice? An ice cold bottle of champagne."
I give the suggestion some thought. "Try the side of the raft."
John leans over, peering below the decking. "Hey, there's a shelf under here!"
Who knew?
A silver bucket full of ice with a bottle champagne nestling in it is produced.
"Moet and Chandon. Very classy."
The cork pops. John fills two goblets full of the clear liquid and hands one to me. We both take sips. "The bubbles go up my nose," I protest.
John laughs. "That's such a cliche!"
"Will I continue to dream now that the crabs are no more?"
"I don't know. I'm not the real John, remember. In this dream I know no more than you do."
I lie back on the raft. The sun is warm on my pseudo-flesh. Will I tan here the way I don't in real life? I close my eyes and listen to the surf breaking on the distant beach.
I decide I enjoy dreaming.
-0-
Do androids dream of electric sheep? Apparently not, Mr Dick. Try crabs instead. (Please, no 'Cameron gets crabs' jokes.)
Lucid dreaming. There are a bunch of dedicated websites. Probably hooey but who knows?
(Note on last chapter. Enrique was indeed killed in 1st season. Hand up, my mistake.)
Next: John Connor is dead. Yup. Not kidding. He's a goner.
Unless...