The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

TUESDAY

The encounter with the mobsters has several repercussions. One is every door and window in the safe house must be reinforced and made capable of withstanding an assault. A human assault that is; my kind would simply batter a way through. Another consequence is Sarah Connor insisting every school run must be via a different route. Routine is a weakness that can create a pattern for our enemies to track us. Paranoia much? This means each journey to school and back takes longer, so care must be taken not to make Mia suspicious.

It's my turn for the school run. Snowy sits in back while Mia sits in the passenger seat apparently doing some last minute coursework. If Sarah Connor was driving she would doubtless give Mia grief for being so tardy. Not me. I'm easy.

"Quick, Cameron, help me out. Which war did Florence Nightingale fight in?"

"The Crimean War, though she wasn't a combatant."

"Wasn't she a secret agent they dropped behind enemy lines to kick butt?

"Florence Nightingale was a nurse, not a secret agent."

"That was just a secret identity, right? Because she was really a superfit ninja warrior who Fu Manchu taught to fight? And she was called Lady With The Lamp because her lamp was a superpowerful raygun that sliced people in half?"

"No."

"Aw, man, I'm gonna have to write this all again!"

I find I am lost for words. When did Mia become an imbecile?

She bursts out laughing. "I'm messing with you! Man, your face! Not as good as Sarah, though. When I mess with her she looks as if her head's gonna explode!"

Behind me I hear the curious chuff-chuff sound that Snowy makes when he is amused by something. So he was in on the 'joke', was he? We will have words later.

Mia puts her books away and faces forward. "BTW, we went this way yesterday."

"So?"

"Didn't Sarah tell you to take a different route every day?"

"You know about that?"

"I overheard her telling John. See, that's what happens if you shout so much. Your voice gets loud and people overhear you even if they're not trying very hard. Take the next right. We haven't been that way for ages."

I heed her advice. My HUD tracks the detour and updates accordingly. This street ends just south of the school playing fields, which we can circle round. This will add an extra five minutes to our ETA, although we should still arrive before the school bell sounds if I increase speed. As John says, when in doubt floor it.

"I thought you took care of the bad guys?"

"These are different bad guys."

"Will we go to jail if they catch us?"

"Some of us."

"What about Snowy? Do they have jails for dogs?"

"He will be sent to the pound."

"He wouldn't like that. He hates being around dogs that are bigger than him."

This is true. The big baby.

"Are we being followed?"

"No."

"What would you do if we were - zap them with your raygun?"

"I don't have a raygun."

"Where's Florence Nightingale when you need her, huh?"

Mia laughs at her own wit while I hang a left that brings us parallel to the school grounds. Several acres of grass stretch into the distance. A ride-on lawn mower plows back and forth, its cylindrical blades sending up a vivid green arc of freshly clipped grass. Snowy presses his snout to the window, utterly enthralled by the sight. He loves freshly mown grass, rolling over and over until the clippings stick to his fur. Then he wanders back indoors, shedding as he goes, and is puzzled when Sarah Connor yells at him and shoos him straight back out. The foolish dog has no notion of cause and effect.

We pull up in front of the school. Mia points and says, "There's Emma Van Buren! Quick. Run her over!"

"No."

"Spoilsport."

"You should try being kind. Kindness is often a basis for lasting friendships."

I learnt this from Dr. Phil. Such a wise man.

"Ya think? Watch and learn." Mia leans out of the window and yells, "Hey, Emma! Your hair looks really pretty today."

The Van Buren girl raises her left hand with her middle finger extended.

"See. She's pure evil. Kindness just bounces off her. Oh no, here comes Mrs Finch! She the vice-principal. Careful what you say to her. She's a real ballbreaker."

"Then it's fortunate I have no balls to break."

Mia manages to stifle her giggles just in time. "Hola, Mrs Finch!"

"Good morning, Mia."

"This is my sister Cameron. And my pet dog Snowy in the back. Isn't he just the cutest?"

"Quite. Run along now, Mia, I'd like a word with your sister."

"Okay. Oh - Mrs Finch, Emma Van Buren made a rude hand gesture at me for no reason at all. Shouldn't she be punished?"

"Now, it's a little early in the day to be telling tales on your fellow students."

"It's true! Even Snowy saw. You can ask him if you want."

"The very idea! Inside, young lady, or you'll be the one receiving the punishment."

Mia rolls her eyes and makes a rude hand gesture of her own behind the woman's back. Interesting. I will have to remember that for the next time Sarah Connor gets on my case.

"I was hoping to speak to Mia's mother."

"Impossible. She's dead."

"Not her biological mother. Her step-mother. The Principal and I spoke to her a few weeks ago."

"She has a prior engagement."

"We were most perturbed when she broke her assurance to attend the next PTA meeting."

"She had a prior engagement."

"Will she be picking her step-daughter up later today?"

"She has a prior-"

"-engagement. Yes, I'm beginning to sense a pattern here. It really is too bad. Studies have shown that children whose parents take an active interest in their schooling do significantly better in exams and - Good lord, what is that dog doing?"

I turn around. Snowy is bouncing on the seat. "Showing off," I explain. Watch. He will attempt a backflip next."

Snowy executes a perfect backflip and nails the landing. He doesn't always. Sometimes he lands flat on his face and howls.

I turn round just in time to see Mrs Finch striding away shaking her head and muttering to herself. It appears Snowy and I haven't made a particularly favourable impression. What did she expect - a triple lutz?

WEDNESDAY

Davie Ginsberg is dead.

It is announced on the TV news. There are no suspicious circumstances; he succombed to the cancer he was aflicted with when we last saw him.

Tributes are paid by the great and the good. The President calls Davie 'an outstanding american who sought to further the boundaries of human knowledge.' Indeed he did, though largely due to me, a machine. Do I get any credit? No-oo-ooo...

John watches the tributes without expression. Any respect or affection he might have developed for a man who in a roundabout way helped save his life largely negated by his subsequent attempt to steal Cameron subprime's chip for personal gain. An action that almost resulted in his mother's death. Enough reason to bear a grudge.

The news continues on the Bloomberg business channel, where Susan Li outlines the stock market ramifications for Ginsberg Industries, the huge company behemoth that grew out of my teachings. I like Susan Li. Her hair is almost as glossy as mine. I wonder if she too has discovered the advantages of jojoba oil and its shine inducing properties?

Davie's Will has been published early to help quell stock market anxiety. Davie's oldest child becomes CEO and the voting stock distributed between family members. Except for five percent, Susan Li informs her viewers, which is instead bequeathed to Cameron Phillips.

Cameron Phillips.

Me?

"You?" John echoes my surprise.

"Ginsberg insiders report that Cameron Phillips was a close friend of David Ginsberg in the 60s, "Susan Li continues," and that he always credited her with helping fund the company that bore his name. Her present whereabouts is unknown."

"I should hope so," John quips.

"But if you're watching this Ms Phillips," Susan Li reports with a slight toss of her lustrous jojoba enriched hair, "you're now worth one billion dollars."

"One billion dollars! Wow." John laughs and shakes his head. "That settles it. Next time we go out for lunch, you're picking up the tab."

"What does it mean - I'm worth a billion dollars?"

"It means the old guy left you company stock worth that on today's market."

"So it's not real money?"

"Oh it's real enough, alright. Trade the shares and they'll give you a billion dollars cash. I'm guessing not in singles."

"Of course, you can't do that," Sarah Connor points out waspishly. Trust her to burst my bubble.

"Why not?"

"Because the girl who helped Ginsberg forty years ago they'll expect to be in her sixties at least."

"Some women age better than others."

"Not that much better. Forget it. The money's out of reach."

"Mom's right, unfortunately. Easy come easy go," John grins.

"A better question is - why leave her the stock in the first place? I thought you said he knew what she is?"

"He does. Did, rather."

"Then why leave her the stock?"

"Maybe he made the Will before he found out what Cameron really is and just never got round to changing it."

"You really believe that? How d'you forget a billion dollars?"

"Or he felt he owed her some acknowledgement. He told me himself that he probably owed his life to Cameron's intervention. Maybe this is payback. Man, can you imagine how Creed is going to react to this? He'll..." John trails off looking thoughtful. Then: "Know what, I think this is a way we can finally track that guy down."

"How?"

"I'll pose as Cameron Phillips attorney and tell the Ginsberg people she wants to take ownership of the stock. We'll arrange a meeting here in LA. Their HQ's here."

"Didn't we just agree the money's out of reach?"

"Oh I've no intention of showing up. Not directly anyway. We stake out the Ginsberg office and when Creed turns up expecting to capture us we'll track him, follow him back to wherever he operates from. Once we know the address we can start planning how we can get our hands on him and persuade him over to our side."

John is full of enthusiasm for this idea, his mother less so, though she doesn't come right out and forbid it.

"Look, we won't take any risks. Just lie low and follow him back to his lair."

"Lair?"

"Bit over the top?

"He's not a monster, John. From his point of view, he's the good guy and we're the criminals."

"All the more the reason to find him and teach him the error of his ways."

-0-

THURSDAY

The bellboy shows us to our room. "Enjoy your stay," he says then winks at me as he closes the door.

John unzips the suitcase we have brought with us and takes out a tripod and a pair of binoculars. He sets them up by the window. "This is perfect. The Ginsberg building is right across from us. We'll have a grandstand seat. How lucky is this? I thoght we'd be stuck outside hanging off a fire escape."

"Why did the bellboy wink at me?"

"Huh?"

"The bellboy said, enjoy your stay, then winked at me."

"Oh. He probably thinks we're here for a booty call."

"What does that mean?"

"A young couple booking into a hotel room during the middle of the day with minimal luggage usually means they're here for one purpose: sex."

"A booty call is sex?"

"Pretty much."

You live and learn.

I have had reason to use hotels before, but none as big or luxurious as this. We had no choice but to book a suite since the south side of the hotel is all suites. Something to do with the quality of light. I do a little exploring.

The bathroom is large with chrome and marble fixtures polished to a fine lustre. There is one anomaly that puzzles me. "Why are there two toilet bowls?"

"Huh? Oh, one's a bidet."

"What does it do?"

"Push the button and see."

I do so. "Oh. An ornamental fountain. How ingenious."

These modern hotels think of everything!

The bedroom is no less impressive, dominated by a four poster bed. It has carved oak posts hung with silk shrouds secured by braided satin ropes. Sudden movement above me catches my eye and I look upward to see...me. "Why is there a mirror on the ceiling?"

John appears in the doorway. "I guess so you can watch yourselves while you have, you know, sex."

"Should we try it out?"

"Now? Do we have time?"

I begin to undress. "There's always time for a booty call."

I wink. It seems appropriate.

-0-

"Wow. That was...wow."

John and I stare up at our prostrate selves from the vantage point of the bed. The sheets are dishevelled. One pillow is shredded. How did it get like that? Oh yes...good times.

"It certainly displayed the bio-mechanical aspect in greater clarity."

"Yeah. Exactly what I was gonna say. Kinda."

We are so on the same wavelength!

"Perhaps we should install a ceiling mirror in the attic room?" I suggest.

"I can just see mom going for that."

"We won't invite her to join us."

A wince. "I wish you'd stop saying things like that."

"Snowy would also appreciate a mirror above the bed. He could watch himself while he sleeps."

"How can he watch himself if he's asleep?"

"He would find a way. He's very vain."

"Like we need more doghair on the sheets."

"Snowy's shedding offends you? Once home I will shave him from head to foot."

"Or we could keep the door closed so he can't climb on the bed."

I agree this is a simpler solution. And potentially less draughty for Snowy.

John gets up and pulls on his clothes. "Let's go. Showtime soon."

I dress then take a short detour into the bathroom. The bidet intrigues me. I find the feeder pipe and make a few adjustments, using my fingers as a wrench. Plumbing, terminator style.

"What are you doing?" John asks.

"Watch."

This time when I press the button the water jet reaches almost to the ceiling.

John laughs. "Cam, it's not an ornamental fountain!"

"Then what is it?"

He explains in some detail what a bidet is for. Graphic detail. I smile. "You are making a joke. Pull the other one it has bells securely attached."

"Nope. That's what it does."

"That area of the body isn't self-cleansing?"

"Not so much."

I release the button and take a step back. "I think I preferred to believe it was an ornamental fountain."

"Truth's kinda ugly sometimes."

-0-

We take up station by the wide bay window. From this height we have a perfect view of the office building on the corner of the opposite block where Ginsberg Industries headquarters is situated. It is eleven fifty. We have hired a limousine to arrive outside the building at noon precisely, the time John arranged for me to arrive and claim my share of the company. The driver thinks he is there to pick up Cameron Phillips, whereas he is really bait to lure Rubin Creed out into the open so we can trace him back to his LA base of operation.

"How long till noon?"

"Three minutes."

Final precise adjustments to the binoculars. The street below seems normal. People hurry back and forth unaware that things are likely to change drastically.

A long black limousine turns the corner and enters the street. It stops in front of the office building. All at once a dozen soldiers appear from nowhere. All are in combat gear with their weapons trained on the vehicle. The hapless driver is forcibly dragged from the limo and spreadeagled on the sidewalk.

"Wow. They aren't messing around. Hope they don't hurt the poor guy."

The limo is thoroughly searched. When it is plain I am not aboard the soldiers finally release the driver, who climbs shakily to his feet. One soldier speaks urgently into a handheld radio, his frustration clear as he gesticulates and kicks the limo's rear fender.

"I don't see Creed. Do you see him?"

"No."

The binoculars sweep the street. It's John's turn to become frustrated. "He must be here. Keep looking."

The limousine is permitted to drive away. The soldiers disperse. Normality returns. Creed didn't show.

"Damn. I thought for sure he'd be here. How could he miss a chance like this? I was giving you to him on a plate."

I step out on the balcony and peer down at the street five stories below. "John..."

"What did we do wrong? I don't get it."

"John..."

"What?"

"There are two soldiers stationed outside the hotel entrance, preventing people from entering or exiting."

"This hotel?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't make sense. There's no way they could possibly-"

The phone rings.

John stares at me. "It can't be mom. She'd call my cell not the hotel. And no one else knows we're here."

The phone continues to ring. It's on a side table and has a red light on the base. The light blinks on and off in sync with the ringing.

Red is a warning.

Red is for danger.

Finally John picks up the phone, putting it on loudspeaker so I can listen too.

"Hello?"

"Hello, John. And Cameron, I presume. I hope you're both enjoying the view?"

"Creed."

"You know my name? Impressive."

"How did you find us?"

"I don't see you as a prankster, John, so when the limousine showed up empty I thought to myself, it's either a decoy or bait. I have the Ginsberg offices sealed off, so it's bait. You expected to see me on the street today, didn't you? Probably through a sniper's rifle sight. Shoot me and you figure the chase dies with me."

"No, that's not it at all."

"Then come out and persuade me different."

"Listen, Creed, I-"

"No, you listen, son. Give her up now and no one gets hurt. You and your mom both receive pardons for your crimes and you get to live the rest of your life with a clean slate. Not too many murderers get that deal. Money's off the table, I'm afraid. Country's in hock for sixteen trillion so every dollar counts."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we come in and grab her. Got a dozen highly trained soldiers out here equipped with state of the art taser rifles. They deliver a fifty thousand volt charge. Should be enough to drop your lady friend like a sack of coal. Course, if you catch a stray round it'll fry you like catfish on a griddle. All the more reason to make the right choice."

"Can I have time to think it over?"

"Sure. I'm a reasonable man. You have five seconds." A humorless chuckle. "Okay, time's up. What'll it be?"

"I'll stick, thanks."

"That's too bad. Okay, John. Be seeing you. One way or another."

The door to the room opens a crack and a silver sphere no bigger than a baseball is thrown in. It rolls towards us across the floor, getting closer and closer with every revolution. I recognise it immediately.

Grenade...

-0-

I don't hesitate. Not for a moment. I fling myself on top of the grenade.

"Cameron!"

The grenade explodes, lifting me several inches in the air. All systems remain online. Amber warning icons flare in my HUD. Nothing major. It seems it was a stun grenade.

The door opens and a soldier enters. He's alone. This isn't a full assault. Creed is being cautious. He doesn't know how effective the stun grenade was, nor how much firepower we have. He suspects we have a sniper's rifle. Such a powerful weapon would decimate his squad. In fact, all we have is a single handgun. This was never intended to be a combat mission.

John reacts before the soldier gets his bearings. He empties half a clip into the man's chest. The kevlar body armor saves his life but the sheer force of the impacts stop him in his tracks. I do the rest. One shove and he cartwheels back into the corridor from whence he came. Hasn't he heard of knocking first?

"Barricade! Pile everything in front of the door."

We do so until the hotel suite is denuded of furniture and fixtures. I debate whether to add the bidet but can't quite bring myself to touch it. So gross!

"That should keep them out."

"And us in."

"Can you smell burning?"

"Are they trying to smoke us out?"

"No, it's you."

He's right. The stun grenade has removed a circle of pseudo-flesh from my abdomen. The edges are blackened and smouldering. I extinguish the flames with my hands. Don't you just hate it when your stomach catches fire?

"You okay?"

"It looks worse than it is." Bits of charred flesh drop to the floor, looking not unlike Sarah Connor's attempts at barbecuing steak. Probably more tasty though.

"We need to think of a way out. And fast."

I cross to the far wall and tap on it with my knuckles. "Dry wall. I can break through in less than a minute."

John shakes his head. "Creed said he had a dozen soldiers. Two are guarding the entrance. Figure two more round the back. He'll seal off this floor and station the rest here. Going sideways won't help us."

"Through the floor, then."

"Reinforced concrete. Take too long. He'll call for reinforcements. Feds and regular army would be my guess. If he wanted the police involved they'd be here by now."

He hurries into the bedroom and returns with the red satin ropes previously suspended from the fourposter bed. "We tie these to the balcony and climb down."

"Not long enough. This is the fifth floor."

"We go down two floors, climb over their balcony and in through the suite. Make our way to the stairs that way."

The satin rope is surprisingly strong given its ornamental purpose, the braided cord easily capable of withstanding my weight. We carefully climb down and stand on the balcony two floors below ours.

"Far as we go. Break the door."

I oblige. The frame buckles and the glass panes fall to floor and shatter.

"Quietly, would be better."

Now he tells me.

We enter a bedroom. An occupied bedroom. A couple are in bed together, a woman straddling a man. Both are naked. The woman screams and covers her boobs with her hands. The man yells, "What the hell d'you think you're playing at?" It appears we have interrupted a booty call.

"Uh - health and safety," John improvises. "Yup, that broken glass is definitely unsafe. Make a note of it, Miss Frobisher."

Miss Frobisher? Oh that's me. I do love all these different aliases!

Before I exit the bedroom I turn and say, "Please remain calm and continue your booty call." And I wink. I am so getting the hang of it!

John opens the door to the corridor and peeks out. "All clear. Let's go. No - wait. You can't go out there looking like that."

"Is my hair a fright?" I knew I shoud've used extra conditioner.

"Not your hair. Lower."

Of course. There is a hole where my stomach should be revealing my armor plating. Some women yearn for abs of steel. I actually have them. It is not an attractive look. Not unless you want people screaming and running in the opposite direction.

John hands me a sports jacket hanging from a hook by the door. "Here. Put this on. Keep it buttoned."

"Won't it make me look mannish?"

"Is that really a problem?"

I say nothing. A girl likes to look her best when out and about.

Halfway along the corridor is a small glass window inset in the wall. Above it the message:

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY BREAK GLASS.

Using his elbow, John does as instructed. A loud alarm sounds throughout the building. Doors open and guests peer curiously out.

"What is it? Is there a fire?"

"Everyone, please. This is a fire drill. I need you all to vacate your rooms immediately and follow Miss Frobisher and I to the stairs. In an orderly fashion. No need to panic."

John's tone is so authoritive no one questions it. People leave their rooms and follow us.

"Is it a real fire?"

"I think he said it's a just a drill."

"We only just checked in."

"What's going on? I was in the middle of a pay-per-view movie. Debbie Does Dall- er, Decorating."

"Debbie Does Decorating? Is that a DIY title?

"There is some do it yourself involved, yeah."

"Are we going outside? Will I need a mac?"

"This is California, Maude. Never rains here."

"You don't know that."

"Fine, already. Bring a damn mac."

"Don't you take that tone with me!"

"Then will you please come on, Maude, before we all burn to death."

"You said it was just a drill! Oh my God, we're all gonna die!"

"Oh Jesus wept!"

We let the guests go down the stairwell and position ourselves in the middle of the thirty-strong group. With any luck guests will be milling about the corridors on all the other floors, further adding to the confusion and hindering Creed's soldiers.

The bottom of the stairwell leads to the lobby where John's plan begins to unravel. The sight of two armed soldiers slows our group to a halt, cowed by the men with weapons and uncertain what to do next."

"What are you people doing here?" One soldier demands angrily. "Get back to your rooms."

"Isn't this a fire drill?"

"The hell it is. Back upstairs all of you. Now."

Suddenly a powerful explosion rocks the entire building. Evidently Creed has decided to use brute force to clear our barricade.

Fear takes over. Someone yells, "Terrorists!" There is a panicky dash for the doors. The two soldiers are pushed back and overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. John and I pass within a few feet of one, who is completely oblivious to our presence as he talks urgently on his walkie-talkie.

Outside in the street, everyone turns and stares up at the front facade of the building. On the sixth floor, thick black smoke is issuing from our suite. Flames can be glimpsed inside. It seems hotel furniture is every bit as flamable as my stomach.

While everyone cranes their neck looking upward and speculate on the cause of the fire, John and I slip quietly away, turning the corner of the block just as fire department sirens are heard coming closer and closer.

We are so-oo out of here.

-0-

Cameron inherits a billion dollars, enjoys a booty call and does a spot of plumbing.

There's a tagline you don't see every day!

"Money? Sex? Plumbing? Holy cow, I wonder if Cameron uses swarfega?"

Use it? She probably gargles with it.

Will they ever catch up with Creed? Or vice versa? Sure. I have the chapter blocked out. It's what comes next I don't have a handle on. Most of my ideas are too dark for what is essentially a lighthearted fanfic. The end of the world doesn't suit a punchline and a laughter track.