The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
TUESDAY
I finish loading the weapons and ammunition we will take with us to Sacramento under the false floor of the Suburban. They are hidden sufficiently well to fool a cursory inspection by the police if we are stopped enroute for a minor traffic violation.
John carries his suitcase from the house and stows it aboard. To the east the sky is brightening. It looks as if it will be another fine and sunny day.
"Nice day to save the world." He grins though his voice carries less conviction. This will be a difficult and dangerous mission and our chances of success less than optimum.
Sarah Connor steps out to see us off, doubtless wishing she was coming with us.
Mother and son hug silently. I turn away and busy myself with another task. I feel a tap on my shoulder. Sarah Connor. She glances across at her son who is now behind the wheel and out of earshot.
"Take care of him."
"Of course."
"If things go badly. I mean really badly..."
I nod. "I will comandeer a suitable vehicle and head for the mountains."
"He's stubborn. You might have to hogtie him."
"I will do what is necessary."
"Tell him not to worry about me. I'll take Mia and head for the border."
"And Snowy," I add.
"What?"
"You will take Snowy with you."
A familiar smirk. "Well well, someone you care about that isn't programmed in. All those human lives you've taken and it's a scruffy little mutt you want saved."
"Do as you wish," I state coldly. "The fate of a dog doesn't concern me."
It is a surprisingly difficult lie to utter.
-0-
The journey to Sacramento takes seven hours. Traffic is slow moving, delayed by the after effects of a small earthquake that damaged the road surface and causes several north bound lanes to close for repairs. It would've been quicker and more convenient to fly but for the fact that my coltan endoskeleton would trigger every metal detector in the airport and require me to terminate all witnesses. And a bloodbath would ruin my brand new croptop! It is a fawn shade that matches my eyes. And nipples. I do like to be colour coordinated.
Once we reach the city we swing by Cybertech Incorporated, which occupies a hundred acre site on the flat plains to the north. A tall perimeter fence topped with razor wire surrounds the area and the entrance has a guardhouse manned by armed soldiers.
"Gonna be a tough nut to crack if we can't trick our way inside," John comments as we pass.
"We'll manage," I assure him.
"There's my little optimist."
We head west to do a similar driveby of Coral Gables, a gated community in the affluent part of town where Russell Osmond resides. John has decided Osmond is our best source of information as to where Jonathon Smith is and all things pertaining to Cybertech. He has not ruled out torture to glean the information we require. I will not get my hopes up though. I have been disappointed before.
Coral Gables also has a perimeter fence and a guardhouse where men in uniform check the credentials of anyone visiting the estate. It appears the rich will go to great lengths to avoid cold callers.
"Gonna be another toughie to get inside without raising the alarm," John says. "Never easy, is it?"
"I like a challenge."
A grin. "Thought you would."
Next we visit a drivethru fast food franchise where John purchases a quantity of severed animal limbs served up in a waxed paper bucket. To accompany this comes a large volume of sugary water known more popularly as cola. Sarah Connor would not approve of this diet, but then she hasn't spent seven tedious hours behind the wheel of an automobile.
-0-
It is now late afternoon and we seek shelter at a motel, situated approximately equidistant from the military plant and the gated community.
The motel is very different from the hotel in Los Angeles. No luxury suites here. Basic accomodation for weary travellers. That's us - one of us, anyway.
The desk clerk is a bored looking teenage boy who barely looks up from his comic book as we check in. "Towels are extra," he declares sullenly as payment is made.
"Brought our own."
"Cable's extra. Adult channels start at thirty bucks." He looks up, eyes briefly flitting across my face and chest. "Guess you won't be needing those either."
"You have broadband?"
"Extra ten."
While John pays I ask, "Does the room have a bidet?"
"There's a hosepipe out back you can sit on if you like."
I decline the offer.
-0-
I unpack while John takes a shower. Next he calls his mother to let her know we have arrived safely. In the background I can hear Mia and Snowy arguing, most likely over what to watch on TV. Mia prefers cartoons while Snowy likes the food channels, though he has a tendency to drool all over the carpet. I hear a woman's voice yell, Will you two shut up or I'll turn the damn TV off and no one will watch anything!
Childcare, Sarah Connor style.
John ends the call. "Man, my back feels like it's on fire. And I'm beat. I haven't driven that far in one go for years."
"I could give you a massage if you wish?"
"Yeah? Sounds good to me."
He lies naked on the bed. I begin to knead his back muscles.
"Tomorrow we'll try and make contact with Osmond. One way or another we'll make him tell us all he knows about his cyborg partner and what's going on at that plant."
"Do you think he realizes his partner isn't human?"
"Depends how much time they've spent together. I mean, I didn't know you weren't when we first met."
"The high school in New Mexico."
"You remember?"
"Of course. You were very shy. You hardly looked at my boobs."
"Oh I looked. I just hid it well."
"Turn over. Let me do your front."
He flips over revealing something unexpected.
Oh my...
"Oops." He grins sheepishly. "Guess I'm not as tired as I thought."
Fortunately I know the correct procedure. I begin by removing my clothes and clicking on a file I have labeled 'Kama Sutra - Advanced Positions.'
I just hope the bed is sturdy enough...
-0-
While John sleeps I stand by the window, a sentinel once more.
The motel is a single storey horseshoe-shaped building with parking outside each chalet room. There are many empty spaces. Business is hardly booming.
The only activity of note occurs deep in the night when a fox ambles by and investigates the plastic dumpsters. Foxes are wild animals lured into an urban enviroment by the prospect of free food carelessly discarded by people. The fox warily scans its surroundings until it spots me. Our eyes lock briefly, predator to predator. Then the fox lowers its head and slouches away into the night. I suspect it won't be back any time soon. I have that effect on wild creatures. It's enough to make a girl feel unloved.
WEDNESDAY
John wakes early, showers, dons clean clothing, then boots his laptop and summons Google Maps for a closer inspection of Coral Gables.
"Wow. Every house has a pool, hot tub and tennis court. The rich really are different from you and me."
"They have more money," I point out.
"Thank you, Ernest Hemingway. Okay, here's the Osmond residence. Backs onto a golf course so that might be a way in."
As luck would have it a house is up for sale. John logs on to the realtor's website to check it out.
"Damn, listen to this. Each house has a panic button and exterior sensors to provide optimum security. If triggered the systems are linked directly to a local police precinct. Response time is three minutes. If we go in hot and heavy the cops will be on top of us right away."
"Perhaps we could pose as potential buyers and gain access that way?"
"This house costs four million bucks. No realtor's gonna believe a couple our age have that kind of money."
"Miley Cyrus is our age and she has that kind of money. I saw it on E," I confess.
"We're not Miley Cyrus."
"I can sound like her. Hi, I'm Miley. Rhymes with smiley. My entire career is based on my ability to pull funny faces. See?" I gurn and bug my eyes Miley-style.
"Nice try," John laughs. "Except you look nothing like her."
"I could if I was an advanced TX terminator. Instead I am a TOK 715, an obsolete model."
"I love you just the way you are."
"If I was a TX I could assume any body shape, including Kelly Brook. She has milkers. They're very popular."
"I don't want her. Or milkers. I want you, you silly bag of bolts."
We kiss.
He always says the kindest things!
-0-
The morning passes without us finding an effective way of infiltrating Coral Gables without triggering an alarm. My idea to steal a helicopter and land it on the roof attracts some scorn. Bummer. What's the point of knowing how to fly a helicopter if you never do?
"Let's grab lunch. Maybe I'll think better with a full stomach."
"Shall I call room service?"
"This place doesn't have room service. I think I saw a couple of vending machines in the lobby. Let's check them out."
One of the vending machines dispenses coffee. It has a primitive mechanism: insert coins and a styrofoam drops down. Coffee granules are added. Boiling water follows via a steel pipe. All very simple yet still apparently prone to malfunction. Coins are inserted. No styrofoam cup appears. The machine lacks sensors to know this and so the granules and boiling water are dispensed regardless.
"Damn!"
John hastily sidesteps as the scolding liquid overflows on the lobby floor. The coffee granules dissolve and slowly turn the water brown.
John stares at the mess for a moment then says, "I just figured out a way we can get the Osmonds to invite us into their home."
-0-
We leave the motel and drive to hardware store where we purchase the items we will need to make John's ingenious plan succeed.
"Lunch, I think. Not out of a machine this time."
That stupid coffee machine has given us all a bad name. I will give it a piece of my mind next time I see it.
We find a diner and slide into an empty booth. A waitress arrives to take our order. She is a tubby woman with a small apron stretched taut across her ample stomach.
"What'll it be, honey?"
"Bacon, beans, eggs over easy and fries. What's the pie?"
"Apple,cherry or blueberry."
"Cherry. And coffee. Black. No sugar."
"How about you, miss?"
"Just mineral water. I'm watching my figure," I add with a smile.
"You and me both, sister," the waitress concurs patting her belly.
Our orders arrive a few minutes later and while John eats I examine our surroundings.
The diner is small but clean with a pervasive smell of fired food. Snowy would love it. The waitresses are kept busy ferrying plates both laden and empty back forth to the kitchen. In the corner is a jukebox playing country music. A song about a girl whose man done her wrong. The song ends and another begins, again about a girl whose man done her wrong. It seems that in the country women don't have much luck with men. Perhaps they should try the city. Or being gay.
The waitress passes our table. "Freshen your coffee, hon?"
"Thanks. This pie's good."
"Best in the state." She notices my untouched glass of water. "What's the matter, honey, too many calories?"
She walks away laughing.
As ever, I don't get the joke.
-0-
Nightfall. We are on a fire road adjacent to the golf course at the rear of the Coral Gables gated community. A tall chainlink fence protects the course. There are no security alarms. A golf course is essentially a large field with random holes filled with sand. There is little of value worth stealing unless you are really really into sand.
I tear a gap in the fence and we slip through, skirting the fairways, greens and sandtraps until we reach the wall that separates the Osmond house from the course.
John removes the item we bought in the hardware store from his backpack and hands it to me. It is a paper package containing a loose powdery substance approximately the size and weight of a bag of flour.
"You need to lob this over the wall and into their pool. Has to hit the water. Short or long and we're screwed."
A 3D schematic appears in my HUD. The wall is ten feet high. The centre of the swimming pool sixty feet from the wall. I am standing fifteen feet back from the wall. A distance then of seventyfive feet. Windspeed is two knots. I do the calculations and throw. Underarm, like a sissy girl.
We listen. A moment later we hear a soft splash. Bullseye. We exchange high fives.
The package contains an orange clothing dye. Once in the water the paper will disintegrate and the dye stain the pool a less than fetching shade of orange.
Stage one of our attempt to infiltrate the Osmond home by stealth is a success.
-0-
We retrace our steps and drive to a quiet spot less than a mile from Coral Gables for stage two.
"This is the tricky part," John admits. "If we call too soon they might be suspicious. Too late and they might discover what we've done for themselves.
At 7.15am, John uses his cell phone to call the house. It takes more than a minute before a male voice woozy with sleep answers.
"Yeah?"
"Mr Osmond?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Aquapure Pool Cleaners, sir. We have the contract to maintain the pools at Coral Gables."
"So?"
"We've heard from other customers that a chemical we use has a tendency to turn the water orange. Could you check and tell us if yours is affected?"
"Okay. Wait a sec."
Two minutes later Osmond returns, his voice now loud and energised "Holy crap, you weren't kidding! The water's orange! Pool looks like it's filled with OJ!"
"We need to apply another chemical to make it normal again. When would be a convenient time?"
"Convenient time? How about now, asshole. I like to swim a few lengths in the morning and I can't do that if it's filled with all kindsa toxic crap."
"We have a crew in the area. Is ten minutes convenient?"
"Damn straight. I've a good mind to sue your incompetent asses."
The call ends. "Another unsatisfied customer," John grins.
-0-
Before doing anything else we both don grey workmans overalls. I pin my hair up under a baseball cap. Will this outfit make me look mannish? Duh. That is the point.
We drive to the entrance. John rolls down the window and says confidently, "Aquapure Pool Cleaners. Got a callout at the Osmond residence."
"Bit early for you boys to be working," the guard comments.
"Emergency callout. We operate round the clock."
"For a swimming pool? Man, these rich folks live in a different world."
"Tell me about it."
"Osmond, you said? Yeah, that dude's richer than God."
Is God rich? I suppose He must be. I wonder what bank He uses.
"Wait there. Gotta call it in."
John nods, seeming unconcerned to the point of boredom. Just another working stiff doing a job he hates for too little pay. Me, I simply stare into the distance and hope the guard doesn't notice I'm a babe. And a hot babe at that.
The guard speaks briefly on the phone. Then the metal barrier starts to rise and he waves us through.
Stage three is a success.
I say, "I love it when a plan comes together."
"Yeah. You, me and B.A. Barracus."
I have no idea what this means.
-0-
The Osmond house is large with a stone portico entrance smothered in roses. To the side is a double garage and courtyard where a Bentley, Ferrari and Mercedes coupe stand idle. They each have vanity plates: OZ 1, OZ 2, OZ 3. I'm sensing a pattern here.
We are halfway up the path when the front door opens and a tubby man in dark slacks and white oxford shirt gestures us to hurry up.
"Hear you're having pool trouble," John says as we are ushered inside.
"Damn right. Pool looks like it's full of OJ."
"Hope you didn't try and drink it."
No response. Evidently no sense of humour.
"Pool's out back. Make it snappy."
The interior is open plan and modern. In the large kitchen a blonde woman in a dressing robe is eating cereal from a bowl. Julia Osmond, the wife.
"Is it just the two of you?" John asks.
"What's that got to do with anything? Hurry up and fix the pool."
"We're not here for the pool."
"Then what-"
A gun is produced. "Go and sit with your wife."
As Osmond complies Julia Osmond blurts out, "Oh God, we're being robbed! Please. My jewelry's upstairs. Take it and leave."
"You're not being robbed. And you didn't answer my question. Is this all of you?"
"Yes. Our children are away at school."
"Maid? House this size must have help."
"Rosmerta. She comes in at nine."
"She got a phone number?"
"On speed dial. Press five."
I use the house phone and the call goes through.
"Rosmerta Lopez."
"Hello, Rosmerta. This is Mrs Osmond. I won't be requiring your services today. Please take the day off. I'll see you tomorrow at the usual time."
Julia Osmond stares at me open mouthed with astonishment. "H...How? That sounded exactly like me."
"She has a knack for voices," John explains. "You should hear her Groucho Marx."
"Last night I shot an elephant in my pyjamas," I say in my best Groucho. "What an elephant was doing in my pyjamas I'll never know."
This is indeed a conundrum. How did an elephant come to be in Groucho's pyjamas? Either an extremely large pair of pyjamas or an exceedingly tiny elephant. Or possibly there is a herd of pyjama-wearing elephants in Africa hitherto undiscovered by man.
"If you're not here to rob us, what are you here for?"
"Information. I want to know about Jonathon Smith. Let's start by where he lives."
"Uh - I'm not sure."
"You don't know where your partner lives?"
"Jonathon's not the sociable type. I think he might have a converted room at the plant. He's a workaholic."
"Where's he from?"
"Uh - europe originally, I believe. Maybe Germany."
"Where did he get five million dollars?"
Osmond shrugs. "Family money, investments."
"You don't seem to know very much about your business partner."
"Is this a kidnapping? Are you going to hold us to ransom?"
"Suppose I told you Jonathon Smith is working for people who are hostile to this country. That when the AI he's working on is hooked up to the Pentagon mainframe it will install a virus that will steal all the launch codes to every nuclear missile and place them in the hands of our enemies."
"That's preposterous!"
"Two weeks before he met you Jonathon Smith stole five million dollars from the First National Bank of Sacramento. The police never caught who did it, but they did manage to photograph him while he leaving the scene of the crime."
The photograph is produced. Osmond's jaw drops slightly though he is still far from convinced.
"No, no, this is some kind of con. Jonathon might be - uh - slightly unconventional in manner. But I don't believe you for a moment."
"I do."
All eyes turn to Julia Osmond.
"Julia? What are you saying?"
"There's something odd about him. I've thought so right from the start. One time Russell broke his foot skiing in Vermont and was in plaster for weeks. Jonathon had to come here to sign some papers. My daughter was home. She's eight years old and was running around as kids do. She fell over and hurt herself. Jonathon just sat there and watched her cry. I mean, what kind of person does that? At the very least you check if the child's okay. It was like she was invisible."
This is a fair assessment. If the girl wasn't a threat or a designated target then the T-800 would ignore her entirely. Terminators don't feel compassion or empathy for humans. Social mores are difficult for us to comprehend let alone put into practice. I still find some of Mia's antics hard to fathom and I am a far more advanced model than a T-800.
"Where's Smith now?" John asks.
"I - uh - don't know."
"Oh Russell! I knew this was all too good to be true. You never even bothered to find out where the money came from, did you?"
"Hey, I didn't hear you complaining when I bought this house. Or the vacation property in Bermuda. And all the rest of it."
"I thought you knew what you were doing."
"I do know what I'm doing, dammit."
"THEN WHERE IS HE!"
His wife's vehemence takes Osmond by surprise. He runs his hands through his hair. "Look, this isn't my fault. After Robert died we were this close to going under. The banks were about to call in our loans. I'm too old to start over working at your father's dealership flogging Suburu's to college kids. And this guy's a genius. I thought Robert was smart, but Smith makes him look like a third grader. Okay, maybe I didn't dig too deep or ask too many questions. I had no choice. We were virtually out on the street."
"Call the plant," John says calmly. "The guardhouse. They'll know where he is."
Osmond picks up the phone. "Hi, Ronnie? Yeah, it's Russell. Listen, is Jonathon around today? I don't have his calendar... What? No, I didn't know that...On whose authority?...Uh, no, that's okay. Everything's fine...Yeah...Must've slipped my mind...Okay, thanks, Ronnie."
Osmond seems shocked. It's hands through the hair time again.
"Ronnie said the airframe arrived this morning."
"Today? I thought it was due next week?"
"So did I. There was a change of plan. Apparently I wasn't notified. Jonathon gave the rest of the personnel the day off. It's just him and Bud Jones working on the thing."
"Who's Bud Jones?"
"Software engineer. Hired a month ago. He's Jonathon's chief assistant."
"Describe him."
"Uh - tall and stocky. Shaven head. Doesn't say much."
The description fits a T-888.
"Okay, we need to get inside that plant. Are you going to help us or do I have to hold a gun to your head?"
"He'll help you," Julia Osmond states. "We both will."
"Christ, Julia! You're staking a helluva lot on faith. How do we even know these two are telling the truth? They broke into our house."
"Because I've met Jonathon Smith. Everytime I see him it's like...like I've got a piece of tinfoil in my mouth. He creeps me out. Know what I mean?"
"Yeah," John agrees. "I'm afraid I do."
-0-
We take the Bentley. It's powerful and spacious enough for four people and our weapons. It's a sweet ride and I tell Osmond so.
"Thanks. I used to drive a Ferrari Dino. Beautiful thing. Unfortunately It was difficult to get in and out of once I put on a few extra pounds."
"You should try eating less," I suggest. "Apparently that helps."
"That'll be the day," his wife smirks.
We stop at the Cybertech gatehouse. A guard comes to meet us. Osmond rolls the window down. "Hi, Ronnie. Open up, please."
"Mr Osmond? We weren't expecting you."
"I need to visit my office. Open the gate."
"Uh - Mr Smith left orders to let no one in."
"Do I look like no one? I own this company. I founded this company, you little pissant. Now open the damn gate or I'll fire your freaking ass so freaking fast your feet won't touch the ground!"
"Yessir!"
"That was major badass," I tell him as we drive in.
"Sorry."
"No, I like it."
We park outside the administration building. "Is there any way we can see what's going on without them knowing?" John asks.
"There's a CCTV feed I can access from my office computer."
Osmond's office is large and well appointed yet has a curious air of neglect about it. A pot plant in the corner has shrivelled and died.
"I haven't been here for weeks," Osmond admits. "It's more convenient to work from home."
"Where's there's a golf course next door," he wife adds.
Osmond summons the CCTV feed from the main hanger.
"Christ, that thing's huge!"
On the screen is the HunterKiller in all its sinister glory. It's supported on a steel cradle that holds it thirty feet off the ground. Two gantries allow access to the all important nose section where the AI is housed. There is a man on each gantry. Alias Smith and Jones, terminators working in unison.
"Isn't she a beauty?" Osmond smiles like a proud parent. "If the shakedown tests are a success the Pentagon want fifty of them. A twenty billion dollar order book. That's before the export market factors in. The Saudis' will want some. And the Germans. The Indians. And we can always rely on the Israelis'. Can't you imagine one of those in the sky patrolling the Gaza Strip?"
"I can," John agrees grimly.
"The only problem's been finding a suitable site for the manufacturing plant."
"San Francisco," I state.
"That's one of sites under consideration."
"On the riverfront. Barges will ferry the unrefined ore to the smelters. The surrounding area will provide plenty of slave labor."
"Slave labor? Oh no, Cybertech pay the best salaries in the business. This is the highest of high tech. We leave the minimum wage gigs to Burger King."
Unbidden, a memory file opens.
THE FUTURE
San Francisco. The Bay area. The HunterKiller factories stretch as far as the eye can see, even enhanced optics such as mine. Tall chimney stacks belch smoke night and day. When the wind is light the heavier particulates aren't blown away and coat everything with a layer of soot that imparts a greyish tinge. The world famous Golden Gate bridge is reduced to two stumps rising forlornly above the waterline. Convoys of barges laden with ore dock at the wharves ready to be transported to the smelters. The able-bodied male prisoners work the furnaces while the females and children with their smaller more nimble hands do the delicate assembly work. Sabotage is punishable by death. Most rule transgressions are. There is no judge or jury here, no trial lawyers, no mitigating circumstances, no pleading the fifth. Just the brutal justice of premature death. The green space of Golden Gate park is riven with trenches. Burial grounds. The average life expectancy of prisoners is nine months. And still the assembly lines roll, Henry Ford efficiency meets Dante's Inferno. Only fog brings the lines to a halt. Fog is when the Resistance attack, when the HunterKiller fleets are grounded or made less effective by the shrouding mist. To deter such attacks, Skynet has moved the prisoner dormitories inside the factories, believing that the Resistance will be reluctant to endanger their own kind. They are mistaken. Those who work for the machines, whatever the circumstances of their capture, are regarded the same as machines: an enemy to be destroyed by whatever means necessary.
The sound of John's voice brings me back to the present.
"I want to split those two up, bring one of them here to the office. I need your help, Russell. I want you to go into the main hanger and speak to Smith."
"What? Suppose he attacks me?"
"Why would he? He doesn't suspect anything's changed between you. And try and stop sweating it makes you look as guilty as hell."
Osmond mops his perspiring brow. "I can't help it. It's been a stressful day. Dammit, why did I put on so much weight? Julia bought me a gym membership for my birthday. Never used it. I tell ya, when this is over I'm gonna go to the gym every day."
"Every day?"
"Okay, every week."
"You'll be fine. Here's what I want you to say."
John coaches Osmond until he is word perfect. One final mop of the brow and he departs. We watch his progress on the monitor.
"He will be okay, won't he?" Julia Osmond radiates concern.
"Sure. He's in no danger. They need your husband to liase with the military."
"So he's just a front for these people? They handpicked him to be their patsy."
"Don't be too harsh of him. They can be very persuasive, one way or another."
On the monitor Russell Osmond enters the main hanger, dwarfed by the massive HunterKiller perched on its steel cradle.
Jonathon Smith climbs down the gantry to meet his erstwhile business partner. "What are you doing here, Russell?" he says in the distinctive accent that characterises the T-800 model.
"What's going on, Jonathon? I thought this wasn't meant to arrive until next week."
"There was a change of plan."
"Why wasn't I informed?"
"I deemed it unnecessary. What are you doing here, Russell?"
"I had a phone call from someone named John Connor."
"John Connor is here?"
"He lives in Sacramento. I have his address written down in my office. Hey!"
The T-800 pushes past Osmond. Nothing matters now but obtaining the address and terminating the primary target once and for all.
"Okay, here he comes. Mrs Osmond, you might want to duck behind the desk."
"No one's going to get hurt, are they?"
"Relax. He won't feel a thing."
The T-800 doesn't stand a chance. It walks straight into the kill zone, a metallic lamb to the slaughter.
The moment the door opens John and I open fire at point blank range. The skull disintegrates as the armor-piercing rounds do their job. The headless torso pitches forward and sprawls across the floor. If only they were all this easy.
Julia Osmond emerges from behind the desk, mouth open wide in astonishment. "My God! That's...That's not human. It's a ...robot?"
"Cybernetic organism. Living tissue over a hyper alloy combat chassis," I explain. How hard can it be not to get this?
Russell Osmond joins us. He too stares open mouthed. "Is that a...robot?"
"Cybernetic organism. Living tissue over a hyper alloy combat chassis," I repeat. Honestly, I don't know why I bother.
"But how is that even possible?"
"I don't have time to explain." John holds up a M16 assault rifle. "You ever use one of these?"
"I've shot a few skeet in my time."
"Okay, make like this guy's skeet. Aim for chest. If the clip empties and he's still coming run like hell."
"You're saying Bud Jones is like...that?"
"That's right. Okay, let's go."
"What about me?" Julia Osmond asks.
"Ever use a gun before?"
"No. Never."
"Now's not a good time to learn. Stay here. We can handle this."
We enter the main hanger. John and I open fire immediately we're in range. Our rounds ricochet harmlessly off the HunterKiller's thick armor plate. The T-888 carries on working.
"Hey - down here! I'm John Connor, dammit. Come get me!"
The T-888 stays where it is. Odd. The sudden appearance of its primary target should overide all other considerations.
Unless...
I begin climbing the other gantry. A high pitch whine begins to swell in volume, echoing off the distant walls of this vast building.
The HunterKiller is coming to life.
-0-
The Wizard sent them to Osmond. Wizard. Oz. Geddit?
I think the dye in the pool trick would've worked. Don't suppose the guards are Harvard grads.
A herd of pyjama-wearing elephants in Africa? What next - penguins in dinner jackets?
Wait a second...