The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

THURSDAY

"Get the gate, would you."

I step out of the pick up truck, the heels of my boots crunching the loose uneven surface. The gate John is referring to is a simple three-bar model made from a galvanized metal that gleams dully in the low winter sun. It's secured to a post with a strong steel padlock that looks recent, the sort that effectively deters intruders.

I snap the hasp like a stale biscotti.

John drives through and carries on without waiting for me. I discard the broken padlock in the undergrowth and close the gate as best I can, then follow behind.

"It's lucky we found this place."

The pick up has stopped a quarter mile from the gate. This place is a fire road high in the hills above the San Fernando valley. Less than a mile away is Everlast Data Systems, where the T-888s are doing whatever it is they're doing. Around us is typical high desert vegetation - mesquite bushes and untidy scrub pines shaped by the wind. In the summer months areas such as this all over southern California become dry as tinder and just as flammable. This road, really more of a gouged track several yards wide, allows the fire crews access to tackle the flash fires that regularly threaten the valuable real estate in the valley below.

John opens his laptop computer and places it on the passenger dash. I lift the tarpaulin from the flat bed to reveal the original drone, the prototype that carried Snowy round the yard. Now instead of a small yappy dog it's fitted with an HD video camera. The plan is to keep EDS under surveillance during daylight hours before launching an airborne assault with the fullsize drones after dark.

"How do I use the zoom?"

"Press the plus and minus keys."

"Got it. Okay, let's get her in the air."

"Her?"

"I meant it. Jeez, I'm starting to sound like Lieberman."

I launch the drone, its tiny rotors buzzing like an invisible swarm of bees as it ascends.

"Take it up to a hundred feet."

"One hundred feet."

John peers upwards. "I can see it. Another hundred."

"Two hundred feet."

"Still see it. Go for three."

An altimeter in my HUD ticks upwards. "Three hundred feet."

John squints. "Can't see it. Good. That's the ceiling base. Don't let it go any lower than that."

"Shall I begin?"

"Yeah. How long will the battery last?"

"One hour. The camera is lighter than Snowy. And I have improved the power consumption."

"How many spare batteries did we bring?"

"Six."

John checks his watch. "It's eight o'clock so our shift should be done by two. Then Jan and Lieberman can take over. They have more batteries, right?"

"They're buying more this morning."

The drone disappears over the hills to our west. We watch its progress on the laptop screen.

"Good picture. Too bad we didn't spring for the 4K model."

"It was heavier. And your mother was reluctant to pay the asking price."

"Yeah. Mom's pretty budget conscious these days."

"Daniel says she's tighter than two coats of paint."

"Ha! Not to her face, I'll bet."

On the screen the trees and scrub give way to a large building surrounded by a tall chainlink fence.

"Looks the same as the video. Even the SUVs are parked in the same positions. Does the camera record sound?"

"Yes. Although the motors and wind noise are likely to make all but the loudest sounds inaudible."

"WE're too high up anyway. Okay, swing it towards the guard house."

The guard house is a single storey mobile unit that's obviously a recent addition to the site. The churned up earth from a backhoe used to level the ground is clearly visible.

"Can you improve the angle?"

"Not without going lower. You said three hundred feet was the ceiling base."

"This'll have to do then."

The guard house has two long glass windows through which we can peer inside. From this height we can see two men, both seated at a desk. We can't see their faces.

"Definitely human," John declares after studying the image.

"How can you be sure?"

"Look what's on the desk. Cigarette pack. Ashtray. That silver cylinder? I'm pretty sure it's a thermos. Probably coffee. Ever meet a coffee drinking cyborg who enjoys a cigarette?"

"No."

"I rest my case."

"Why do humans smoke?" I ask.

"Really? We're doing this now?"

"I am curious. Tobacco smoke is a notorious carcinogen. There are extensive studies published proving it is deleterious to human health."

"Not everyone who smokes contracts cancer. It's basically a lottery."

"That you gamble with your life. And what is the prize?"

"A nicotine high, I guess."

"Did you ever smoke?"

"Once or twice. When I was a kid."

"So you broke the law and risked your health?" It is hard not to sound censorious. This man is the world's best and only hope after all.

"It was just me acting out. My foster-parents kept on at me not to smoke so that just made me want to do it even more. Classic teenage rebellion. The moment I could smoke legally I quit."

Humans often do things that have a high-risk factor in pursuit of some transitory high. Some race fast cars, climb mountains without safety tethers, go diving in flooded caves - even jump off tall bridges attached to stretchy strands of elastic called bungee cords. This behavior is very puzzling.

"Go over to the roof. I want to check out that door."

The building has a flat roof dotted with pipes and ventilation ducts plus a more substantial section that juts up like a small windowless bungalow.

John adjusts the zoom. On one wall is clearly a door.

"Looks like sheet steel to me. And no keyhole. That's good."

"How so?"

"Means it's not meant to opened from outside. Less likely to have an alarm. No lock to pick though. We'll need to use brute force."

"I like brute force."

"I know you do," he grins. "Send the drone over to the parking lot. I want to take a look at the SUVs."

The two black SUVs are next to the main building, parked side by side like two enormous bugs.

John takes out his cellphone and presses fast dial. Daniel's voice answers. "Yeah?"

"It's us. Got a pen and paper?"

"Uh - wait a second...yeah. What's up?"

"I'm looking at the two SUVs. Write down the license plates and see if you can track down the owner details. Might give us a clue."

John recites the numbers.

"Got it. How's it looking?"

"Nothing shaking at the moment."

"That's a good sign, right?"

"I don't know. Might be. Mom there?"

"She's out buying the batteries. She insisted. Said Jan and I spend too much money. You know, your mom's tighter than-"

"-two coats of paint. Yeah, so I hear. Think about about telling her that?"

"Are you crazy? Not a chance. And don't you say a word because I'll deny it."

John chuckles at the obvious panic in Daniel's voice.

"What's the weather like up there? Will I need a jacket?"

"It's pretty nice. Sun's out. I think you'll be okay."

"See any boogeymen?"

"Nope. Whatever they're doing it's strictly an inside job."

"Okay, I'll get started on these numbers. Check in later."

An hour passes. I bring the drone back, slot in a new battery and send it up again.

At nine-fifteen John's cell rings.

"Yeah?"

"Traced the numbers. Nothing good, I'm afraid. Both SUVs are company leasers. A firm in Encino. I checked their website. Seems legit."

"How long's the lease contract?"

"One year."

"Is that the minimum period?"

"Actually, no. The minimum's six months. Think it means anything?"

"Might. Perhaps what they're doing will take longer than six months but less than one year."

"We still on for tonight?"

"Don't see any reason to delay. Sooner we deal with this the better."

-0-

Another hour passes. The drone returns, a new battery fitted and up again.

"Man, this is duller than Chesapeake Shores," John complains. We've been sat in the pick up truck watching the laptop screen for three and a half hours.

You don't like Chesapeake Shores?" This is a TV show on the Hallmark Channel. Mia and Snowy watch it.

"Nothing ever happens. It's a TV version of mogadon."

"You don't think Jess is going to make a success of running her B&B?"

"I couldn't possibly care less."

Poor Jess! She always gets the short end.

Sudden movement on the laptop screen: a red sportscar has turned off the highway and is driving down the access road.

John sits up, suddenly alert. "That's a Miata. And a woman's driving. Shit - look at the gate!"

The gate is opening. By the time the Miata reaches it there's a gap wide enough for her drive through without stopping.

"The guards must know her. Either that or they're completely useless at their jobs."

The Miata pulls up beside the SUVs. The driver and sole occupant gets out. She's female, blonde hair worn in a ponytail, wearing a white blouse and dark pencil skirt with matching dark shoes that makes her look like secretary.

A door in the building opens and a T-888 steps out. The two converse, human and machine. Neither seems perturbed by the other.

"She can't possibly know what she's dealing with."

"We can be very convincing humans."

"What are they saying? Can you lipread?"

"The angle's poor. I think she said something about a delivery."

Abruptly, they turn and step back inside the building. The door closes blocking our view.

"Man, talk about playing with fire."

"See didn't seem in any immediate danger," I point out. "If fact, she seemed to be the one giving the orders."

"Yeah. I kinda picked that up too. Weird. Go back to the Miata."

I do so. John takes out his cell and calls the safe house.

"Hello?" Sarah Connor. Presumably back from her shopping trip. I hope she didn't buy Snowy the cheap generic doggie chow. It does terrible things to his bowels.

"We just had a visitor. Pretty blonde girl driving a red Miata. Just breezed right in like she owned the place."

"Did they harm her?"

"Nope. Seemed pretty calm about it. I've got the Miata plate. Grab a pen."

"Okay. Go ahead."

John recites the number. "See if you can find out who she is. Get Lieberman to help you."

"I can use a computer."

"Not as well as he can."

"Do you want backup? I can be there in thirty minutes if I take the Harley."

"No. Stay put. We've no indication she's being harmed."

"John, she's in the company of two terminators."

"If the situation changes I'll call you. Out."

We sit in silence. Then I say, "You think she is pretty?"

"What?"

"You described her as a pretty blonde girl."

"How would you describe her?"

"A fair-haired female with little or no sexual attractiveness who is probably almost certainly gay anyway."

"O-kay, then.

Blondes have more fun? Not on my watch.

-0-

Time passes. John has me fly the drone round the building in a continous loop, seeking any indication of what might be transpiring inside. There's nothing. The building has very few windows. And those it does have the shutters are securely drawn.

Thirty minutes after the Miata's arrival we have another visitor. A long, eighteen wheel trailer truck carefully negotiates the highway turnoff and moves slowly along the access road.

John leans forward intently. "This could be the delivery the girl mentioned."

If so, the guards clearly haven't been informed. The gate stays closed forcing the truck to down shift and stop, smoke belching from its twin chimneys. This is seriously not good news for the enviroment. Hello - one atmosphere, people.

The driver climbs down from his cab, holding up what appears to be a piece of paper, a delivery manifest possibly. One guard examines it then motions to his companion. The gate begins to open.

The truck approaches the building, avoiding the parking area to instead reverse up to a raised loading bay. The chimneys belch even more smoke. I despair. I really do.

The driver gets out and walks to the end of the truck. He releases the locking mechanism at the base of the rear doors then climbs a short ladder attached to the side of the trailer in order to release the locks at the top of the doors. This must be one big delivery. Definitely not Amazon Prime. Can you imagine the packing peanuts?

The doors swing open. I manouvere the drone so we get a clear view of what's inside.

Crates.

Large wooden crates.

"How we doing for battery?" John asks.

"Twenty percent remaining. Enough for fifteen minutes."

The blonde girl emerges from the building and walks over, hair swinging behind her like a little yellow tail. That look is so-oo dated. The truck driver waves a greeting that she doesn't respond to. What a bitch!

"She's not pleased about something."

No. She points at the cab. The driver shakes his head. She points again, insistent.

"She's telling him to get back in the cab."

"Perhaps there's something in the crates she doesn't want him to see."

The driver finally acquiesces, though he seems less than thrilled to be ordered around whilst doing his job. Perhaps he harbors a prejudice against bossy blonde bitches. Don't we all...

With the bulk of the trailer between her and the driver, she climbs up on the loading bay and grasps one of the wooden crates, lifting it effortlessly off the ground before carrying it inside the building.

"Oh shit," John gasps. "Those crates look huge. And heavy. There's no way she could lift them that easily unless..."

"...she's a terminator," I finish for him.

Three terminators. In cahoots. Unprecedented.

There are sixteen crates in total and she lifts and carries every one of them. In heels, no less. Clearly, this cyborg knows where to shop for durable footwear.

Finally, with the trailer empty, she closes the doors. The bottom locks are reengaged then she looks up at the uppermost ones which are at least eight feet above her head. Instead of climbing the little ladder like the driver she reaches up with her right hand. Her arm elongates until it is three times its normal length in order to close the locks.

Beside me John groans aloud.

I share his pain. He knows as well as I do what this means.

This is no ordinary terminator.

It's T-1000.

-0-

I know, right. You wait months for an update then two come long in a couple of weeks.

This T-1000 is like the one in T2, not the Katherine Weaver type which I believe is classified a T-1001.

Next: Investigation. Discovery. Confrontation.