Afterimage

by zerofret

[The Terminator] One cancelled date drew Stan Morsky into events far beyond his control and understanding. CHAPTER 9 Developments POSTED.

8. Overexposure

Afterimage

by zerofret

Chapter 8: Overexposure

The days after the destruction of the Cyberdyne building dawned bright and sunny over Los Angeles. The ideal summer weather was almost enough to make anyone dismiss ideas of a post-apocalyptic world left in ashes, a homicidal supercomputer, or an army of killer robots. Such ideas would seem absurd as one walked amongst the beach-side sun bathers, roller-bladers, and general fun seekers. But the operative word was "almost", and relaxing on the beach was the furthest thing from Stan's mind. It was these very thoughts of humanity's potential dark future that occupied his mind, as he drove from the bright sunlight into the shadows of the Galleria Shopping Mall's parking garage.

It had been two days since the events at Cyberdyne, and now Stan was on a mission of his own. He was going to find out what he could about the "X factor" in this increasingly complex equation: the "cop". Who or what was it, and what were his/its motives? Like any good detective, he was starting at the source. It was here at the Galleria that he had first encountered the definitely-not-Austin, maybe-not-human LAPD officer. He had passed within inches of Stan right in this garage, and at the time, Stan hadn't had any reason to believe that he wasn't as human as the next guy. But he had plenty of reason to believe it now.

He wanted to get a look at the corridor where the shooting had taken place. Having no idea where in the mall it had happened, he approached it methodically. He entered the public part of the mall on the main floor and started to look for doors that accessed maintenance corridors. Each time he found one, he explored the hallways behind it quickly but thoroughly, looking for signs of the shooting. He expected that it wouldn't be hard to find the right place; the news had shown corridor walls that had both buckled and been broken right through. But after finishing with the main floor, he had come up empty.

They couldn't have fixed those walls already, he mused to himself. It happened only a couple of days ago. He moved to Level 2 and continued his search.

By the time he had reached Level 3, he was feeling discouraged. He hadn't found so much as a nick in any maintenance corridor wall yet. He started to wander the hallways again, hoping that Level 3 would prove to be the location that he sought. In the end, he stumbled upon the right spot quite by accident. Having reached a corridor intersection, he paused to determine which way he should go. Left, he decided. He turned in that direction, casting only a quick look over his shoulder – to the right – to see what was down "the road not taken".

There wasn't much…just a Pepsi machine. But it was enough to give him second thoughts. I could use a drink right about now, he thought. All of his so-far fruitless wanderings had caused him to build up a thirst. Fishing in his pocket for change, he started down the hallway toward the machine. But as he drew closer to it, something else caught his eye. The corridor directly across from the Pepsi machine was cordoned off with yellow police tape.

"Bullseye!" he exclaimed softly, immediately forgetting the Pepsi. He took a look around the corner; there was no one in the hallway. After glancing around and determining that all of the corridors within view were empty, he quickly ducked under the police tape. Beyond that barrier he found everything he had been looking for. To his left, a brick wall had buckled partially; small pieces were still crumbling away. To his right, a fibreboard wall had been broken clear through. Here and there the walls showed scarring, possibly from gunfire. There were even some light flecks of dried blood on the wall. These were located directly beside a maintenance room door with a "Danger High Voltage" sign posted on it. The door hung askew, its lock broken.

The worst of it was a little further down the corridor from that door. Despite cleanup crews having tried their best, there was still an obvious large, brown coloured stain on the floor. Around it, Stan could see a few remaining traces of a police chalk outline of a body. Stan knew it had been that of the maintenance worker who had gotten caught in the crossfire. He gazed down at the stubbornly remaining evidence of the man's one-time presence there. "Poor bastard," he whispered. By the look of it, he had taken several shots.

"Oh man, you can't be back here," a voice came from behind him.

Startled, Stan turned quickly to see who had crept up on him. For the briefest second, he panicked that it might be the security guard he had talked to in the parking garage a couple of days ago. If he found him back here… But it wasn't the guard; it was a teenager. He stood leaning on a mop that was settled into a water pail on wheels. He had removed a set of earphones from his head; they rested around his neck now, with tinny sounding rock music blaring from them. Stan looked at the earphones, then down at the rolling water pail, and asked himself, How did I not hear him coming?

"Are you lost?" the kid asked. "Is there a particular store you're looking for?"

"Uh…no," Stan admitted.

The kid took a pointed look at the police tape. "Are you a cop?"

Stan sized up the teen briefly, calculating whether he'd be able to snow him. He rejected the idea; too complicated.

"No," he shrugged.

"This area is off limits to the public…particularly that area." He stabbed a finger across the tape, pointing to the part of the corridor that Stan was standing in.

"This is the corridor where the shots were fired on the weekend?"

"Yeah. A guy got killed," the teen said. He gestured toward the stain on the floor. No shit, Sherlock, Stan thought, but he nodded soberly. He was gambling that the kid wouldn't be able to resist showing that he was in the know about the incident. If Stan acted dutifully impressed, he might get some more information.

"That's terrible. Did they catch the guy who did it?"

"No." The teen watched carefully as Stan ran a hand across the wall where some damage was showing. "Shots fired right there," he said authoritatively.

Stan, his back turned toward the kid, gritted his teeth. I don't think so, he seethed inwardly. It looked to him like there wasn't much gunfire damage to the walls. Most of the bullets must have hit their mark. But he turned to the kid, wide eyed.

"Right there?"

The teen nodded with an insider's certainty. You weren't even here that day, were you? Stan smirked to himself. Still, he looked back at the damage in the brick wall with awe. Then he turned toward the kid.

"Are there any security cameras operating in this corridor?"

The teen looked at him dubiously. "Why? You casing the place?"

Stan was lost for words momentarily. The kid continued to stare at him, all curiosity. Then he broke into guffaws of laughter.

"I'm just kiddin' ya, man!" He was delighted by his own joke. Stan smiled stiffly and bit his tongue.

"Yeah, good one," he replied dryly.

"See there?" The teen pointed to an upper corner of the ceiling. He turned and pointed to another spot. "And there." The cameras were reasonably well hidden, but if someone was looking for them, they'd spot them easily.

"Do all of these back corridors have cameras?" he asked.

"Oh, no," the kid laughed, as if it was a preposterous idea. When Stan fixed him with an expectant look, he continued: "The staffs of a lot of the stores on this level take their nightly bank deposit down this hallway."

Stan nodded his understanding, while thinking: Considering everything you've told me, you're lucky I'm not casing the place. Out loud he said, "Would you have the security tape from that day available?"

The teen shook his head. "No, the police took it." After a long and thoughtful pause, he added, "Not right away, though. They didn't take it until they were done with their investigation here."

"They're through with their investigation?"

"Yeah."

Stan glanced at the yellow crime scene tape. "Why is the corridor still roped off?"

The teen made a vague gesture down the corridor, pointing with the mop handle. Stan turned to look and realized the kid was indicating the corridor walls, one crumbling and the other with a gaping hole in it.

"It's considered hazardous," he said.

"Oh, right," Stan replied. He wandered down the corridor to have a closer look at the "hazard". The combatants had done a real number on these walls. But not with gunfire. The brick had given way from the force and weight of something very heavy. Like a Terminator, maybe? he wondered. As he examined the area, he tried to decide on his next move. He thought it was no accident that the kid had mentioned that the police hadn't taken the security camera tape right away. It was possible that he was being invited to bargain.

He looked back down the corridor. The kid was pretending to mop, while keeping an eye on Stan. Stan headed back toward him, and asked, "Did you happen to see the security tape before the police took it?"

"Yeah, I saw some of it." He continued to push the mop around, offering nothing more. Stan wanted to give him a hard shake, but he knew he had to contain his impatience.

"Did you see anything…unusual on it?"

The teen looked up. "You mean besides a cop and another guy firing away at each other, bullets flying everywhere, another guy getting caught in the crossfire, and even a kid wandering into it all? More unusual than that?"

He smirked. Stan took the point. "Yeah, okay, forget it."

The teen looked a bit alarmed. "Hey, I didn't say there wasn't anything more unusual on the tape…" He trailed off, pushing the mop half-heartedly a few times.

"If there is, I'd sure like to hear about it."

The kid stopped mopping, placed his palm over the top knob of the mop handle, and rested his chin on the back of his hand. He studied Stan intently, as if he were trying to figure him out. Then suddenly – and unexpectedly – recognition dawned in his eyes.

"You're that director guy."

Stan blinked. He hadn't expected to be recognized as he skulked around back hallways. It caught him by surprise.

"Stan Morsky, right?" The kid was grinning now.

"Uh…yeah," Stan admitted.

The teen made a wide, sweeping gesture toward the corridor. "You're going to make a movie about all of this, aren't you?" he enthused, looking pleased and proud that he had figured it all out. Stan decided he could run with the idea for now, if it might help.

"Well…maybe," he hedged. He offered the mopper a conspiratorial wink, and placed a finger over his mouth in a "shhh" gesture.

"Oh, don't worry, Mr. Morsky," the kid assured him. "I won't tell anybody."

Now Stan targeted the teen's eagerness to feel like an insider.

"It's Stan," he replied, affably. "And you're…?"

"Jeff." The teen stuck out his hand. "Jeff Perry."

Stan gave his hand a firm shake. "Nice to meet you. You know, Jeff, it would really help if you could tell me about what you saw on that tape. It would make you kind of an unofficial consultant for the film."

The kid beamed; he had a title, even if it was unofficial. But Stan also picked up on the look of uncertainty in his eyes. Maybe he had been warned to not talk about it. Jeff took a quick look down each of the three corridors that led away from the intersection they were standing in. All was quiet.

"Come with me," he said.

He led Stan down one of the corridors, through a door, and up a flight of stairs. On Level 4, he turned off of a main corridor and went down a narrow hallway. The room at the end of the hall was a cozy lunch room for the maintenance and cleaning staff. At the moment, it was unoccupied. The near side of the room was filled by a table and chairs set, a refrigerator, and a microwave oven. The other side of the room held the amusement amenities. In one corner was a table with a portable stereo on it; a pile of magazines were stacked beside it. In the other corner was -- Stan's breath caught in his throat for a moment, and his hope soared. Could he get that lucky? Tucked neatly into the corner was a TV, complete with a VCR.

Jeff was rummaging around in a small closet area. Stan fidgeted, but forced himself to wait patiently. Sure enough, when Jeff emerged he was clutching a video tape.

"This is what you want to see," he told Stan. The impressed look that was now showing on Stan's face was thoroughly genuine. Jeff looked pleased; he obviously felt important. "After watching the tapes, some of us thought maybe we should make a copy of the important parts before the police took the originals. I mean, there was a cop involved in the shootings. The police might just conveniently lose the tapes, you know?"

The paranoid nature of his comment didn't faze Stan. Paranoia had become a way of life for him over the past few months, ever since he had received the video and the computer disk from Alex. Paranoia about what Cyberdyne was up to. Paranoia about whether the Cyberdyne owner knew about the evidence he held. Paranoia about –

"They knew it was coming, you know."

Having briefly lost his focus, Stan returned his thoughts to the immediate moment. "Who knew what was coming?" he asked.

"The cop and the other guy. They knew ahead of time that there was going to be a gunfight. They were both wearing vests."

Stan paused and tried to conjure up a picture in his mind's eye of the police officer, looking as he had the day he had seen him in the parking garage. The man was as thin as a whip; there had been no sign of a bulky bulletproof vest concealed beneath his shirt. Jeff interpreted his silence as disbelief.

"Well, they had to be. With the number of shots they both took, nobody could walk away from that unless they were wearing a vest."

Or unless they weren't human, Stan thought, grimly. Mix that one into your paranoia stew, kid.

"I know the cop had one on," Jeff insisted. He was wearing some kind of super high-tech vest. It kind of…" He made a futile gesture with his hands. "I don't know how to explain it. It's like it absorbs the bullet, or something. Well, you'll see. It has to be something totally new and cutting edge."

Stan was itching to get at the video; he couldn't stay patient much longer. He wished the kid would hand it over already.

"Yeah, it was some pretty weird stuff," Jeff was saying. Then he suddenly slapped the heel of his palm to his forehead. "Awww, man, I forgot!"

"What?"

"I meant to call my brother yesterday. I wanted to ask him about that. If anybody would know about new defensive equipment – vests, body armour, that kind of thing – he would. My older brother Bill…well, he insists on William now," Jeff quipped sarcastically, with an accompanying roll of his eyes. "He's in the military. Kind of the shooting star success story of my family."

Stan stifled a smile. Jeff managed to sound both jealous and admiring at the same time. It sounded like a typical brother relationship.

"Bill knew from Day One that he wanted to be a soldier. He couldn't wait to sign up. He fought in the Gulf almost as soon as he joined up. Well, it seemed that way, anyhow. My folks figure he's destined to go far…and end up as some high ranking officer."

Jeff smiled wanly, and for an instant Stan had a view through the window of his soul. He started to understand why Jeff wanted to feel like an insider on important matters, and why he lit up at the idea of being given a title like "consultant". He pushed a mop at a local shopping mall. In his own eyes, he paled into insignificance when compared to his hot-shot military brother, the Perry family's pride and joy.

"You can't just call him today or tomorrow?" Jeff shook his head.

"Why not?" Stan persisted.

"Because," Jeff replied, "he's, uh, gone far." He let out a hearty laugh at his joke. Then he hastened to explain: "He shipped out today. His unit is being deployed overseas."

Stan didn't ask where or why. He was sure William Perry was probably a real good guy – and oddly, something about his name rang familiar – but he didn't have the time for more chat. Jeff seemed to pick up on that vibe.

"Well, I can't stay," he said, while holding the video out to Stan. At the last moment, he pulled it back again. "I can't let you keep this," he cautioned.

"No, no, that's okay. I won't take it," Stan assured him hurriedly.

"Watch it here, then put it back in the closet. No one should be around here for the next half hour or so, so you shouldn't be disturbed. But if anyone comes in, you didn't get the tape from me."

He was scribbling on a scrap of paper as he spoke. He handed the paper and the video to Stan. "There's my phone number if you need me for any more consultation about the movie," he said hopefully.

Stan looked at him blankly for a beat or two. Movie? Then: "Oh, right! Thanks. If we need any information, I'll give you a call."

He held his breath for the next few crucial seconds, hoping that Jeff wouldn't ask him for a business card or a phone number. He had started to like the kid, and he wished him well, but he didn't want to give him an all-access pass to his time. Jeff, however, only jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder.

"I'm going to get back. I hope you see what you're looking for."

Stan extended his hand, and the two of them shook. "Thanks for everything," Stan said. "I really appreciate it." As the kid turned to leave, Stan clapped him on the shoulder firmly. "You're a good man, Jeff."

The teen smiled widely, pleased with the compliment. He raised his hand in a quick wave, then disappeared around the corner. Stan waited for a full minute, just in case Jeff decided to come back for any reason. When he was sure he was alone, he took a deep breath and turned his attention to the black plastic box on the table.

He picked it up and snapped it open. When the catches released, they sounded like gunshots firing…to Stan's ears, anyway. He walked to the door and took a look out into the hallway. Nobody seemed to be around. Still, he figured he'd better get this done as quickly as possible. Pulling the tape from the case, he whispered, "We are go." Then he slid it into the VCR.

The video footage was over almost as soon as it began, clocking in at no more than two or three minutes. But in that short time, it etched vivid and shocking images into his mind's eye, images that would be imprinted there forever. Most importantly, it gave him some answers. Not all of them…but some.

The tape was grainy, and it had been spliced together rather crudely. But beggars can't be choosers, Stan reminded himself. He knew that he was lucky to have a chance to see this at all. Alternating shots from both security cameras had been used to reconstruct the entire hallway incident on one tape.

The footage began with a shot of John Connor, taken from behind him. He was racing down the corridor at full speed, ignoring the protests of a maintenance worker that he had nearly barreled into. When he reached the far end of the hall, he burst through a set of double doors. After glancing first to his left – past the Pepsi machine – and then to his right, he froze, his eyes widening. He was definitely seeing something he didn't like. The cop? Stan wondered. Is this where the cop started to chase him?

John retreated back the way he had come, frantically twisting the doorknob of a maintenance room. It didn't give an inch. John was already on his way to the next door when his pursuer entered the frame. A massive figure wheeled around the corner, shotgun in hand, and cold, hard assassin's eyes masked by sunglasses. It was the Terminator, the T-800. The fear and panic that was evident on John's face revealed that he recognized it for what it was. Sarah must have taught him how to identify a Terminator. But what to do when confronted with one was something else again.

The machine raised its weapon and pointed it toward the boy. Stan's stomach rolled; he knew exactly what it was like to be in John's shoes. And he had been every bit as rooted to the ground as John appeared to be. Motion at the far end of the corridor then caught his eye. Another figure rounded the corner; this time, it was the cop. A service pistol was clutched in his left hand. Both gunmen converged on John.

The T-800 appeared to say something, after which John immediately ducked toward the ground. The camera frame vibrated violently as the shotgun boomed. The cop was driven back a few steps, but he didn't even get knocked off of his feet. It must have missed, Stan thought. How could a Terminator miss from that range?

John was scrambling to his feet again. As the cop raised the pistol calmly, the T-800 took action. One of its huge arms shot out toward John, snaked around his waist, and drew him toward the wall. The machine then used its entire huge frame to shield John from the barrage of gunfire that came from the other end of the hallway. There was no sound on the video, but Stan could see the back of the Terminator's leather jacket being shredded by the flak. And he noticed the drops of blood spraying the wall beside the maintenance room. They were the same blood spots he had examined earlier himself; now he knew who – or rather, what – they came from. He could almost hear the bullets whicking through the air and slamming home.

It's protecting him, Stan confirmed, watching in amazed silence. He had already suspected as much, but this video proved it beyond any doubt. Its mission was not to terminate; it was to protect. Specifically, to protect John Connor. It was the Austin imposter who wanted John dead. Stan watched him with the same degree of awe as the man rapid-fired down the corridor, his gun hand as steady as a rock. So perfect was his control that there appeared to be no recoil whatsoever; not a single shot went astray. John was spared solely by other obstacles that found their way between him and the bullets. Obstacles like the Terminator. And obstacles like the maintenance worker. The unfortunate man was sprawled motionless on the concrete floor now, with a red stain spreading out around him.

There was a brief pause in the chaos as the cop changed the clip in his gun. The Terminator used the short respite to slam a forearm against the maintenance room's door. The lock was no match for the force being applied to it, and it gave way immediately. The T-800 thrust John through the doorway and into the darkened room. With John safely out of the line of fire, the Terminator turned to face its adversary. It started to advance down the corridor, walking directly into the onslaught of bullets that poured from the cop's gun. It seemed to be oblivious to them, moving forward continually and patiently waiting for its moment.

Once the cop's second clip was spent, he didn't get a chance to reload again. The Terminator leveled the shotgun at him and fired. Just as before, the force of the blow sent the cop reeling backward. But Stan's amazement grew as he watched the T-800 fire five shots in succession – point blank, and from a closer distance each time – which again failed to take down his opponent. The shots staggered the cop, but he was still standing. And there was no doubting that the shots were finding the mark. With every shot fired, a strange silver coloured splotch burst open on the cop's shirt.

The impact of the sixth shell in a row slamming into his torso finally threw him to the ground. He lay prone and motionless, his eyes glazed and unseeing. The Terminator loomed over him menacingly, and started to reload its shotgun. With the shooting seemingly now over, John – clearly terrified – took the opportunity to steal a quick look out the doorway and down the corridor. Stan noted that only vaguely, because he was preoccupied by something else. He was staring in slack-jawed disbelief at the huge holes that had been blown into the cop's body.

The camera at that end of the corridor had captured the scene clearly. There was no blood, although the wounds went deep. As a matter of fact, there was no sign of flesh. There were only gaping, silver lined holes. Super high tech vest? Stan thought, doubtfully. It was very unlikely. Peering closely at the screen, he was almost positive he could see a bit of the gray concrete floor through one of those holes. One of those shots must have gone clean through him, he marveled, wondering if he could trust his own eyes.

Then he gasped audibly at what happened next. The holes that had been blasted into the cop's stomach and chest began to liquefy and flow. It was as if they had taken on a life of their own. Then they started to shrink and fill in. Finally, they sealed themselves, leaving the cop's torso fully intact.

Stan watched all of this with fascinated horror. He was trying to comprehend what he had seen. One second the cop had had huge holes punched into him, the next second those holes had sealed, leaving no evidence that they had ever been there. His uniform shirt was pristine, not a single rip or tear remained. It could pass for freshly pressed and straight off the hanger. His police badge and name tag, both of which must have been obliterated by the shots, were also fully intact once more. They showed no sign of having been damaged.

No vest can do that. What is that thing? Stan asked himself numbly. He definitely knew what it wasn't. Not a cop. Not a "him". Not human. With some reluctance, he admitted to himself that he was fully aware of what it was: it was a machine, another Terminator. It was definitely very different from the T-800, but in the end, the job description was the same.

And apparently, it had the same indestructibility. Only moments later, it started to move again. It turned its head forward, so that it was looking up toward the camera, and Stan saw that lucidity had returned to its eyes. Then it peeled its upraised arms off of the floor. Stan flinched as the cop-thing leaped to its feet with the agility of a cat. It was fully "healed". With lightning fast quickness, it reached out and grasped the barrel of the T-800's shotgun. The two machines struggled for possession of the weapon, remaining silent and expressionless as they did so. It was a standoff. It's met its match, Stan thought with incredulity, as the T-800 failed to get the upper hand. Despite the considerable difference in size between the two, they seemed to be evenly matched in strength.

Finally, the T-800 managed to slam its adversary against the wall. As the brick crumbled and buckled around the machine's wiry form, Stan realized he was now seeing how the walls in the corridor had taken such damage. Two immovable objects had met two irresistible forces. The cop-thing pushed back, spinning the T-800 around and hurling it into the brick wall. More fragments of brick showered down. Then it gripped the Terminator and hauled its four hundred plus pounds across the corridor and into a fibreboard wall. The wall gave way like it was made of tissue. Both combatants fell through the opening and disappeared from sight. Down the hallway, John could be seen sneaking a look around the corner again. Realizing it was his best chance, he broke from the safe haven of the maintenance room and sprinted toward the stairwell that led to the parking garage. The tape abruptly cut off; there was no more.

And that's where I came in, Stan thought. I'm sitting in the parking garage thinking I'm going to talk to John Connor. And totally unaware of what had happened in the mall. He shook his head with wonder. He now fully understood the panic that John had shown as he had desperately tried to get his bike started that day. His life had been on the line.

Stan suddenly felt very weary. It never ended, it seemed. Skynet didn't get tired; it was relentless. There were two again, just like last time. Skynet had sent another assassin. And as long as Skynet was relentless, the Connors' protectors had to be, as well. But maybe the playing field was a bit more level this time. The protector didn't need food, sleep, didn't feel fear. But some questions remained unanswered. How a Terminator came to be John's protector, I'll never know, he sighed to himself.

He rewound the tape. He knew that there had been more to the incident than the cameras had been able to catch. The battle had continued beyond the hole in the wall; the nightly news had told him that much. If there had been sound on the tape, he knew that he would have heard the crash of a storefront window shattering. But he had seen all that he needed to see. And he had the answers he had come looking for.

After watching the video footage several more times, he removed the tape from the VCR. As he placed it back in its case and snapped the lid closed, he was thinking long and hard. There was visual evidence of this new kind of Terminator – of both kinds of Terminator – right here in his hand. It was very tempting to take it with him. After all, Jeff didn't know what he had here. He paced the room for a minute or two, holding the video in one hand and tapping it against the palm of the other.

He had given Jeff his word. "Shit!" he muttered, in frustration. Then he walked over to the small closet and placed the video on a shelf inside of it. He turned and walked rapidly from the room, not giving himself an opportunity to change his mind. Given half a chance, he knew that he might. I should be sprinting for the stairwell, the same way John did, before I get tempted to go back and take that tape.

He didn't relax until he had exited the mall without the video.

ooOOoo

As he drove home, a light rain began to fall, an interruption to the perfect summer day. The car radio provided a distraction for him; he sang along to each song, trying to drown out the buzz of white noise that his thoughts made as his mind tried to process what he had seen on the video. But he didn't want to think about it consciously right now.

He turned into the parking lot of a fast food joint, intending to pick up a snack at the drive-through. As he slowed near the speaker, a small sign came into view: "Place Order At Intercom". Stan stared at the words trance-like for a few seconds; he had no idea why. Intercom…com… Then one voice rose above the ongoing disorganized din of his thoughts, and asserted itself.

"Sergeant, Tech/Com…with the One-Thirty-Second under Perry, from '21 to '27."

It was the voice of Kyle Reese, as heard on the police interrogation video from 1984. The name, rank, and serial number he had given from one sergeant to another. Reese had said those words to Vuckovich, an LAPD sergeant. The second part Reese had said to the infamous Dr. Silberman. Stan knew all of this because the geniuses at Cyberdyne had hacked into the LAPD computer system to obtain a copy of the interrogation video for their own purposes. Alex, in turn, had dutifully included it on the computer disk that he had given to him.

With the One-Thirty-Second under Perry, Stan repeated to himself. That was it. That was where he had heard the name Perry before in relation to things military. Could it be that Jeff Perry's military brother would be the man who would lead the One-Thirty-Second? The same Perry that Reese would serve under for six years? Of course, there had to be hundreds, maybe thousands, of people in the greater Los Angeles area with the surname Perry. But only a certain number would be connected with the Forces. On the other hand, it was quite possible that the Perry Kyle had served with hadn't been a military man at all prior to Skynet's attack and the subsequent war against the machines.

Still, making the connection had come as a mild shock. If it was the same man, and if Jeff ever did show him the video of the corridor shoot-out, then some day William Perry would realize that he had seen two different kinds of Terminators well before the so-called Judgment Day had ever come. Or maybe his familiarity with the tape, and thus with the enemy, had been a key factor in gaining Perry his authority in the forces of the future. By seeing that video, he would have seen more of the corridor shoot-out than even John had.

Stan uttered a sharp bark of laughter in response to how bizarre that was. It got crazier all the time. He leaned his head out the window for a few seconds, letting the rain drops sting his face. It felt refreshing, and it reminded him that he was still living in a world of relative normalcy. At that moment he became aware of a car horn bleating behind him. A girl's voice was coming through the speaker, sounding distorted and impatient.

" – please take your order. Is anybody there?" It seemed she had asked a number of times already. In an aside to someone else inside the restaurant, he could hear her say, "Is this thing working?"

He glanced into his rearview mirror and saw a parade of cars backed up behind him.

"Hey, what's the deal, buddy?" one driver yelled. "You feeding an army?"

Stan laid his foot on the gas, and pulled away without ordering. Back on the street and driving toward home, he wondered what the Tech/Com Forces would make of a Whopper. For them, it would probably be a gourmet meal.

His thoughts returned to William Perry. Door closes, window opens, he mused. Sarah and John were gone now; he wouldn't be able to talk to them to tell them what he knew. But he now had a new potential contact, one that was already inside the military. He wouldn't contact Perry; he didn't even know if he was the right man. And Perry would think he was crazy if he told him that the cop on that video was a self-regenerating robot that had been sent from the future to assassinate a ten year old boy who would someday be humanity's last, best hope for survival. Anyone said that to me, I'd think they were crazy, he assured himself. But he'd keep in mind the military man that was "going to go far". He'd file the information…just in case.

ooOOoo

Stan rolled down his car window somewhat reluctantly, grimacing at the blast of hot air that immediately engulfed him. It was an unseasonably warm October day. Hot as a blast furnace out there, he groaned to himself. But he made an effort to be pleasant as he addressed the guard in the small kiosk that he'd stopped beside.

"Hi. How are you today?" he greeted him.

"Never better," the guard replied affably. The heat didn't seem to bother him at all. "Yourself?"

"Good. My name's Stan Morsky. I'm here to see Carl Stinnett. He's expecting me."

The guard consulted his clipboard, then nodded his confirmation that Stan's name was on the appointment list. Moments after he stepped back into the kiosk, Stan heard a buzzing sound, and the gate started to lift. The guard emerged from the tiny cubicle again, and pointed to his right.

"Parking on that side of the lot will get you closest to Mr. Stinnett's office."

Stan nodded. "Okay, thanks a lot." He pulled forward into the lot. After closing the driver's side window again, he enjoyed a few deep breaths of canned – but cool – air. It was bad enough that he already felt vaguely grimy about setting up this appointment in the first place, but the addition of today's heavy, humid air left him feeling like he had been dumped into a swamp. But this was no time to be having second thoughts.

It was now more than three months on from the events that had culminated in the destruction of the Cyberdyne Systems building and in Miles Dyson's untimely death. Life had more or less returned to normal, although Stan knew that things would never be truly normal again. Not for him. But the days between had given him plenty of time to think things over. When he had received the unexpected call from Stinnett, a plan had started to form in his mind. He had heard opportunity knocking, and now he was ready to do some bargaining.

After easing the car into a guest parking space, he left the engine idling in order to keep the air running. In front of him stood a non-descript, boxy looking building. He scanned it carefully from one end to the other, then closed his eyes for a minute or two, making his final preparations for the meeting to come.

Stinnett was a pitch man for the newest cable TV station in the Los Angeles area. The station had quickly carved out a niche for itself with a series of exploitative and sensationalistic original movies. But in contrast to this, it had also gained a reputation for airing controversial and hard hitting news documentaries. Whether fact or fiction, if an issue generated controversy, this station was drawn to it. And it often blurred the line between the two.

Stinnett had contacted Stan to try to sell him on the screenplay of one of the station's upcoming movie projects. They were interested in having him direct it. The proposal had caught Stan by surprise, as he had carefully built his reputation and career on big screen feature films. To associate his name with this station, and its often questionable and sleazy product, would be to risk tainting that reputation. For his part, Stinnett knew that the association would give the upstart station instant credibility.

Stan surmised that they were ready to open the coffers a little wider this time, in order to buy that credibility in the person of a known director. But he had a surprise for them; he had an entirely different kind of bartering in mind. He would agree to do their latest smut and violence fiction piece. He wouldn't even insist on full "creative" control. He winced; it pained him to even consider such films as having artistic value. In return for his services, he would request extensive financial backing to be put toward his own personal project, an expose of Cyberdyne Systems. For that project, he would insist on full and unquestioned artistic control. Furthermore, he wanted to secure from the station moguls their full support of – and publicity for – his documentary. He would accept nothing short of a guarantee that it would air on the station in a prime time viewing slot.

He realized that he was gripping the steering wheel tightly in nervous anticipation. Upon opening his eyes, he was confronted with the sight of his white knuckles. Were it not for the steering wheel between his fingers, his hands would be balled into tense fists. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to let go of the wheel. This was it. This was where he could come through for Alex, for Sarah and John…maybe for all of humanity. His best contribution right now would be to get the Cyberdyne documentary made. And he believed that if he played his cards right, he could do that. True, he'd have to compromise himself in order to make the deal, but it was a price he was willing to pay. This documentary could prove to be his most important film legacy.

If he could nail down this deal, he also wouldn't have to take on Cyberdyne alone; he'd have the backing of the station. Still, he knew that it wouldn't be all smooth sailing. The station honchos would want to know every detail about the project, and they would assign station lawyers the task of Teflon coating the film from lawsuits. Stan would have to fight for every inch of content control, and once it was secured, he would have to remain vigilant to ensure that it wasn't eroded out from under him. But, on the positive side, the station was known for fearlessly wading into the fray with its documentaries and investigative journalism. Despite his current jitters, Stan felt confident that he could make this deal happen. He killed the engine and opened the car door. As long as I don't start ranting about nuclear holocausts and robot assassins from the future, he reminded himself – not entirely sarcastically – as he stepped out into the oppressive afternoon heat.

Once inside the building, he wasn't kept waiting. A station assistant ushered him through a lushly carpeted outer office and down a hallway. Stinnett was finishing a phone call when they arrived at the open door. He nodded to his assistant and waved Stan into the room.

"I don't care what excuses they're giving. I don't want excuses, I want results," he snapped at the person on the other end of the line.

Feeling uncomfortable, Stan took a cursory glance around the office, trying to pretend that he wasn't listening in on someone else's business call.

"This is the third time. How many chances do they think they get?"

Stinnett rapped his knuckles on the desk top a couple of times for emphasis. The sound caused Stan to look over toward him. Immediately, he noticed something unusual; none of the phone's lines were lit up. Stifling a smile, he looked away again. The assistant must have somehow signaled that they were on their way to the office. It seemed this was an improvised solo performance, specifically for his benefit. Apparently, Stinnett wanted to impress on him that he had authority here, and that he was a mover and a shaker who got things done. But he was talking to dead air.

"Look," the studio exec growled threateningly, "you tell them that if they miss one more deadline, that's it. It's over. And should that time come, I'll deliver the message to them personally." He paused for a few seconds, "listening". "Damn straight they won't miss another one. They'd better not. You be sure to let them know," he finished.

After hanging up the phone, he looked at Stan with an apologetic grin. "Sorry about that," he said.

Stan shrugged; he was still amused by Stinnett's antics. "Perfectly alright," he assured him.

The exec then pasted on his best snake-oil salesman smile. He extended a hand across the desk. "It's a real pleasure to meet you."

Stan shook the man's hand. "Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Stinnett."

Stinnett waved a hand. "No formalities necessary. Call me Carl." He gestured toward a chair. "Have a seat. I shouldn't have left you standing like that. Make yourself comfortable."

Stan settled into a chair that stood in front of Stinnett's desk. He did a quick mental run-through of how he thought things should go. First, they would talk a little shop…just some casual conversation that would allow them to get comfortable with each other. Then they would get down to serious business. He would let Stinnett say his piece – allowing the man to give him the hard sell on his film – without interruption. Then he would agree to take a look at the script of the movie in question; hopefully, he would be able to think of something good to say about it. He would express conditional interest, then outline his conditions. And if all went well, he'd strike a deal. With a bit of luck, by the time he walked out of this office, the Cyberdyne expose would be a go.

" – glad that you agreed to meet with me. I've been an admirer of your work for some time."

It took Stan a few seconds to refocus away from his own thoughts, and onto what Stinnett was saying to him. He missed the first part, but he got the general idea.

"Thanks very much," he replied simply.

Don't let that happen again, he chided himself. He couldn't afford to give the appearance of not listening closely to Stinnett. Regardless of his own feelings about this station and its cinematic gruel, he had to keep in mind that this project was important to Carl. He had to at least try to appear to be interested. If he showed enthusiasm for the station's film project, he stood a much better chance of getting backing for his own.

"You can imagine what it would mean to us to have a director of your stature agree to direct one of our original movies. We'd be honoured."

You'd be laying it on thick, actually, Stan laughed to himself.

Stinnett continued: "And believe me, we plan to make it worth your while. But once you get a chance to read this script, I think you'll feel as enthusiastic about this picture as we do. And we think you're the perfect person to direct it."

Stan found the comment to be vaguely disconcerting. He didn't really want to be thought of as the "perfect person" to direct any movie on this station.

"So, would you like to have a look?"

Stan feigned enthusiasm. "Absolutely!"

"Great! You won't regret this, Stan." Stinnett pulled out one of the desk drawers and reached into it. Stan grimaced inwardly; he was already regretting it. Becoming involved in this project could cause irreparable damage to his professional reputation. But he reminded himself to keep his eye on the prize. Nothing good came without sacrifice; directing Stinnett's sex-and-scandal piece was simply the price he'd pay to secure backing for the Cyberdyne documentary. Besides, with a little effort he might be able to make it into a half decent cable movie. But having seen some of this station's original movies, that notion strained his belief to the breaking point. No, I won't, he admitted to himself.

He looked up to see Stinnett holding the script out to him. A sheaf of innocuous white office paper. But Stan's instinct was to shy from it like it was something diseased. For the cause, he told himself, making himself reach out and accept the proffered screenplay. Once it was in his hand, he felt he had crossed a clearly marked line. He had sunk down into the muck with the other smut-meisters. As if Hollywood needs one more of those, he thought, miserably. Reluctantly, he looked down at the top page to see what he had been given.

It was far worse than anything he might have expected. He couldn't have even imagined this, much less expected it. He stared down at the title page, expressionless, as if unable to comprehend the words. He was certain that the air conditioning must have broken down, because the temperature in the room seemed to have rapidly climbed twenty degrees. He tugged at his collar in a futile attempt to draw some air into his lungs. But there was none to be had.

Stinnett noted the collar tug. "Yeah, it's a hot one today, isn't it?"

"Brutal," Stan croaked in reply, unsure of whether he was referring more to the heat or to the loathsome item in his hand.

"Not a suit and tie day at all," the station exec quipped, with a chuckle. But Stinnett's tie was snug around his neck, and he looked as cool as a snowman. Stan knew that the room's climate hadn't changed; it had changed only within him. His gaze fell to the script's title page once more. Nothing had changed there, either. The stark, black print still boldly proclaimed, NO FATE: The Sarah Connor Story.

Stan knew that the station's movies were often "fact"-based bio-pics that sensationalized recent news stories. But he hadn't seen this coming, and he was at a total loss as to what to do.

"No fate," he read out loud, in a barely audible whisper.

"Yeah," Stinnett jumped in. "That's something she says, you know? Connor, that is. It's kind of a philosophy she lives b—"

"…but what we make for ourselves," Stan muttered under his breath.

Stinnett's eyes lit up. "Exactly!" he exclaimed. "So it looks like you already know her story."

Stan's reply was non-committal. "I followed it in the news a bit back during the summer."

"Good," Stinnett enthused. He obviously saw this as a good sign. "Well, we can supply you with any background information you need."

Even if you have to make it up yourself, Stan sighed to himself. There was one thing he had to know. "Why Sarah Connor's story?"

Stinnett enjoyed a hearty laugh. "Are you kidding? Good girl goes bad. Women behind bars. Serial stalkers. Good guys. Bad guys. Blood. Guts. Guns. Sex. Psychosis. Car chases. Explosions!" He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together behind his head, and winked at Stan. "What's not to like? It's got everything!"

Stan shrugged a concession, for Stinnett's sake. "Sex?" he prompted. He wondered if the station exec knew of Kyle Reese's significant connection to this story. But Stinnett misinterpreted his reason for asking, practically giggling with glee in response.

"Yeah, of course, sex. Don't worry, Stan, we'll find some way to work it in. We can add more, if you want. Connor has a ten year old son; she didn't do that alone, did she?"

"I suppose not."

Stinnett leaned forward in his chair now. "My point is that anything you want in the script, we can work it in. We can make sure this movie has everything." He waved a hand toward the script. "Go ahead and take a quick look at it."

Stan flipped through the pages, stopping now and again to read a passage. He got the gist of it pretty quickly; it was a character assassination. Sarah was drawn in broad strokes as a psychotic, cold-blooded criminal, fully lacking in any redeeming qualities. As he scanned the pages, he realized that his carefully laid plans had been scuttled. He now found himself in a classic Catch-22 situation. In order to cut a deal that would enable him to make a documentary that exposed Cyberdyne Systems – and to some degree exonerated Sarah Connor – he would first have to direct a movie that would decimate Sarah's character and destroy what little credibility she had. He couldn't win; his clearly marked path had become a house of mirrors.

Stinnett was starting to sense his discomfort. "Is there a problem?"

"No, not at all," Stan assured him.

Ignoring his reply, Stinnett added, "It's okay. I think I know what it is."

Involuntarily, Stan stiffened a bit. What did the station man know about him? Did he know of his own distant connection to Sarah Connor?

"I can't say I blame you," Carl laughed. "You're worried that the movie doesn't paint a very flattering portrait of Connor…and she's not under lock and key right now. She's out there somewhere." He gestured vaguely. "That's it, isn't it? You're worried that if you do this film, she might pay you a visit."

In truth, this hadn't occurred to Stan…at least not yet. The prospect of it was unnerving.

"She's long gone, my friend. You have nothing to worry about. She's in Mexico, maybe even in South America. And she can't come back. Too risky."

Stinnett's reassurances didn't count for much with Stan. He wondered if the man had any idea of how resourceful Sarah Connor was. Probably not. But in any case, it was unlikely that Sarah would come looking for revenge. She didn't waste her energy on anything that didn't further her cause. If it didn't aid in preparing John for his future, or in stopping Judgment Day, she didn't do it. She was too focused to give in to the temptation of luxuries such as revenge. He hoped. He riffled the script pages idly.

Stinnett stood up from behind his desk. "Tell you what," he offered. "I'm going to go make a few phone calls, and give you some time to look over the script more thoroughly. Then we can talk about it. What do you say, do you have the time?"

Stan nodded. "Yeah, sure." He had to admit to himself that he was curious enough to want to take a closer look.

"Okay, I'll be back. Say fifteen, twenty minutes."

Stinnett departed, leaving Stan alone with Sarah Connor's life story…or something that very loosely resembled it. He knew that looking over the screenplay some more wasn't likely to change his mind, but he wanted to know if there was anything in here that came within hollering distance of the truth. The chances of that were slim. Sarah's war had started years ago, and as the old saying went, the first casualty of war is truth. Cyberdyne's executives hadn't told the truth about her. Silberman hadn't told the truth about her. It was very unlikely that Stinnett's script writing hacks – whoever they were – would change that pattern. There were probably very few people who even knew the absolute truth about Sarah Connor. He checked his watch, then got down to some serious reading.

Twenty minutes later, Stinnett breezed back into the room. "Okay," he quipped, brightly, "what's the verdict?"

Guilty of first degree slander, Stan fumed to himself. Reading more in-depth into this hatchet job of a script had only left an even more sour taste in his mouth. Those feelings must have been outwardly evident. Carl's smile faltered. It seemed that he had been sure that once Stan read more of the script, he would see the brilliance of it.

"There isn't a problem still, is there?"

Stan's hesitation – briefly glancing down at the script – gave Stinnett a chance to jump in again. He went into sales pitch mode.

"Hey, we can work with it. I told you we can make some changes, if you want to. You just let me know where the sticky spots are, and we'll smooth them right out. What is it that's troubling you?"

Stan dove in. "Well," he began, "it's not exactly a very…balanced view."

Carl blinked. "Balanced?" he repeated, as if hearing the word for the first time. He looked thoughtful as he walked behind his desk and settled into his office chair. When he spoke again, his tone – at first quiet and reasonable – quickly escalated in volume and force. He leaned forward over the desk.

"Well, maybe that's because Sarah Connor is not…exactly…very…balanced!" He heaved his weight against the chair's backrest again, glaring at Stan, one hand gripping the arm rest tightly.

Stan was taken aback at the sudden outburst. He knew this meeting wasn't going quite as Stinnett had hoped or envisioned, but he hadn't anticipated hostility. At this point, he just wanted to find a way to get out of here.

The storm that raged across Stinnett's features dissipated every bit as suddenly as it had appeared. He relaxed and raised his hands. "Oh, hey, I'm sorry. I was way out of line. I apologize."

Stan had no idea what to say. "Yeah. Okay," he replied. Useless, but it would suffice. Carl fixed him with an earnest look.

"No excuse for it, I know," he admitted, "but you can see how passionate I am about this project. It means a lot to me."

What Stan could see was that Stinnett himself was perhaps a little unbalanced. If he had a tendency to become that volatile when he didn't get his way, he wouldn't be pleasant to work with. Far from sounding sincere, the apology and explanation seemed to be a calculated ploy to keep him here longer.

Stan proceeded with caution, tapping a finger on the script. "It's just that it gives an entirely negative view of Sarah. It makes her out to be totally crazy—"

"She is crazy!" Stinnett interjected.

"—without making any effort to understand why."

"Why? Who cares why?"

"The story of someone's life should at least attempt to understand what made them who they are, shouldn't it?"

"It's a movie, Stan. We've got to keep the pace quick," Stinnett countered, snapping his fingers a few times.

"Well, you've certainly succeeded there," Stan conceded. "You show her flying into rages, attacking people, taking hostages, shooting at people in their own homes, planting explosives in –"

"Because all of those things happened."

"Right," Stan agreed, his voice low and steady. "But why? Why did she do all those things?"

Stinnett threw his hands up in exasperation. "Why?" He steepled his fingers together and gazed up at the ceiling, as if thinking hard. "Why…why…" Then he looked at Stan again. "I really don't know why. Maybe she doesn't like Mondays?" he deadpanned. Then he rapped his knuckles against the side of his head. "She's not all there, you know? There is no explanation for the things she does."

Stan decided that it was time to spell it out to him. "There's very little focus on what happened to her ten years ago. But surely it affected her and played a part in making her become the person she is. You didn't explore that at all."

Understanding dawned in Stinnett's eyes. "Ohhhh, is that what this is all about? Ten years ago." He shook a finger at Stan good-naturedly. "You have done your homework. You know more than you're letting on."

Stan shrugged. "It was all over the news back then."

"Yes, it was. But you know, Stan, the movies we make deal with topical issues and news stories. So we didn't dwell on ten years ago. We decided to keep the focus on the events that occurred this year."

He paused for a moment, then leaned toward Stan slightly. "But you know what I think?" he asked in a low, conspiratorial tone. Stan dutifully shook his head, and allowed Carl to continue.

"I think what Sarah Connor had – at first, anyhow – was a whopping case of Stockholm Syndrome. The guy she was on the run with – not the big guy, but the other guy from ten years ago – they say he was a total loon. But somehow, he made Connor buy into his delusions. I don't know how he did it; maybe it was some kind of hypnosis technique. But she started to sympathize with him, and she began to believe all the crazy things he was telling her. And she ended up even nuttier than he was."

Stan smiled wryly. "There you go."

Stinnett looked puzzled, so Stan explained: "Like I said before, there had to be reasons why Sarah became the way she is now. You said you didn't know why, but you might have just described one of the reasons. Doesn't that present a more sympathetic view of –"

"I don't want her to be sympathetic! It's a movie, it's entertainment. Viewers want someone they can cheer for…or cheer against. We're giving them a villain. Better yet, a female villain. It's gold!"

He stared at Stan, looking perplexed, as if he couldn't understand why all of this wasn't perfectly obvious to him. But Stan stayed the course.

"Don't you think you owe it to Sarah to put her more recent actions into perspective?"

Stinnett exploded out of his chair and loomed over his desk. "Owe it to Sarah?" he exclaimed, his face growing red. "Owe it to Sarah! I don't owe that lunatic anything," he bellowed. He turned his verbal assault on Stan now. "I can't believe you're siding with that maniac! After the things she did."

He started to pace the office, fuming. "Did you know," he continued, "that Cyberdyne Systems lost its most brilliant researcher in that explosion? That explosion that she arranged." He stabbed a finger in the air to punctuate the word "she". "His name was Miles Dyson. He had a wife. He had two children."

"I know," Stan said quietly. "I knew Miles."

"Yeah? Well then, you ask his family how 'sympathetic'" – he sneered the word – "a figure they think Sarah Connor is. And if you knew Dyson, how can you sit there defending the hellcat that killed him!"

Stan looked up sharply. "Sarah didn't kill Miles."

"Of course she did!"

"He died in the explosion."

"The explosion, my ass," Stinnett scoffed. "That was just the official version. He died of gunshot wounds before the explosion ever happened. He was being forced to co-operate with those low-life freaks, but I guess he wasn't working fast enough for their liking. So Sarah Connor shot him…point blank." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that. Is she still looking like some sympathetic victim to you?"

Stan was experiencing a surreal sense of time rushing past him, while he remained frozen in the moment that he had just lived, unable to move forward. His plane of existence was like that of a needle on the surface of a vinyl record, caught in a rut and grinding over the same words again and again. …Connor shot him…just like that…shot him…point blank…Sarah Connor shot him… He made a concerted effort to break free of the trance-like state.

Reality returned, but Stan's mind was still reacting sluggishly. Part of it was trying to make sense of the shocking revelation; another part of it was rejecting the idea outright. The warfare in his head left him unable to say a word. He sat speechless for what seemed like an eternity. Stinnett was giving him all the time he needed; he wore a satisfied look, pleased that he had finally struck a nerve.

Stan could feel the room heating up again. No, he reminded himself, it's just me. He ran a hand through his hair, noting that the ends were damp where they rested against his neck. He was aware of the clamminess of his skin back there…and just about everywhere else. Finally, he looked up at Stinnett.

"I didn't hear – or read – anything like that. Not back when all of that happened, and at no time since then."

"I'm not surprised," Stinnett said, casually. "There was a lot that went on at Cyberdyne that night that was never publicly reported. But our, uh, researchers found out."

"There was no trial for anything like that," Stan countered insistently, his sense of desperation rising. This couldn't be true. Try as he might, he couldn't picture Sarah pointing a gun at someone and actually firing it. But that was your Sarah, his inner demons taunted him. Sarah is someone very different now.

"You do know that she shot at Dyson in his home, right? The place was trashed."

Stan nodded numbly. "That was in the news."

"Right. So if she would shoot at him there, why wouldn't she shoot him after he had gotten her into Cyberdyne, and she didn't need him anymore?"

Stan – slumped in his chair – didn't answer. He didn't have an answer. He pointed to the script. "Is that in here?" he asked weakly.

"The shooting?"

"Yeah."

"No, it isn't."

"Why did you leave it out?" Having committed a murder seemed to be an odd detail to leave out of someone's life story.

"For the same reason that there was never a trial. There wasn't enough evidence."

"Then how do you know it happened?" Stan persisted.

"Eyewitness statements." Stinnett launched into a full explanation. "You see, Stan, Sarah Connor wanted Miles Dyson dead, above all else. The reasons for that are likely detailed in her psychiatric records. Of course, those are confidential, so we'll probably never know exactly why she did it."

"When the police stormed the lab at Cyberdyne that night, the explosives were already set. Connor could see that the jig was up, so she took care of her only remaining piece of business. She emptied her gun into Miles Dyson. Some of the cops saw her do it. Then she managed to get away because that mountain of a guy literally broke down a wall for her. And they set the explosives off by remote."

Stinnett let Stan absorb that for a minute. Then, in a softer tone, he concluded: "That's why we can't depict her as a sympathetic figure in the film, Stan. We have to show her for what she is."

Stan reached out slowly and set the script on Stinnett's desk. It felt good to have it out of his hand. But it was the only thing that felt good right now. He was mired in misery, brooding over these shocking new details. Stinnett – his hands thrust deep in his pockets – gazed out the window at nothing for a minute or two, giving Stan some time to gather himself. Then he moved behind his desk again, and sat down.

"I didn't know that you had known Miles," he said regretfully. "This is a terrible way for you to find out that your friend was shot down in cold—"

He fell silent suddenly, a curious look crossing his face. "Oh, hell," he breathed softly. "I thought all along that your reaction was because of what you were hearing about Miles. But then it just occurred to me…" He hesitated momentarily, then continued: "Did you know…Sarah Connor? I mean, at any time…maybe before she was, uh, like this?" He waved a hand toward the script.

He said the words as if he thought the odds of Stan ever having known Sarah were comparable to those of winning the state lottery. Stan was mentally backtracking through their conversation, trying to figure out what would have made Carl think he had ever known Sarah. He met Stinnett's stare head-on.

"No," he lied. "No, I've never known her. I've only heard about her on the news."

"The news, right," Carl echoed. He was looking thoughtful again, and Stan sensed that he wasn't off the hook quite yet. "It's just that I suddenly realized that you always call her by her first name only. Like there's a familiarity there."

Stan was convinced that at this moment he must look like the proverbial deer in the headlights. He had absolutely no idea how to reply to that.

"Really?" he asked, trying to sound surprised. He shrugged, and chuckled nervously. "I hadn't noticed."

Stinnett seemed prepared to let it go. He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled heavily. "Well," he said, "I think this meeting has probably been pretty hard on you. I don't think we should rush into any decisions about the movie. You need some time to get used to what you've been told today. There were significant details you didn't know about, and it'll take some time to come to terms with them."

Stan knew that he didn't want to have anything to do with Stinnett's film. And he was sure that he would never come to terms with the revelations made in this office today.

"Take the script with you," Stinnett suggested. "When you're ready, you can give it a good, thorough read. And once you read it with the knowledge of what you've learned today, I think you'll see it in a very different light. You'll understand that we've told the story in as balanced a way as possible. But the truth can be harsh."

He lifted the script and held it out toward Stan. Every fibre of Stan's being wanted to refuse it. He recognized, though, that Stinnett was wrapping up this meeting, and providing him with an escape route. That was all that mattered to Stan right now; he'd figure out the rest later. Retreat and regroup. He accepted the script from Stinnett, who, in return, smiled with satisfaction.

The station pitch man stood up and walked from behind his desk toward the door. The meeting was over. Stan rose, feeling the weight of the script in his hand, and joined Stinnett at the office door.

"We can get together in a few weeks and talk about this again," Stinnett offered.

"Okay," Stan agreed.

"Then we can start making any small adjustments that you think should be made." Stan noted that Stinnett assumed he already knew what Stan's decision would be. He let it pass. The two men exchanged some pleasantries, shook hands, and parted.

As Stan stepped through the door into the hallway, he was conscious of a palpable feeling of relief spreading through him. He couldn't get away from there fast enough. He glanced down at the script. Sarah Connor's life was quite literally in his hands; it felt like a heavy burden.

As he walked down the hallway, he tried to figure out how things had gone so wrong. He had laid out his plans so carefully, and now they were dust. In regard to the Cyberdyne documentary, he was back to Square One. All that was left for him to do now was to invent an excuse for being unable to direct Stinnett's movie. Hopefully, he could disentangle himself from this whole mess.

He was approaching the reception area now. Unable to resist, he gave the script another brief look of distaste, as if it were some unwanted flea-ridden mongrel, tagging along with him and begging to be loved. But something stopped him in his tracks this time. For a full minute he stood motionless, with the script clutched in both hands before him, staring down at its outwardly innocuous title page. Something within him was taking a stand.

No, he told himself firmly. No excuses. Tell him you're not going to do it. He cast a look back down the hallway. And tell him now.

Unfortunately, the courageous words didn't translate as readily to his feelings; he dreaded going back there. But it was best to get this over with now. Reluctantly, he retraced his steps back down the hallway until he stood once more in front of Stinnett's office door. The door was a few inches ajar. Stan listened closely for a few seconds; he didn't want to interrupt if Stinnett had already moved on to other business. Finally, with some trepidation, he raised his hand to knock…hesitated…lowered it again. How was he going to tell him? He glanced longingly down the hallway, wishing he could just leave. The exit seemed impossibly out of reach.

He could hear faint sounds on the other side of the door, as Stinnett moved about his office. It was a steady, measured sound; he was pacing. Now, Stan ordered himself. He steeled himself and raised his hand to knock on the door. As he did so, he heard the sound of an intercom button being punched sharply. It was followed by Stinnett's voice, now sounding tense and agitated.

"Get me Greg Simmons," he snapped.

"Yes, Mr. Stinnett," a secretary responded.

At the sound of Stinnett's voice, Stan had fought to stop the momentum of his swinging hand, desperately trying to hold up before it hit the door. After managing to still his balled fist less than an inch from impact, he breathed a small sigh of relief. But his adrenalin was surging. Simmons! Why did Stinnett want to talk to Cyberdyne's owner? The connection clicked immediately. It was the damn movie; Simmons was probably acting as a consultant. If he was providing information about Sarah Connor, it was little wonder the film was presenting her as a lunatic.

A woman's voice came from within the room: "Mr. Simmons for you on three."

Stinnett didn't bother to thank her. Stan could hear him scrambling the phone receiver from its cradle, then punching a couple of buttons.

"Greg?" he greeted the other man, concern and urgency in his tone.

Stan had barely noticed that he had almost stopped breathing in his effort to be as quiet as possible. But he drew a breath in surprise, as he now heard the voice of Cyberdyne's owner every bit as clearly as he could hear Stinnett's. The phone had been put on its "speaker" setting. Perhaps Stinnett had done that so that he could continue his nervous pacing.

The other man's voice dripped acid as he addressed the TV station pitch man. "Stinnett, you don't call me," he said steadily, "I call you. You don't ever, ever summon me to the phone, and then leave me waiting on the line. Have you got that?"

There was an implied threat in his tone. It chilled Stan, but Stinnett seemed too distracted to notice.

"Yeah, Greg. Yeah, I've got it," he babbled.

A silent moment drew out for far too long.

"Well?" Simmons demanded finally. "Did you meet with him?"

"Yes. He…just left." Stinnett hesitated again, offering nothing more. Simmons' patience reached its limit.

"And? Look, Carl, I'm a busy man. You called me, so I assume you have something to tell me. What did he say?"

Stinnett sounded like he dreaded saying the words. "He, uh, he's not exactly on board."

A sense of menace pervaded the ensuing silence. Stan heard Stinnett resume his pacing.

"Then what is he – exactly?"

"Undecided."

"Undecided," Simmons echoed. "Undecided. Carl, what was the last thing I said to you the last time we talked?"

Stinnett drew a deep breath, and answered in a voice that was starting to sound decidedly shaky. "You told me to not let him out of my office until he had agreed to direct the film. You said you wanted his signature on a contract."

"Right. And yet he's 'undecided'. I ask you to do one thing – one thing – and you can't even manage that!"

"It's not that easy," Carl protested, sounding a bit petulant. "We knew that he'd probably say no, and that we'd have to talk him into it. At least he's still considering it. I tried everything I could think of to get him to see it our way."

"What did he say about Connor?"

"He lied, of course. Said he had never known her."

"Did he read any of the script?"

"I gave him plenty of time to look through it," Stinnett assured him. "But I have a feeling he can't be bought, no matter how much we offer him. He just didn't like the way Connor was portrayed in the script. He said there was no balance."

"That was the whole point," Simmons growled. "Discredit Sarah Connor, and use Morsky to do it. That would effectively neutralize both of them."

Stan took an involuntary step back from the door, feeling a strong urge to bolt. Neutralize? Quietly, he stepped toward the door again, straining to hear over the thudding of his own pulse in his ears.

"He hasn't said definitely 'no' yet," Stinnett offered hopefully.

Simmons sounded curious now. "Why is that, Carl? Why do you think he's still considering it? You must have made a pretty convincing case."

Stinnett tried to sound casual. "I just think he started to have second thoughts about Sarah Connor." He cleared his throat nervously. "After I told him that she shot and killed Miles Dyson even though he was co-op—"

"What!" Simmons' voice, exploding through the speaker, caused the sound to distort. "What the hell are you talking about? The S.W.A.T. team shot Dyson!"

"I…know…that," Stinnett hissed through clenched teeth, biting off each word individually. "But he doesn't. And I was desperate. I had to think of some way to try to get him to see Connor the way we do."

"There is no 'we', Carl. You work for me. And you're being compensated generously for it. But I might have to rethink that."

Stinnett sounded both wounded and defensive as he concluded: "I had to get…creative, shall we say. Shall I say," he corrected himself quickly, mindful of Simmons' last comment. "So I told him that she shot Dyson, hoping it would change his view of her…turn him against her."

Stan heard the Cyberdyne owner heave a sigh. "That was the only thing she didn't do." He started to mutter under his breath, and Stan leaned as close to the door's opening as he dared, in an attempt to make out the words. It sounded like, "She's going down".

Then Simmons' voice burst through the speaker at full volume once more, leaving absolutely no question as to the comment's meaning.

"That brazen bitch," he spit out. "She thinks she can come into my building, steal my technology, blow up my lab, and cause the death of MY top researcher! With no repercussions? She's got another thing –"

Unwisely, Stinnett interrupted the rant. "But Tarissa did say that Miles co-operated with them of his own free –"

"Shut up!" Simmons sounded positively apoplectic now. This had clearly become a very personal grudge for him; he had a score to settle with Sarah Connor. When he spoke again, he sounded a bit calmer, but his self-control seemed to be tenuous, at best. "Why can't anybody do anything right?"

Stinnett was smart enough to know that the question was rhetorical; he remained silent, while Simmons continued.

"If Silberman had just arranged the overdose accident, like I asked him to, none of this would have been necessary at all. And I would be well rid of the waitress from hell. But no; no one can seem to accomplish a single task I've assigned to them. I've never seen such incompetence."

Stinnett continued to hold his peace, but this seemed only to further inflame Simmons. He unleashed his tirade on his hired man.

"And you, Carl! I guess I should have known better than to ask for your help. I give you one small assignment. Get Morsky's name on a contract. But can you manage that? No! You let him walk away still 'undecided'."

He sneered the final word, showing his contempt for Stinnett's efforts.

"You have no idea what's at stake here. You owe me, Carl. Understand? You owe me."

Stinnett apparently understood all too well. His voice had become a dry-mouthed croak.

"What do you want me to do?"

Cyberdyne's head man sounded oddly calm and reasonable for a moment. "I just want you to not screw up again, Carl." Then the menacing undercurrent returned to his tone once more. "And I suggest you put the contingency plan in motion. Immediately."

"Immediately," Stinnett parroted him. "Who should I call fir—"

Stan was suddenly aware of everything around him going into motion. He felt thoroughly disoriented for a few seconds. Then he realized that it was he who was in motion, not his surroundings. His feet – at their own behest – had taken it upon themselves to remove him from this place. But he felt no connection to having given them any order to do so. It was as though he were outside of himself, still listening at Stinnett's office door, while watching himself flee down the hallway. He surrendered and let his feet carry him, imposing enough control only to resist the urge to run.

As he passed through the reception area, he dropped the script on to a table covered with magazines. Instantly, he felt an enormous weight lift from him. Later, however, he would curse himself for the impulsive act. Stinnett would be sure to find the script there – or it would be turned over to him – and he would realize that Stan was, in fact, very much 'decided'. For now, though, getting to an exit was his immediate goal.

Finally, he reached an outer door and pushed his way through it, feeling relieved to be out of the building. His lungs contracted reflexively, desperately trying to draw in some fresh oxygen; but quickly he discovered that the heavy, humid air, which an hour ago had felt swamp-like, now seemed to have thickened to the consistency of quicksand. He stumbled in the direction of his car, half expecting a restraining hand to fall on his shoulder at any time. The hand of someone who had been sent by Stinnett to bring him back…so that he could be "neutralized".

Having reached the relative safety of his car, he fumbled the key into the lock, pausing only long enough to turn the air conditioner on high. There was no time to think about what to do; he had to get moving. His hands were wrapped around the steering wheel in a death grip as he cruised slowly toward the kiosk at the gate. He was sure that by now Stinnett would have phoned to the guard and asked him to detain Stan. He faced directly forward, moving only his eyes in order to steal a glance to the side. The guard was standing in the doorway of the kiosk. He stepped down onto the pavement as Stan neared him. Stan was already asking himself if he had the nerve to plow right through the man, when the guard then raised his hand in a friendly good-bye wave. Stan was convinced that he would be unable to separate his own hand from the wheel, but somehow he managed to make it relax its grip. He raised it in what he hoped looked like a casual return wave, continuing to drive as he did so. Once out of the parking lot, he drove slowly down a side street. But as he rounded a corner, leaving the TV station building behind and out of sight, he stepped on the gas. He wanted to put distance between himself and that place as quickly as possible.

The things he had heard at Stinnett's office door had, by turns, both panicked and reassured him. Skynet's existence and subsequent attack might still be two years off, but already there was a war of a different kind being waged. It had been declared by Greg Simmons against Sarah Connor. Cyberdyne's head man had lost the battle in the trenches. Sarah had, in fact, won that battle handily, having left his empire in ashes, then adding insult to injury by pulling a clean escape.

Now Simmons was determined to win the public relations war. He would destroy Sarah with a public smear campaign, carefully crafting words and images that would cast her in the worst possible light. The truth be damned. He would manipulate people into regarding her as Public Enemy #1, making it impossible for her to safely set foot on U.S. soil again. And by keeping the focus on the misdeeds of the "dangerous and demented" Sarah Connor, he would effectively deflect the spotlight away from Cyberdyne's wrongdoings, half-truths, and lies.

Simmons was prepared to use anyone to achieve this objective. Silberman, Stinnett…and himself, among others. He had unwittingly walked into a set-up. It had been Simmons' intention that Stan would be his primary propaganda tool. He had tried to arrange things so that Stan's name would be closely associated with the film that was meant to misrepresent and discredit Sarah. This would leave him in no position to challenge Cyberdyne himself.

Simmons' words had forced him to face a grim reality. Discredit Sarah Connor. Use Morsky to do it. That effectively neutralizes both of them, he had said. There had to be a reason why Cyberdyne's owner wanted him contained. The likely explanation was that he knew – maybe had known all along – that he was in possession of damaging information about Cyberdyne Systems.

There had been only one revelation that he could take comfort in: Sarah hadn't killed Miles. Stinnett had only been playing head games with him, trying to make him think that was so. What's more, he now knew that in the end, Miles had co-operated willingly in the destruction of Cyberdyne's data. Something that Sarah had said – or something that had happened – at Dyson's house that night must have convinced him that continuing the research on the neural net processor would be a planetary death sentence.

As he raced toward home, he glanced up at the rearview mirror often. There was no indication yet that he was being followed. But he knew now that he was on Greg Simmons' radar; he suspected that from now on, he would always feel like he was being watched. And Simmons was putting some kind of a backup plan into action. What was that about? He was sure that he wouldn't like it, whatever it was. Simmons' comment about an overdose "accident" revealed that he had been prepared to eliminate Sarah altogether. Who knew what he was capable of or what lengths he would go to, to get what he wanted? Stan didn't want to be the one to find out the hard way.

Still, he questioned whether he should have stayed at the office door and tried to hear more about this plan. There was no point in second guessing himself now, though; it was done. As it was, he had heard far more than he had ever been meant to hear. Never had he felt more relieved to get away from a place, and he was happier still that the safe haven of home was not far away now.

Five minutes later, he was walking through his front doorway. Turning to face the door, he pushed it shut firmly, then closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the smooth wood surface. He had made it. But was he really any safer here? Would every day from now on be spent looking over his shoulder? He would have to give some serious thought to how he should proceed, but for now a cool shower and a change of clothes would do. He'd be able to think more clearly later.

He turned away from the door, shrugging out of his casual suit jacket. As he walked through the living room and toward the hallway, he tossed it toward the chair beside the door. The jacket was already airborne by the time Stan noticed that the chair wasn't there. The garment landed in a fabric heap on the floor. He had been so preoccupied by his thoughts that he hadn't even taken note of his surroundings. He turned slowly to scan the room.

The chair was upended and lying on the other side of the room. Its seat cushion had been slashed open, the stuffing pulled out. The couch and other chairs had been similarly gutted. Framed pictures had been pulled from the walls; they lay in piles of shattered glass. The backing had been stripped from each of them.

"What the hell…?" Stan gasped in disbelief. Standing in the middle of the room, he turned in a slow circle, taking in the full extent of the vandalism. Stunned at what he was seeing in the living room, he reversed his course and moved toward the kitchen. Here the cupboards and cabinets had been fully cleared, their contents strewn about the room. In the hallway, the carpet had been torn from the flooring. A similar scene awaited him in the bedroom. Before checking the rest of the damage, he stepped into the bathroom that was located off the master bedroom. After running the water as cold as he could get it, he splashed it on his face liberally, gasping at the sudden shock of it. But it had the desired effect, breaking him out of his stupour.

He stood with his hands braced on either edge of the sink, highly aware of how unsettled his stomach was feeling. After giving it a few seconds to calm down, he reached for a towel and dried his face. It was of little reassurance that this room had gone relatively unscathed. Only a few things had been cleared from the cupboards. The mirror hadn't been broken. His watch lay on the counter –

His gold watch. He had left it there after opting not to wear it to his meeting with Stinnett. And there it lay still. This was no ordinary robbery. He had known that in his gut right from the start, but the proof lay here before him. The intruders had been looking for something specific. Contingency plan, a voice seemed to whisper in his head. Simmons' thugs had beaten him to his own house. But did they find…?

For the second time that day, his feet were carrying him at full speed before he was conscious of having told them to do so. He raced back down the hallway, then took the stairs two at a time to the lower level. He was wrestling with mounting panic as he burst into the den, launched himself across the room, and came to a sliding halt in front of a tall wooden cabinet. Under happier circumstances, he might have thrown his arms out to either side and proclaimed himself "safe", but at this moment safe was about the last thing he was feeling.

The bottom of the cabinet stood about eight inches off the floor. A carved decorative edging on the front left about four inches of clearance from the ground. This required Stan to slide his hand under the edging, and then reach upward toward the underside of the cabinet. Unable to see what he was doing, he groped along the under surface of the cabinet, searching for the trigger mechanism that would open the small trap door that was located there. Only one thought filled his mind. Please let it still be there, please.But his probing fingers couldn't find the mark.

No, he suddenly reminded himself, it's further back. He thrust his arm deeper into the blackness. Over on the right hand si—

"Agghhhhhh!"

The scream that burst from his lungs was an instant and involuntary response to a current of agony that suddenly spiked up the length of his arm. He yanked his arm out from under the cabinet, his eyes widening in horror at what he saw. Deep furrows had been scored into his flesh all the way up to his elbow. They started to bleed freely, coating his arm in crimson. He gaped uncomprehendingly at the sight.

Instinct then took over, and without rising from a sitting position, he scuttled backwards on hands and feet, away from the cabinet. Once he had gotten some distance away, he collapsed on to the floor. His breath was coming in shallow gasps, and he was starting to shake from the shock of the surprise assault. He clutched his injured arm tightly against himself.

My God, they booby-trapped it, he thought incredulously. Not only did they get to it, but they rigged it with some kind of weapon.

He started to examine the full extent of the injury to his arm, but then promptly froze as a low, unearthly squalling sound started to spill out from under the cabinet. It made the hair on the back of his neck rise, but as he listened to the alien sound, understanding came. Staying at a safe distance, he lowered his head almost to the ground, and peered into the shadows under the cabinet. Two gold discs reflected brightly in the blackness, the wide eyes of a thoroughly terrified Dewey. His ears were laid flat against his head, and his lips were drawn back in a warning hiss that clearly showed that he meant business.

Stan sat up again, relieved to feel his tensed muscles relax just a little. Dewey had done a number on his arm, but at least now he knew he was only dealing with a frightened feline. But he also knew that that in itself could be a formidable force, and he wisely kept his distance. He could sympathize with the animal's plight. Dewey had probably tried to hide – wedging himself under the cabinet – when the intruders had broken in and started to ransack the house. But what Simmons' men were looking for was hidden in the exact spot where the hapless cat had taken refuge. Had they managed to get to the compartment under the cabinet? Or had Dewey successfully driven them off, too, in the same manner he had done with Stan? He could only hope so.

He shifted himself along the floor, back toward the cabinet again. Immediately, the low warning squall resumed, steadily rising in pitch, banshee-like. Stan wasn't about to do anything foolish. He wanted – in the worst way – to check the compartment, but he wasn't going to tangle with a scared cat in order to do it. He had learned his lesson; now he'd be patient.

He spoke soothingly to Dewey, giving him a chance to recognize a familiar and friendly voice. Then he placed his non-bloodied hand flat on the floor just in front of the cabinet. At first, this caused Dewey to redouble his efforts in warning the intruder off – hissing and squalling – but after a minute or two the outburst subsided, and all was silent. Stan remained still, not forcing the issue, but simply waiting.

It took another five minutes. Then Stan sensed movement just beyond the cabinet's decorative edging. A dark coloured nose poked tentatively from the shadows out into the light. One front paw emerged, then another. Moving slowly and tensely, Dewey squeezed the rest of himself from his hiding spot. Stan resisted the urge to reach under the cabinet right away; there were formalities to be taken care of.

Dewey was sniffing the air, still sensing the now-departed intruders. A low, guttural growling from deep in his throat expressed his uncertainty and fear. Stan held a hand out toward him, causing the agitated cat to stiffen and take a startled step backward. Almost immediately, he moved forward again, rubbing his whiskers against Stan's outstretched hand, in a peace gesture. He seemed to be starting to understand that his territory, so abruptly and violently invaded, was now safe again. Stan wished he could feel the same way.

Approaching cautiously, Dewey then inspected the shredded flesh on Stan's arm, recognizing it as his own handiwork. He backed off a step or two, casting a baleful and guilty look up at Stan. Stan reached out and scratched gently behind the cat's ears.

"It's okay, Dew," he said softly. "You were scared. You didn't know it was me."

He examined the wounds in his arm. He'd have to make sure they were well cleaned and disinfected. But first things first. Once more, he slid his arm into the shadows and felt along the underside of the cabinet. Eventually, he located the trigger mechanism. As he applied pressure to it, the compartment's cover clattered to the floor. The items inside had been stored so that they wouldn't fall out if the cover was removed. Stan had to stretch a little further yet to get his hand right into the compartment. With some effort, he managed to do so.

The compartment was empty, its valuable contents gone. Stan ran his hand across the surface and around the full perimeter of the small space, but he knew he would find nothing. The leather strapping which suspended the items, holding them in place when the cover was removed, had been ripped right out; only frayed edges remained. The computer disk – gone. The video of Reese's encounter with the Terminator – gone. Even the small plastic case containing the blood-spattered shards of glass had been taken. He pulled his arm out from under the cabinet, then slumped back against the wall, dazed.

"Neutralized," he said out loud, his tone flat and expressionless. The fur on Dewey's back and neck bristled nervously at the unexpected sound of his voice.

He had been left with nothing. Any evidence of wrong-doing by Cyberdyne Systems, any proof of mission-programmed cyborgs had been effectively eliminated. Simmons had won this battle. Cyberdyne's owner had found out about the information that Alex had entrusted to him. It was possible that he had always known. He had simply bided his time, waiting for the right moment to reclaim his property. And that moment was now.

There would be no documentary exposing Cyberdyne's goals and the dangers associated with them, nor would the ruthless manner in which they tried to achieve those goals be brought to light. No source material meant no story. It also meant that if Cyberdyne managed to recover from Sarah's attack, the company would be free to resume its steady march toward the planet's doom. And there was nothing he could do about it.

He drew Dewey into his arms now, stroking the cat's soft fur and speaking soothingly to calm him. He was fully aware that he was seeking comfort and reassurance every bit as much as he was offering it. He sat that way for a very long time, staring at nothing, blood drying on his ruined skin, wondering what he should do now.

And listening as Alex' prophetic words about Cyberdyne Systems rang in his head: Don't you see? They know everything. And what they don't know they find out.

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xxx (End Chapter 8) xxx