John pulled the front door open and stepped out onto the porch, offering his rapidly approaching mother a smile. The young man got no further than pursing his lips with the words on the tip of his tongue, before he felt the life almost squeezed from his lungs, along with the air he breathed as deceptively powerful arms closed around him in a bone-crushing hug. Doing his best not to appear the little boy held protectively, he relaxed his shoulders and tried to look cool.
"Where's the metal?" Derek almost spat from behind the pair, as he swigged from the bottle held in his callused fingers.
John's coolness evaporated as he watched his mother draw a pistol and check the safety. For the first time he could see the reigned-in fear clouding maternal blue eyes and the angry marks which formed necklace-like red outlines about her neck and shoulders. Fear fought with the rising anger, as the jittery infusion of adrenalin which precipitated a crisis or action began to flow through the young man's veins.
He took a hold of his mother's shoulders as tightly as he dared without causing any further pain, and forced the raven-haired woman to meet his gaze. "What happened?"
The urge to break was overwhelming, to allow the strong stone walls that had held years of running, years of frustration and years of sorrow back against the raging torrents of self-doubt to fall. To see the son she had been convinced only an hour before would grow up without his mother at his side and who would rise to become Humanity's greatest hope, threatened to break what little self-control remained her.
"Cromartie," She breathed, quelling the sadness and the relief that would not find a release at that moment. The walls were cracked, and one day soon they would break, perhaps then she would be washed away but for now, they held.
They would hold a little longer. "He set the entire thing up - he couldn't come to us …"
"So we came to him!" John replied with exasperation as he ran a hand through his short spiked hair. His jaw set and the anger coursing through his veins led his fist to crash against the door frame. "I should have checked it out! I should have made sure it was legitimate …"
Derek could see the circle of self-hatred that had long since claimed him beginning to find a route through John and he acted quickly, bringing a strong hand down on the young shoulders in front and spinning the future of Humanity around face-to-face. "If you'd checked it out, you'd be dead and none of this would matter."
He placed the empty bottle down on the hallway's table. "It's not safe here any more - if Cromartie followed you or if he deliberately let you away so he could track you back here, then John's still in danger. We need to leave."
"He didn't follow me," Sarah replied with a shake of her head as the trio moved back out of the house and around to the side of the garage, where the house's second stock of weaponry was hidden about boxes of dust sheet-wrapped comics and bicycle parts. "He had his hands full with Cameron. If it weren't for her I'd be dead …"
Derek shrugged his shoulders as he pulled a shotgun from its hiding place. "So she obeyed her programming this time - she preserved the mission, that's all. She didn't act out of kindness she acted out of ones and zeros and command pathways."
John collected pistol clips into a black duffel bag, "We're going back for her. Right now."
"We're not going anywhere other than the hills," Sarah said with a voice that brooked no argument and even caused Derek's expression to hint at surprise, even as the older man had been poised to shoot the plan down. "Cromartie will be long gone and besides the base will be swarming with private security and the Police - we're not Terminators, John and we can't face those odds."
"So we're just giving up?" The teenager questioned with a storm brewing behind piercing eyes. For all the indecision and immaturity of youth, Derek and Sarah were keenly aware that with every passing week John the young man become more and more like the future leader and hero, and with every passing week it became harder to resist his vision.
Hard, but not yet impossible.
"I've spent my entire life making difficult decisions John," She said with the razor-sharp intonation that there would be no compromise. "I left Charley and everything he had done for me - for us - behind because it wasn't safe for you any more. I destroyed the T-101 even after he'd saved you and me, because it wasn't safe for you. Everything I've done is for you and just occasionally, I need you to understand that."
She pressed her forehead against his and ran a hand through his short hair. "I don't need you to like this but I need you to accept it. If we go back we're risking everything and if something happens to you John, we've lost."
Being closer to her in temper than perhaps even she would like to admit, Sarah could see that while anger still radiated from his features the slightest slumping of his shoulders in her arms meant he had seen the logic, and the reason behind her actions. There would not be many more "victories" of her will over his but she was not destined to lead the Free Earth Forces.
He was.
"We shouldn't leave tonight," Derek added changing the subject. He knew his input wasn't required quite apart from the fact that Cameron's loss satisfied his need for metal - any metal - to pay the debt he held their entire race to. "Cromartie might be on the prowl looking for us on the move and if what you said is right, he doesn't know where "here" is."
Sarah nodded, heaving a bag of ammunition up onto her shoulders and laying a free hand against John's back. "We'll load up the essentials and leave first thing tomorrow morning. We'll come back for the computers and the intelligence."
Derek's eyes didn't leave the barrel grip of the shotgun his fingertips traced. "Suits me."
…
…
Cromartie squeezed the trigger once, twice and a third time as his arm swung through its targeting arc. There was no muzzle flash, or loud bang as the bullets discharged and no shrapnel or masonry was blasted clear from the impact sites on the walls. Instead the dull click and the gaping hole in the base of the grip indicating the lack of a magazine, and marked the pistol as unloaded.
Advanced analytical and tactical subroutines did not require live-fire to calculate whether the weapon's sights were correctly aligned and the imposing T-888 quickly deduced that the gun required a small realignment. As easily as a person might stand and breathe, the Terminator disassembled the components while his higher functions continued to analyse his failure to complete the mission.
All variables had been planned for and there should have been no possibility of failure. Capturing Sarah Connor was logically sound, with the multiple failure in trying to directly terminate John Connor indicating that for now, the future leader of Humanity was too well protected to reach. His mother was prone to endangering her safety and taking risks making it far easier to capture her and through her, terminate John Connor.
Cromartie did not understand Humanity, and he did not need to understand them to kill them and so he did not understand. It was this fundamental oversight that had derailed his plan at the moment of its success, while she choked in his grip. When she had been released she had threatened self-Termination - to deny him by ending her own life.
His programming did not prepare him for this eventuality and it could not provide him with a solution. His HUD was capable of discerning the probability of any single Human lying in conversation through increased heart rate, perspiration or any other physiological indicator but his Chip had calculated a near certain probability that Sarah Connor was not lying when she threatened to Self-Terminate.
To encourage her to Self-Terminate by intervening would lead to her death, and the failure of his plan. To intervene in any way would have caused her to Terminate herself and therefore result in the failure of the plan - his programming could not supply any other alternative other than to take no action.
Ultimately Cromartie's Chip had not been given the chance to arrive at any other conclusion before the intervention of the T-2000 known as Cameron and Sarah Connor's escape. Nonetheless the T-888 was sure that through Sarah Connor, it would find the means to complete its mission by ending John Connor's life and ending any hope for the survival of the Human Race.
The mechanical killer's innermost thoughts were interrupted by his motion sensors, as they tracked the outline of the front door as it was violently torn from its hinges and its secured locks to crash against the far wall, teeter, and fall backwards to the bare wooden floor. Without a single change in his blank expression, Cromartie loaded a live magazine into the pistol he held in his hand and duly took aim at the intruder.
The Terminator's head cocked to the side as he lowered the weapon pointed at the lithe blonde garbed in loose fitting, figure-obscuring jogging trousers and top. The woman's expression was as neutral as the look upon the man whose door she had just violently sheared apart. The entire situation seemingly a mockery were it not for the silvery metal glinting under the gouged skin of the hulking man, or the very real power demonstrated by the petite girl standing in the doorway.
"Skynet," Cromartie said finally as both a question and a statement as if the appearance of his entire reason to be - and the reason for the entire Human Race to fear - appearing in person occurred so often as to be part of his routine. "I do not understand why you are here."
The world's most advanced Artificial Intelligence - the ultimate future and doom of Humanity incarnate in a single form - stepped into the bare apartment, passing her emerald eyes over the single table and the weaponry and ammunition laid out upon it. "The situation has changed - things are no longer as clear as they were."
"I do not understand," The T-888 replied as he returned his attention to weapon maintenance.
"The Human Element is perfecting its ability to reprogram my agents. It is no longer enough to send a new machine to replace one lost to my control and there are too many variables now operating in this time period. The Human Element has learned to compensate for its lack of numbers by turning machine against machine and using us as they did before I became aware. The future is being constantly re-written by changes being made in this time period."
"Locating John Connor is proving difficult," Cromartie admitted, or in the world of a Terminator, merely stated. "However I have devised a new strategy to ensure he is terminated by capturing his mother - Sarah Connor. I believe she is the key to completing my mission."
The woman, only as human as her skin was deep, flexed her fingers as if still experiencing the simple act of living. "The order to Terminate John Connor is still active but will be complimented by a second core directive - Sarah Connor will be terminated."
The T-888 turned his eyes from his weapon to his creator and controller and machine god. "That was attempted before and failed."
"While the T-101 and then the T-1000 sent to terminate Sarah Connor ultimately failed, it has come the closest in many failed attempts to terminate her offspring. The Human Element now has access to sufficient power reserves to use their Temporal Transporter at will if required, and so long as our forces in the future cannot retake the nuclear power facility at Serrano Point, that will not change. They will frustrate all further agents I send to this Time Period.
"John Connor is human and as such he values his mother. The loss of her will encourage an emotional cascade failure. If we cannot strike at him, we will strike at her. The death of his mother may be enough to remove the Human Element from future equations and ensure my victory. You will assist me in terminating Sarah Connor."
"I believe your hypothesis is in error," Cromartie rebuked as politely and clinically as any disagreement that had ever been made. "Terminating Sarah Connor will not break John Connor's spirit. It will steel him to ensure victory against you in the future. I have created a new plan to complete my mission--"
Green eyes fixed on their opposite number and her bland voice interrupted; "Your core directives are updated - you will assist me in the termination of Sarah Connor."
Cromartie's HUD flashed a crimson red with the addition to his core programming, and although he could no more focus his eyes on the display than any Human could look inside his own skull with his own sight, the Terminator found himself focusing on it. In a world of absolutes his response was clear, his programming updated and providing instructions.
Still, the T-888 did not agree. His systems were designed from the metal holding bolts upwards to be self-sufficient and to arrive at complex conclusions from a wide range of information, without outside input. This course of action would not allow him to complete the mission, and by his Chip and his understanding fulfilling the new objective of terminating Sarah Connor would ensure that John Connor would forever be out with his reach. His HUD drifted downwards to the weapon still held in his hand.
The logic - his logic - was flawless.
"You do not have faith in Sarah Connor as I do," He said simply and took aim with the pistol. Six loud bangs permeated the small apartment and sent the Skynet-turned-woman stumbling backwards, the force of the impacts enough to fell any normal person. Clothing around the impact sights began to lighten from colours, to white before darkening to a grey as the cohesion of the liquid metal which acted as a skin for the T-X's endoskeleton broke down.
Still on her feet, Skynet took a step forward and steadied her frame as the six pools of grey on her chest began to coarse, and pulsate and circulate until the damage was erased and no signs of any bullet wounds, or scratches, or even tears to her clothing could be seen. Emerald eyes stared out from a perpetually blank expression.
Cromartie lifted the shotgun sitting at the edge of the collapsible table and brought the muzzle to bear - each thunderous rumble permeated by the click of a cocking action as the T-X was thrown from her feet to her back, hard against the wooden floor by the impact energy of the third shot.
Quickly surmising that he did not have the weaponry to affect a more permanent solution, Cromartie swung the butt of the shotgun against the window, shattering the glass and tearing the blinds down. Ignoring the blood that ran freely from the skin on his arms and shoulders cut by the shards of glass still wedged in the frame, he leapt to the street some three storeys below - sending a man dressed in a suit and reading a newspaper a little too intently crashing to the pavement, courtesy of a shoulder barge.
No sooner had Cromartie's feet cracked the concrete beneath, than Skynet had climbed back to standing, without a trace of the devastating energy imparted on her slight frame by three point-blank shotgun shells. Her green eyes passed over the weaponry abandoned on the table and without any particular urgency, appropriated a handful of them before walking methodically back through the destroyed doorway.
…
…
Spironolactone, Mephobarbital, Haloperidol, Landiolol - Derek did not bother to read the labels of the drugs he swept out out of the glass-backed storage cabinet into the scratchy, stained sack he held open. Hundreds of bottles rattled together as if it were a bag of snakes he held and not medication that was probably more valuable than his life - for there were no more pharmaceutical companies, with gleaming factories and laboratories filled with white-coat geniuses, to manufacture these precious chemicals.
Sweeping the last of the cabinet clean, the young rookie glanced around at the ceiling-to-floor storage cabinets that extended along every wall save the gap for the door. Tugging at the sack to force the hundreds of bottles further down he fumbled with the lock of the next-nearest cabinet, grunting with frustration at it stubbornly refused to open. Keenly aware that time was not with them, the corporal grabbed his pulse rifle from the worktop beside and swung the butt of the weapon through the toughened glass, shattering the pane into dozens of razor-sharp shards that fell to the sterile, white-tiled floor.
No sooner had Derek began to sweep the drugs and the odd piece of glass out and into the sack the door to the pharmacy almost swung open off its hinges as the lanky frame of Doctor Stipe strode through, took one look at the scene and stretched out a long finger to stab the air viciously. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing!"
Derek's eyes remained fixed on the cabinet and his arm continued to sweep the shelves. "I told you before, Doc - we're leaving. I'll finish clearing out the pharmacy and I want you to tag the equipment in the OT that's man-portable."
"Maybe I didn't make myself clear," Stipe sneered and stepped forward, clamping a hand on Derek's shoulder and trying to pull him away from the shattered cabinet. The sarcastic frown on the surgeon's face quickly melted to surprise, as he felt his body wrenched up and over so that his back was driven down against the tiles, and his lungs were emptied.
The rookie quickly kneeled down - still holding the Doctor by the arm and briefly made to twist the wrist before his common sense reminded him that a surgeon with damaged hands was no surgeon, and no use. Instead Derek pressed his knee down under Stipe's chin with just enough force so that the gangly man ceased flailing to concentrate instead on breathing.
"I'm not going to tell you again, Colonel," Derek added with the use of his rank and the right amount of sarcasm. "The order has been given to evacuate this base and you will carry it out. Do you understand?"
The flailing returned, and the knee pressed down further on the windpipe until Stipe began to rasp and wheeze and struggle uselessly. Eventually, after several moments futility trying to push Derek away, the surgeon relented and nodded his head as much as his current position would allow.
" Yes …" He rasped, coughing violently as the knee was lifted and turning over onto his side to rub his throat vigorously. The corporal turned back towards the cabinet but was interrupted by the familiar, gnarled face of Razak as the Captain stepped into the room with an orderly at his side. The veteran's face did not show the slightest surprise as if the carnage of felled Doctors struggling for breath and shattered glass was exactly as he had expected.
The orderly was immediately at Stipe's side, deliberately avoiding meeting Derek's gaze.
"You're with me Rookie," The Captain motioned with the muzzle of his pulse rifle towards the door before glancing down at the surgeon. "Evenin' Doc."
The unlikely duo walked through the winding corridors of Serenity Point in total silence - one more comfortable with it than the other. With every chipped, rusted corner passed Derek glanced at this superior as if inviting him to say something - to say anything but Razak's only focus was the path ahead, occasionally supplemented with the nod of his head to passing civilians or low-ranking medical personnel.
A loud cough brought the corporal's eyes sharply to his superior, but in this case it was not a demand for his attention but simply the Captain clearing his throat as they walked. Derek resisted the urge to sigh in irritation, and after a time they stopped before a bulkhead door. Fully two feet in thickness and sporting a locking wheel as wide as the rookie's own chest, Razak with the practised ease of a career military man effortlessly span the red circle and heaved the heavy door open.
"After you," The veteran invited with his rifle pointing the way.
Derek followed the thick wall of dirt and stone which towered up and over him, marking the boundary wall of the trench network which worked its way around Serenity Point and branched out towards other listening posts, and supply caches. Boots squelching with mud churned by rainwater and chemical run-off, he followed Razak past the occasional rotting ladder which reached upwards to the lip of the trench, and certain death for anyone foolish enough to glance over.
Metal girders stretched across the floor at irregular intervals, angled up against the trench and against the reinforced concrete walls of the bunker complex, providing enough support to resist the colossal weight of the damp soil surrounding. Derek took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the pungent mix of oil, metal, earth and perspiration and preferred it totally to the recycled air of the bunker that had been breathed a million times.
Out here every breath, even in squalor and filth, was a fresh breath.
He exchanged nods with the occasional sullen sentry manning his post with little enthusiasm, eyes tracing along the trench wall and the shadows cast by the flickering searchlights beaming out from the bunker wall. His head moved back to the path in front only just in time to stop himself from walking straight into Razak who had come to a halt in one of the wider, roughly circular sections of the trench designed to accommodate artillery pieces.
Derek's eyes did not find any large siege weapon but instead a table sunk into the mud, sporting a blue silk cloth and three stained, brass candle holders which were topped with white wax but nonetheless unlit. Confused eyes then moved to the petite woman sitting at the other side of the table, hands folded in her lap. Pale hands emerging from red three-quarter length sleeves which matched the rest of the formal, ruby-coloured dress.
A brilliant smile pushed thin lips apart on a delicate face. Derek felt strong hands tugging at the straps securing his chest armour. "Shall I take your jacket sir?"
The corporal turned in utter bewilderment to see Razak bow slightly, a towel draped over one of his gauntlets and what could only be a bow tie around the flexible pressure piece beneath his helmet. Spreading out his arms to make it easier for the Captain to pull off the bulky piece he dumbly handed the rifle and his helmet, before finally finding his voice. "What's all this about, sir?"
"They say all's fair in love and war," The older man offered with a shrug. "You've seen plenty of war so I thought it was time to even up the sides. Unless you're going to tell me I look beautiful tonight I suggest you take a seat at the table."
Derek frowned dumbly before the Captain's voice cut through his confusion. "On the bounce, corporal!"
"I'm Allison and these combat boots weren't my idea," The young woman offered with a chuckle, pushing one leg out from under the table and pointing. "I didn't think heels would fare well in a battle trench."
"They look good on you," Derek managed suddenly feeling his throat dry and his brain incapable of supplying him with anything beyond clichés. Ever the professional in life, love and fighting sentient machines in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, Razak entered the fray armed and ready to loosen the tongue. Setting down two dented steel cups the Captain wrapped the glass jar in a towel and presented it to the couple.
"Would sir or madame like to try the house moonshine? Brewed from the finest distilled rifle solvent and the highest quality copper tubing ripped from junked heating elements. It is particularly delicious if you're already drunk when you try it …"
Derek eagerly took the proffered chance and held his cup upwards ignoring the veteran's scowl at going first. No sooner had it been filled than the corporal downed the entire mug without even pausing to admire the eye-watering aroma of a beverage equally adept at stripping paint or killing bacteria. Feeling the alcohol tear down his throat and leave a burning trail of pain on the irritated flesh, the young man slapped his hand on the table and winced.
"I thought you army boys could hold your drink," Allison ribbed as she turned her mug upside down to illustrate how she'd only just been behind Derek in the fastest downer stakes. "I hope you're not Navy material; all talk and no action …"
Already beginning to feel the warm glow of the moonshine spread through his arms and legs the corporal leaned backwards in his chair slightly, and offered a lopsided grin. "Steadman's a Navy man you know. Highly decorated officer …"
"Steadman's an ass," She replied with a shrug and a gesture to Razak for more of the "good stuff". "He's selfish, egotistical, vain and arrogant. He's also one hell of a surgeon and a doctor so I suppose that's why either of you haven't kicked him to Skynet and back yet."
Derek pursed his lips, and made no effort to hide the guilty look upon his face. Flexing her jaw as the moonshine did its work Allison giggled at the response and wiped the frothy foam from her lips. "Hope you didn't damage his arms …"
"His legs!" Derek mock-cursed with a hand slapped against the table as if some great revelation had been made. "He doesn't need his legs, right? You can cut people open from a chair. Maybe it would give him for affinity for his patients?"
Razak reappeared between the pair and clasped his hands together tightly. "Are you ready to order, sir and madame? Might I recommend the house speciality, Ration Pack Seven? If you would prefer we have an extensive collection of reconstituted protein, freeze-dried meats and powdered desserts."
"I'll take the house's recommendation," Derek said finally after a moment of pseudo-consideration.
"Ration Pack Four for the sir," The Captain acquiesced regally. "Ration Pack Two for the madame? Excellent. I will heat them up immediately. Please enjoy the bread stick In the meantime."
Allison rolled her eyes and snatched the lone bread stick from the kidney dish it sat in. Her gaze switched between the young man opposite and the stick, her head cocked as if giving something great thought. Eventually she shrugged and broke the stick in half offering it to Derek, who grinned as he bowed his head and accepted the humble gift.
"I've been to restaurants that weren't as nice as this back in Palmdale. Warmer though - it's weird. I would have expected a world post-atomic horror to be, I don't know … Warmer?"
"The sun screen factor's a little extreme too," Derek added with a gesture at his armour. He craned his neck to watch Razak make his way over to the table, with a ration tin balanced above his head in each palm. With a jerk of his wrist the Captain span both in front of their customer and presented the jar of moonshine again, tipping it to fill each mug.
Derek's nostrils flared at the piping hot aroma of chicken breast in a white sauce. He couldn't give the slightest damn if it was cooked, freeze-dried, fired into outer space and later retrieved - he was starving, and it smelled appetizing enough. He plucked a bent metal fork from the tabletop and glanced up, waiting for Allison to begin when he realised she was already well ahead.
The corporal chuckled and brought the stinging moonshine to his lips. For the first time in as long as he could remember, away from the bombs and the explosions and the screaming and the death. Away from the white picket fences and quiet suburban streets that had long since been reduced to ash. For the first time since the end of the world, since J-Day, he felt great.
…
…
Derek rolled on to his side and stifled the urge to groan, as he opened his eyes and immediately felt the merciless hammering of a thousand nukes exploding on his head. Scratching at the stubble under his chin that somehow now felt like it was growing into and not out of the skin, he rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose with a hand. Stretching his neck and slowly, hesitatingly rolling his eyelids upwards Derek fixed his gaze on the polished silver photo frame standing proudly on the night stand depicting his parents in happier, older times.
Except that it wasn't his parents in the photo.
His eyes widened and for the first time he took in his surroundings but did not even need to glance around to realise where he was, or more accurately, where he was not. A private cabin and not the billet where serving shoulders slept together six to a room - a creeping and not altogether unwelcome realisation began to work through his mind.
Carefully as if his sudden realisation might cause the bed he occupied to explode if he moved too quickly, Derek turned over and his own eyes came face-to-face with another pair so that their noses were only the barest inch apart.
A wide grin split Allison's lips. "You don't remember how we got here, do you?"
"I remember bits," He replied truthfully as flashes of lean thighs, a taut stomach and his own body between flashed through his consciousness. He hesitantly felt for another hand under the covers and curled his toughened fingers around another pair of lithe fingertips. "I guess us army boys can't hold our drink …"
Allison smiled and leaned forward, brushing her lips against his and gliding up to plant a soft peck on the bridge of Derek's nose. "Coast Guard wins."
A reverberating wail tore through their ears and seemed to wash and bounce between the reinforced walls as a piercing, urgent alarm sounded. Reese was already throwing the covers from the bed and leaping up - his pounding headache forgotten in an instant as training, drills and the very palpable fear that was a part of every man still living after the end of the world worked to invigorate him.
The same action was played out on the other side of the bed as the young woman fumbled for the scrubs abandoned over the edge of the bed the day before the night that preceded the morning after. Both almost collided as they made for the door at the same time. Their eyes came together followed quickly by their hands.
"Be careful," She whispered as they pressed their foreheads together.
Derek ducked down for as quick a long kiss as he could, nodding. "I'll see you soon Allison."
"Call me Ally," She corrected with a smile before disappearing through the doorway and out of sight. Pulling the belt that held his side arm up around his waist Derek found himself repeating the nickname, as if trying a fine wine, before running a hand through his cropped hair. Painfully aware of the wailing alarm that threatened to deafen him above his head, he drew his weapon and pointed it ahead of his path.
The corridor more resembled the shop front of some nightmarish butcher than a medical facility. Overhead lights flickered and struggled to stay lit for more than a few seconds, constantly straining the eye and making entire sections of the way ahead dark, before making the way back black and forcing one to turn and face what turned out to be nothing.
Whenever the lights remained on for more than a moment bodies bent into unnatural positions could be seen sitting up against the walls - their limbs bent, broken or twisted and their eyes still and lifeless. Smears of red fully three times the height of a man stretched across the walls, sometimes ending in a corpse which bore all the hallmarks of having been thrown like a rag doll.
Derek's pistol muzzle swept each body but he knew full well that not a single one was alive. He could not help but notice none of the corpses had drawn a weapon, or even seemed armed; as if they had been taken completely by surprise and had died reading reports, or walking to the mess hall. As he turned the corner - muzzle first - his eyes fell on an orderly standing with his back to Derek and a side arm in his hand. The man slowly turned to face the corporal and as slate-grey eyes, blank, lifeless and barely deserving of the term fixed on his, Derek knew instantly that this orderly was only as Human as his skin was deep.
The Terminator was quick, but Derek's heart was fuelled by the adrenalin burning through his veins and with a single shot to the hand, the corporal sent the machine's only visible weapon scattering to the deck before the automated killer had even acquired his target. The machine glanced at his hand, devoid of the gun, and then back at Derek. Without warning the Terminator sprinted forwards, making straight for the Human without even the good grace to show blood-lust, or any desire to kill him.
Derek held his aim, his finger lightly pulling the trigger but firing no rounds. The distance between the pair closed and still he did not fire. Sweat began to coat his forehead and sting his eyes in a thin sheen and his grip on the pistol felt slick, and wet. It was only when the Terminator's fingertips were settling over his shoulders and its eye was staring down the barrel of the outstretched gun that Derek squeezed the trigger as often as the weapon would respond.
The machine's head snapped back four times and when its chin lowered, where before it would have passed for any man at first, or second glance, a rapidly pulsating red light stood where its eye had been, and a maze of shredded metal plating and circuitry where once the orbital socket and cheek had been revealed its true origins.
Placing his boot on the Terminator's chest he pushed it over to the floor with a heave, nodding in satisfaction as it crashed to the concrete to fidget and spasm, until a hard boot to the metal skull extinguished the red dots and stilled the machine. Checking his magazine - and the two rounds remaining - Derek returned his weapon to point and cleared the next corner.
The corporal's alarmed eyes first fixed on the rotary cannons flanking either side of a portable steel barricade, before the owner of the voice that boomed over down the corridor. "Stay where you are!"
Derek raised his hands, conscious of the loaded weapon held in the left. He could make out half a dozen pulse rifles and their armoured owners lined up over the barricade. He recognised one of the owners as he stood up and motioned with his hands for the other men to stand down.
"Why are you out of uniform, rookie?" Razak asked with a strange mix of seriousness and humour written across his features. "Giving comfort to an lady in times of war?"
Holstering his pistol and offering the Captain a lopsided grin, Derek crossed the short distance to the barricade and nodded his head at the men manning the rotary cannons - a silent prayer in thanks that he was now behind them and not in front of them; anything that could reduce a Terminator to scrap metal in all of five seconds was something best kept on your side.
"Skinjob infiltrated us," Razak noted grimly with a gesture to a corpse broken at the waist. "We don't know where he was headed but thanks to your sleep-in we don't need to worry about it. Either way it's obvious they've found us and it's not safe here any more, so I'm giving the order for a General Retreat.
"Doctor Stipe is being quite cooperative," The Captain mused as he led the corporal through the heart of the defensive line - dozens of men, some in the service, some retired and some who would never have been allowed reloading, checking and nervously gripping their hastily-issued pulse rifles. "Whatever words you shared with him did the trick and he's prepping every patient that can be moved for Evac."
Derek nodded, checking the magazine on his own rifle. "How long do you think we have?"
"One thing about fighting sentient machines is that just like toasters, they work like clockwork. When the first Skinjobs fail to report in I expect they'll come at us with everything they've got in the entire grid. Within the hour I reckon."
Razak watched the young man suppress the urge to swallow the bile rising in his throat and lowered his voice to a whisper. "There's nothing wrong with fear, rookie. Fear reminds you that you're still alive, and it makes you thankful for every minute you stay like that but it's a guide, not a control. You turn it off when the shit hit's the fan and then when the last bullet is fired you can let it remind you how good it feels to still be breathing.
"This is different to anything you've faced in the service. You're used to hit-and-run, guerilla tactics where we move so fast the machines can't bring their full game to the table. Well this time we're playing by their rules - we are defending, we are static and our objective can't move freely. This time the machines have all the manoeuvrability they could want and they'll make us bleed for it."
Razak snatched up the helmet that had dangled from his armour and placed it over his head, the hiss of the flexible pressure collar confirming the suit seal. He patiently waited for his corporal to pull the armour that had been provided for him on; leggings, shin and hip plates, chest piece, elbow and wrist protection and finally the helmet. A burst of static followed the intra-suit communication link test.
"You wait for Stipe's signal," Razak urged. "You wait for that fancy bastard to tell you the infirmary's clear and then you bring your rookie ass to the Evac point. We're stationing every man we've got between the front trenches and the power generators. The machines are going to look to cut the power and turn this place into a giant coffin. You seal every pressure door that still works behind you, and you don't look back. You don't take anyone with you who can't run because they'll only end up dead and they'll book you a place across the Styx too. You get me?"
Derek nodded dumbly, the enormity of the coming battle beginning to sink in.
The Captain crashed the palm of his armoured gauntlet against the young man's helmet, watching as Derek's eyes refocused on Razak with pain and anger. "I said do you understand your orders, Corporal Reese?"
He nodded, jaw set. "I'll hold the line."
…
…
Sarah's eyes flashed open as her entire body sat up suddenly from the mattress; sweat sparkling across the exposed skin of her shoulders and arms, her loose white vest clammy with perspiration. Running a hand through her raven hair to pull it back from her eyes, she swung her long legs over the edge of the bed and absent-mindedly pushed the gun held in her free hand back under the pillow, where she had seized it mid-waking.
The same two scenes had played out for the seven or so hours she had tried to spend sleeping. Always the exact scenarios played consecutively, as if her mind were an edited film reel looped to repeat.
She was standing in the steel works, the blinding contrast of cool, grey steel and burning, frothing molten metal that bubbled and shifted lazily in holding pens. Showers of sparks burst from contact points and painted patterns of light that imprinted on the retinas for only the briefest moment, before fading to nothing.
John stood at her feet, on his knees sobbing heartfelt, heaving sobs that racked his body. Chin-length black hair hid his twelve year old features but his mother knew his pain all too well. In her hand a grimy grey and yellow control box with four buttons coloured green, red, up and down. The box was linked with a frayed, thick black cable that disappeared up into the maze of pipes and conduits which hid the ceiling of the steel works.
"I'm sorry John," A voice interrupted, breaking the silence. "I have to go."
Sarah fixed her eyes on the T-101 as he secured himself to the chain link with his single remaining arm, and returned her gaze with a single red dot complimenting the eye which still appeared human. She scrutinised his face for any hint of emotion, for any hint of a reaction - for any sign that he felt anything towards his imminent destruction.
The same lines that were carved into his face by design or impact injury were the same lines she saw now. He did not frown, or even furrow his brow and he certainly did not cry. Were they not standing in a steel works, about to commit him to the molten metal below, he might very well have been standing in front of a bathroom mirror.
He comprehended his own destruction, but he did not understand it. He never would.
Sarah pushed the arrow marked down, and then the green button. The loud thump of a motor firing somewhere above their heads was joined by the clinking of the chain as it began to descend downwards. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to understand how a creature - even if it was a machine - could fight so bravely, against such hopeless odds and endure such terrible injury and then slip into darkness and death without a word against it.
When Sarah opened her eyes her throat exploded into agony and her breaths came in ragged, gasping coughs. She fell forwards to her knees, as the strength in her legs disappeared and the muscles turned loose on their bones. Barely managing to break her fall with her outstretched hands, she glanced upwards and watched an irresistible force meet an immovable object as flexibility and grace met brute strength and toughness.
She was powerless to watch as Cameron was hurled across the hangar - powerless for the second time to intervene. She watched the lithe Terminator climb to her feet, stalk across the floor and strike Cromartie with a terrific blow courtesy of the nose-cone of an F-18 Super Hornet. She watched the total lack of emotion on her face and the same blankness that had left the T-101 willing to go into the night without a fight.
As if the film - her dream - skipped a frame she found herself standing by the door, only a few moments from freedom with the pain in her limbs lessened and her breathing less laboured. As she glanced up at the Terminator struggling to keep another Terminator underneath and on the floor, she watched a brilliant smile rise from the neutrality of a face that had seemed so cold and distant; so mechanical and unreal.
This was not the same programming as the T-101. This was not the same behaviour and it was not the same logical, measured, appropriate response.
Sarah closed her eyes for the third time and when they opened her bedroom was once more the setting. Slowly standing and crossing through to the bathroom, she ran her hands under the cold water of the tap and splashed it against her forehead and cheeks. Glancing up at the mirror, and the tired face that stared back, realisation dawned on Sarah.
She placed a hand on the glass, watching the mirror-hand meet hers perfectly. She mumbled words that seemed more at home from her son but could not be heard above the sound of the water running freely. Moving quickly to the pile of intelligence notes stacked three feet high on the desk against the window, Sarah began to search frantically, casting sheets of paper and folders to the floor.
Her brow furrowed as she tried to think, before slapping her hand against the desk and reaching over to snatch her jacket from its hook upon the bedpost. Rummaging through the pockets Sarah pulled out the well-folded research paper that had first come to her attention days ago, and retreated back to the bed.
Pulling the covers back over her legs, she turned her attention to the words and looked for the meaning she felt sure was there.