"The winner of the game is the player who makes the next-to-last mistake." -– Savielly Tartakower
A few hours later, the bars rattle to the side and the living gather up their dead. John leaves the cage with the cold, stiffening body of the boy in his arms and only feels a dull surprise at the weight: that something so small could be so heavy
Savannah shuffles beside him. Hunched over and head down, she's smaller than some of the children she hides amongst. Her lips move but he can't hear more than a few snatches of the words. He doesn't have to - he's been in more churches than he can remember and he knows the monotone of a prayer when he hears it.
He thinks of Ellison's God, here in this place, and his mouth twists unwillingly into a painful smile.
"Being dead to this world, may they live unto you. In your most merciful goodness, forgive whatever sins they have committed in this life through human weakness. Amen," Savannah finishes as they reach the oil-slicked air beyond the stench of the pens.
Bodies are piled against the wall like trash bags waiting to be taken away. He counts twenty-three and says nothing when Savannah whispers that it's been a good night. He's not sure whether she means good for the living or good for the dead, and he isn't going to ask.
He gently lays the boy down; rigor keeps the body curled, as it was when it died. These humans' only weakness was their humanity. Their only sin was being born. Savannah looks at him reproachfully; he guesses he spoke aloud. She opens her mouth and he shakes his head. "Don't."
The courtyard they're corralled in is surrounded on three sides by wire run through with barbs; the fourth side is a looming, soot-stained wall with an iron-hatched door. Under his feet it's mud and torn up concrete. There are shreds of clothing on the wires, but it looks old and faded; the door looks oiled and new.
He keeps trying to see the familiar, to find the past. There's no trace of what used to be the mall left at all.
He isn't scared.
This has been John's nightmare since he was six years old, since his mother's fingers gripped his shoulders too hard and she told him the future. This is hell. This is hell and he isn't scared. It's the weirdest sense of relief he's ever had and it's wrapped in something like euphoria.
It's like freedom.
He wonders if he's cracking up and decides if he is, no one's going to notice and hey, if they do, they're really not going to care.
"That's her?"
John turns to see Kyle walking closer, with Neil crowding close behind. Neither seems much the worse for the night. John looks back to Savannah; she's standing motionless with her head down, just like everyone else.
"Yeah, that's her. Savannah." He's as surprised at the note of regret in his voice; he doesn't think he's feeling it.
"She's broken." Kyle's lip curls and he looks uncomfortable. John doesn't blame him; he's never liked graveyards either.
"She's not broken," he snaps. When he can speak gently again, he says "Savannah?" The woman's head rises; John waits until her eyes focus on him and then asks, "How long have you been in here?"
"Eleven years, fourteen days and - " her head tilts, "and six hours."
John can't imagine the survival chances go much past six months here and from Kyle's expression, he can't either.
"How?"
"Mom says it's safer here than outside. There are too many unknown variables."
There's a twisted sort of logic to that, John supposes. Or not twisted: it's exact, pure logic - machine logic in a controlled environment.
"We need to talk to your mom," he says slowly. "Can we do that?"
"Not here, she won't talk here. Later. Tonight."
He gets it with a sick kind of amusement: it's not Savannah that Weaver wants, it wants whatever little piece of the machine she's holding.
John looks up at the red-gray sky and then turns at the scraping sound from the hatch in the wall. The wheel moves and the door opens, three termination units step out.
They still have the shine on them, he notices in a detached sort of way. 800s or Trip-8s, he can't tell without being closer.
They come closer.
They walk through the barely moving crowds jerkily, skulls scanning left and right. Savannah keeps her head down and John does the same. Kyle shifts at his side and John reaches out a hand to clamp down on his arm. "Stay still."
One of the machines passes them and John looks up through his eyelashes once the red eyes have passed over them. The endoskeleton is consistent with an 800 and a Trip-8, but the chip socket is flush with the skull rather than slightly recessed. They're 800s. He breathes out and tries not to revisit his assessment of his mental stability when the machines only being at 800s counts as good news.
When the machines have lumbered back inside, he looks at Savannah again. "How long have they been here?"
"Three days. They just -- they walk. Around. And watch."
"What happens to the dead?"
She nods over to what John had taken to be junked metal, but makes out to be small diggers now he's looking closer. "They get taken inside, then there's smoke."
Neil rubs an anxious hand over his mouth. "Do they feed us?"
John really wishes Neil hadn't asked that so soon after John asked about the bodies.
Savannah runs her hand over the barcode on her arm like it's habit. "Sometimes."
Kyle's hand lands on John's arm and tugs him away. When they're clear he whispers, "I know she's our objective, but you can't just leave these people in here."
John opens his mouth and then closes it, because Kyle isn't telling – he's asking. And if John says they leave people behind, he knows Kyle will hate it, but he'll do it. John never wanted to be here, he never wanted to be the one who made that call.
And here he is.
And this is who he is.
He catches Kyle's gaze, waits until he sees the almost defiant anger bank back down and then speaks evenly, "Where would they go? Even if there is a camp that'll take them, they'll never make it there. They're safer here.
"Century has known variables," he finishes, and doesn't blink.
Kyle looks away and his hand drops from John's arm, his smile twisting between respect and disgust. "I told Derek he could trust you, turns out he really could."
"I know what I'm doing."
"So do they." Kyle nods to the machines as they begin their second patrol around the perimeter. "Doesn't mean I like it."
John watches them out of the corner of his eye and the pattern is evident after a few minutes. They scan around them as before, but this time there's no point that at least one of them doesn't have John in their scope. They don't move slower or faster, they maintain their path, but they're drawing closer and they're coming for him.
He just knows.
He takes a breath, a long breath, and draws himself up. "Look after Savannah. If I'm not back in twenty-four hours, play dead at the bottom of the pile and see if you can get out that way. There may be a window."
"May -- where are you going?"
"I have no idea." John turns to face the machines as one of them diverts its path and strides mechanically towards him. Savannah and Neil melt into the background; Kyle stands his ground and John pushes him away. "Look after her, stay alive."
The machine towers above him; he looks up at it and waits for the terror. It doesn't come.
A clawed hand grips him by the shoulder and he flinches; the last time a machine did that he nearly lost the arm. It doesn't dig in more than necessary, precisely necessary, to retain a hold and then they're walking towards the door.
Inside, he can finally see the mall-that-was in the cavernous space and broken down escalators. Over there's the food court, over there's the fountain.
Over there, he and Riley drank soda and ate stolen candy.
The machine releases his arm and steps back to leave him standing beside the ruins of a store that sold maternity wear, he thinks. Kacy shopped there sometimes, even when she couldn't afford it. Especially when she couldn't afford it.
"You are John Connor, confirm."
He doesn't turn around to see where the synthetic voice is coming from; he looks up at the roof instead. There are cracks up there; he can see daylight.
"Please confirm."
He provides an answer in the form of a question. "Who is John Connor?"
There's a whir behind him and he tenses for –- something.
Nothing.
"John Connor, born zero-two two-eight one-nine-eight-three. Subject biometrics do not correlate with time elapsed."
No time travel yet; two whole pieces of good news in one day. He smiles and says, "Then I guess I'm not John Connor."
"You are John Connor."
"Puzzler, huh?" He starts to walk around the plaza, he's confidant it won't stop him. As long as he makes no aggressive moves he isn't a threat, he's an anomaly, and anomalies must be clarified. So he paces out yards and sees enough to tell him this isn't a way out. There are at least twenty units, powered down for now, but he doubts it would take more than a few seconds for them to move out.
"Explain," the voice says after a few minutes.
"Why?"
The trick? The trick isn't to fight or to run or scream or cry. The trick, if you can, is to question - to make the machine question. He learned that from every unit sent to protect him, from Uncle Bob to Cameron. The machine's object is to win, but its function is to play, and to do either it has to know the extent of the rules and the nature of its opponent.
Skynet may be big and bad but Skynet's children are just that, and this one, this one he thinks has more to learn. It's self-aware but it hasn't moved beyond its awareness yet: it doesn't understand. It's a two-ton baby with a gun to his head.
He doesn't wait for it to formulate its answer; he has a hunch to satisfy, one he's had since Weaver tapped its chest in the barrens months ago.
"Do you know who John Henry is?"
"A North American representation of working-class obsolescence at the beginning of the Industrial era."
John supposes he would be, to a machine. So far, so good. "Do you know who Catherine Weaver is?"
"First record, former CEO of the Zeira Corporation, until her disappearance in two-thousand and nine."
John grins. The machine that replaced Weaver isn't in the records. John Henry isn't in the records. John Connor himself isn't in the records except as a name and a date that would confuse the machine. That would make him a subject to be studied.
He asks the question he knows he's meant to. "Why do you think I'm John Connor?"
A large screen flickers on and John sees data and charts flow by. The torrent ends on a frozen moment captured in grainy mall video. He remembers that day. They'd left school during lunch period and somewhere between mocking magazines and drinking blue Slushies, they'd forgotten to go back. Riley is laughing at something he's pointing at.
The other records have been removed and that means somewhere - hidden in the sprawling mass of the Skynet network - John Henry and Cameron are sending him a message.
Message received.
"My father. My uncle always says – said - I looked just like him." He turns and he can see the red and green lights blinking in the depths of the shadows. "Is this answer satisfactory?"
No reply from the machine, but a metal hand grips his shoulder again and he lets himself be led back into the courtyard.
It's empty - the cattle have had their hour - but he knows exactly where the pens are now. He knows exactly what they're over.
The cage door opens just enough to let him through and clangs shut behind him. There's ugly yellow slop in a trough on the floor; he ignores it and crouches beside Savannah.
She looks up at him with sharp, bright eyes. "You came out. No one comes out."
"I need to talk to your mom, Savannah. I need to know I'm right."
"Later. They power down for five minutes, you can speak then."
It's a long wait. He sleeps a little, the world turning hazy as he dips in and out of nothing, but jerks his head up when he feels the touch on his wrist.
There's just enough light he can see Savannah staring at him, the glint in her eyes intent and focused in a way he wasn't sure she was capable of. As his vision adjusts he can see she's holding her hand out towards him, palm up. The barcode ripples and flows up her arm into her palm, and from her palm to his wrist.
The skin it leaves behind is pale and the barcode revealed looks very different.
The metal is cool but not cold, and it leaves the sensation of insects on his skin; he tries not to squirm and fails. When it's settled itself into a solid band around his wrist, he brings his hands up to cover his mouth and says, "Weaver?"
"No."
He rolls his eyes. "Part of the machine who took Weaver's place?"
"Yes."
"John Henry and Cameron, they're inside Skynet, aren't they?"
"A valid conclusion."
"Why are you here?"
"My main processors have had no ability to access the records from the periods of time that were missed. I am a record."
"Why Savannah?"
"Kinetic energy is required for functionality."
"It didn't have to be her," he points out. "You could have jumped to anyone."
The machine is silent.
"Where is my mother?"
"Her last communication originated from one-one-S three-seven-six-four-three-five four-one-three-seven-zero-nine-two."
John closes his eyes and drops his hands; a few moments later he feels the machine begin to slither back to Savannah.
"Wait." He brings it back sharply. "Weaver told me to get Savannah out of here. It wants you, but I'm not leaving her behind. You're going to help."
"Yes," crackles the voice.
"How much mobility do you have?"
In his palm, the silver pool begins to form shape after shape. None of them are complex, but they'll work.
"How thin can you become? How much can you stretch yourself?"
The machine flexes and begins to spool itself into wire. He tests the strength; it's more unyielding than steel. Carbon nanotube at its finest.
"Good." He holds it out towards Savannah; the machine flows back up her skin and settles back into the shape of a barcode, keeping her an eternal child.
Savannah falls asleep quickly; he watches her and refuses to look away. Hers is the only face he wants to remember from this place.
Except.
Except it's easy to be cold when Kyle's angry; it's easy to shut down against that, he's had practice one way or another. It's harder when there's nothing but muffled sobs and harsh breathing to keep him company.
"Still alive, Connor?"
John smirks, like brother, like brother. "Still alive."
"What did it want?"
John can't find a reply and Kyle doesn't ask again.
In the morning John counts sixteen slumped shapes against the wall and then turns away when Kyle and Neil approach.
Kyle scowls at the human remains. "I don't get why they even let us out, feed us. Why not leave us to rot?"
"We clear the bodies," answers Savannah, as if it's self-evident. "There used to be hundreds, every day."
"They could do it. Why not just wipe us out? It isn't logical."
John doesn't know why the machines didn't do it before, but he's got a pretty good idea now. Two voices, whispering in their electric ear. That and he's beginning to suspect the machine is watching what they do, how they act. If the early infiltration units' behavioral patterns were based on the observations made of the camps, John isn't surprised they were hollow cutouts.
"It doesn't matter." He darts a look at Kyle. "We're leveling it."
Neil looks in confusion from John's face to Kyle's. "I thought the plan was to get the girl out."
John watches the expressions flicker across Kyle's face –suspicion, fear and a fierce, almost feral happiness. Compared to Derek, Kyle is an easy read. "It is," he answers at last, "but we can give everyone else a chance."
Not much of a chance. Not enough of a chance. And he's not convinced Weaver's solution isn't the best one, that they aren't safer in here. Except for the nebulous, half-formed feeling that inside the wire they may live, but out there, even if it's only for a few minutes, at least they'll be alive.
Kyle grins almost proudly; John flushes awkwardly at his approval and has no idea why.
Neil crosses his arms around his mid-section and hangs his head. "So what's the plan?"
Kyle snorts before John can answer and claps the man almost sympathetically on the shoulder; Neil hunches. "Like he's going to tell you." He looks back to John and asks, "What do you need us to do?"
John still has no idea what he's done to earn Kyle's loyalty, but he's not going to question it. That's later, if he can figure out what the words need to be.
For now he says, "The pens will open, when they do you need to get everyone who can walk over to the far right corner. It's a false floor and there's no cages there, so I'm betting it's not load bearing. Use some of the debris to take up the panels. There'll be two escalators going down into a garage, at the back of the garage is the way out."
"They'll be on us-"
"No. They won't." John tries a reassuring smile and Neil takes a step back.
"How do you even know that?" he whispers.
John drops the smile. "Does it matter?"
Neil's fists bunch and he takes a step forward, and then another, until he's in John's face and white with fear and anger. "It matters if you're working for them. If this is just some sick game to-"
Anger roars into him, it rushes through the empty places fear and regret have left and no one's there to pull John back from it this time - Riley is dead, Cameron is gone and Kyle understands. Neil's head snaps back as John's fist cracks his jaw. He's barely on the ground before John's boot is buried in his ribs; John feels something give and he knows there are so many more bones to break.
Now there are hands pulling him back and he fights against them until he registers how small they are. Savannah gives one last haul and pushes him away; the fury vanishes and leaves him cold and breathless.
He pants and watches Neil shake; he's going to be sick.
When he can speak he looks to Kyle, who hasn't moved. There's no expression for John to read this time. "There should be a way out, if there isn't you'll need to dig. You may have some help," he says evenly, as if he hasn't just broken a man up.
Kyle's gaze flickers down, he watches Savannah as she gently touches the man on the ground and then looks back. "Where will you be?"
"Right behind you." His knuckles are torn; he licks the blood away – antiseptic is where you find it - and then turns to look at the door.
It's beginning to open; there isn't much time.
He crouches next to Savannah and whispers, "I need to take the- your - it."
What is it to her, anyway?
Savannah gives a half smile; it's wry and tired, and it knows. "The machine." She takes his hand; he feels the metal crawl onto his skin and this time he doesn't flinch.
He walks towards the hatch when it begins to open, murmuring instructions and hoping he's heard. When the T-800 grips his shoulder again, it's harder.
"You attacked another. Explain."
"He accused me of working for you," John says steadily. "I was angry."
"Was the lie a threat to you?"
"No. But some lies are threats, some lies protect. Why am I here?" Not that he's complaining - it's easier than trying to talk his way in. Now he just has to keep the machine playing.
"You will give answers."
He rubs the space on his wrist where the tiny part of Weaver had been and asks, "Why will I do that?"
The voice has no reply and John looks around. The long row of 800s is still powered down; he tries to calculate how long it will take Weaver to interface with their code. If it even can. It's more advanced, but it could still be detected, overcome.
His heartbeat tells him it should have been quicker than this.
"Because you want to know the questions," calculates the machine at last.
John smiles; awareness has become understanding. "Yeah, I do," he admits.
He won't know what they are today, though.
As one the termination units straighten, he's expecting it – praying for it – but he still starts and feels adrenaline pressing him to run. Red eyes blaze and then fade and then the machines walk with perfect synchronicity towards the hatchway.
John doesn't wait to see them go. Their single task now is to open the cages, rip up the flooring and protect whoever can make it out. If they can even manage one out of three, he'll call it a win.
He runs to the bank of lights of the mainframe, stumbling over the fallen masonry and climbing through the cage that protects it.
Its voice has become a repeating, high-pitched whine; it's not dead but it's hurting. It's crying. And it has to be smothered.
There's no human interface, but there are thick cables running deep down into the ground. His hands are slick with sweat and he can't get a grip to pull them from the mainframe.
"Machine. Weaver. Help me."
A silver pool detaches itself from a port above his head and slithers down to his hand. Within seconds he's holding a long, thin blade. He can only hope it's non-conductive.
It saws through the cables with barely any resistance and he jumps back from the flurry of sparks. "Okay." He swallows and nods. "Okay," he says again. The fire from the cables spreads quickly across the floor, carried by oil and petrol. He races the flames towards the door way and he thinks he's going to make it until an explosion picks him up like a rag doll and throws him head first against the wall next to the door.
The world turns into bright lights and sickening darkness and as long as he lives he'll never remember how he reels to his feet and falls into the courtyard, but he'll always remember the scorching heat blistering his back.
He rolls to a stop at the metal feet of an 800 and stares up at it in dazed confusion before horror sharpens his focus.
Weaver's re-programming didn't hold. It didn't hold and everyone's dead.
John scrabbles up and throws himself back and away, but he can't seem to coordinate himself enough to stand - let alone run - and it stalks him down until he's on his back against the wall.
"Down," yells Kyle and that's all the warning John gets to go fetal before one of the diggers slams into the machine and sends it reeling away.
Hands are on him and he struggles until he comprehends they're warm and human. He opens his eyes and sees three of Kyle before his vision blurs into a stinging red.
He just about makes out Kyle swearing before the world lurches on its axis and now what little he can see of it is upside down and moving, until it isn't there at all.
When John cracks open his eyes again, it's to the familiar sight of the med-station ceiling and, seriously, he could have gone without seeing it again for a couple lifetimes.
There's a dull ache in his head that snatches of memory tell him was much worse, the ache fades as he tries to piece together the fragments before it all went black.
"Kyle?" He croaks.
"He's alive." At John's left, Derek's voice is flat and even half awake and concussed he can hear that's not a privilege everyone – John, for instance – is necessarily going to enjoy.
He shuts his eyes and aims to sound as pathetic as possible; it's not hard and it worked last time. "The others?"
"Down below. Most of them made it out; we picked them up a mile from the camp. Lost most of your machines to the HKs, but there's one out in the barrens just walking around."
"You came?"
Derek says nothing, and that says enough.
John opens his eyes again and rolls his head slowly, trying to keep the growing nausea at bay. Something tells him he really, really doesn't want to throw up. "Savannah?"
Derek's expression flickers. "No. The metal that got you got her first. Kyle said -- he said she never even saw it coming."
He says it like it's a comfort and John guesses it is. It really is.
John looks back up to the ceiling and runs his hand down his arm to his wrist; there's a thick band there and it shifts under his touch.
Derek stands and looks at some middle point between John and the floor. "Was it worth it?"
John stares at the light swaying above him until his eyes water. "It will be."