In the Hands of an Angry Machine
Chapter Two: No More Lies
"Stay with me, Riley," John begged. "Please! It's okay. Everything is going to be okay. Hang in there. We're almost there." He held her in the backseat as the Dodge Ram sped down I-405. Her forearms were wrapped in blood-soaked gauze, and he squeezed them to apply more pressure. She stirred slightly, but otherwise remained still.
The truck took an exit and ran a red light, and both of them were almost buffeted from their seats by a dip in the road. Behind them John could hear screeching tires and honking horns, but he didn't look back. He turned to Cameron. "How much longer?" he asked. "Are we almost there?"
"We should reach the Pacific Hospital in less than five minutes," Cameron replied. She gave the steering wheel a sharp left turn, and John had to brace himself to keep Riley and he from sliding into the passenger door.
"Could you be a little more careful?"
At first Cameron gave no response, but after a moment offered a bland "Yes."
John knew why Riley did this. She had no family, no ties to anyone except him. Being thrown out of her home must have pushed her over the edge, not to mention being smacked around by her foster dad. He stroked Riley's hair and studied the bruise. If he ever got his hands on him, he'd kill him. Break his neck. Just like Sarkassian.
From the corner of the eye he glared at Cameron. This was her fault too. If she hadn't freaked Riley out this might not have happened. He remembered that look she had given him. That cruel, almost smug expression, as if she were actually gloating. She wanted this to happen. She wouldn't even let him call an ambulance -- said it was too much of a "security risk." If he hadn't been there he had no doubt she'd have just stood and watched as Riley bled to death. Maybe she would've even killed her herself. She wants me to be miserable and alone, so she can control me better. He felt sick with rage.
Cameron had no soul; he knew that now. She could smile and frown and laugh and cry, appear to enjoy the wind through her toes, look hurt, look angry, look jealous . . . and she could tell you she loves you. But it was all programming. A simulation. A lie. He'd been a fool to think otherwise. Machines can't feel. He had to remember that. When he looked into Cameron's eyes, nothing looked back.
John caught Cameron watching him in the rearview mirror. He suddenly realized he was crying. "Keep your eyes on the road!" he snapped. "And drive faster!"
Cameron may be a lie, but Riley was real. She was worth fighting for.
Sarah stands in the desert and looks towards the horizon. There's something there. An object. Flying. Coming closer. It's silhouetted against the setting sun. Just a black dot against a red half circle.
The dot comes closer.
Sarah looks again and sees the dot is not one, but three. Three dots. Flying in triangular formation. Across the desert.
The three dots come closer.
Sarah sees now that the dots are not dots but turtles. Three turtles. Three giant turtles. Flying across the desert.
The turtles fly to Sarah and hover before her. They are huge. Each filling a quarter of the sky. They begin to land, and Sarah sees within their shells gears and pistons and cables and rivets. Machines. Robots. Giant robot turtles. They land in a whoosh of billowing sand. Their eyes glow red.
The three turtles' heads extend from their shells, and their great mechanical jaws open wide. From each a metal stairway descends to the desert floor, and Sarah takes a step back and gasps as thousands upon thousands of naked Johns and Camerons, hand in hand, emerge from the gaping maws and walk down the steps, two by two. The couples form ranks and files in front of her, and a million pairs of Cameron eyes stare at her in unison and flash blue. Sarah turns to run.
The sun sets.
In the night sky the stars are blocked by the cosmic visage of James Ellison. Sarah feels herself falling.
Ellison looks down upon her from heaven. "Sarah Connor?" he asks, his voice booming throughout creation. "Can you hear me? I'd like to ask you a few questions."
John had remained in Riley's hospital room for two hours, seven minutes, and fourteen seconds. She had yet to regain consciousness. Cameron thought it would have been preferable if John had not intervened. Riley would have bled to death, and the problem could have been resolved with only a shovel and some dirt.
But that would have only created another problem. John would be grieving.
Cameron stood next to the open door and peeked into the room. John sat in a chair next to Riley's bed, giving her verbal reassurances of his continued presence. He had stopped crying, but his cheeks were still wet. Cameron had been in the room earlier, but John had grown increasingly agitated by her proximity and had told her to leave.
The doctor had said the cuts had not been very deep; she should be able to leave the next day. Riley's suicide attempt had proven ineffective. If she had had access to a suitable firearm, she would have likely succeeded. A shot from a Glock 17 9mm into the roof of her mouth would have virtually assured instant death.
Cameron withdrew from the doorway and walked down the hall.
John's emotional well being depended upon the well-being of Riley. She recognized this as "empathy." The concept seemed to be an ability to subsume another's psychological state into one's own. Cameron thought of Eric.
At the end of the hall she found an alcove with a couple of vending machines. John's stress levels were high, but since none of the machines distributed tranquilizers, Cameron bought him a Sprite and peanut butter crackers instead. For herself she decided on an orange soda.
When Cameron returned she saw John had turned on the television. He sat slumped in his chair, watching an old black and white program Cameron didn't recognize. The sound of laughter emerged from the speakers, but John did not join in. He ignored her.
"I bought you some Sprite and crackers." She held them out.
"Go away."
Cameron placed them on the tray next to the bed and examined Riley; she was still unconscious, but her breathing was regular. "Riley should fully recover. Don't worry about it."
John glared at her. "'Don't worry?'" he spat. "This wasn't an accident. She tried to kill herself!"
Cameron thought of Eric again. And her chip. "Is something wrong with her?" she asked.
"Something wrong with her?" He jumped from his seat and stormed over to where she stood, stopping a few inches from her face. Cameron had to look up to meet his stare. "Nothing's wrong with her," he growled. "Something's wrong with you." John jabbed a finger at her as he spoke. "You freaked her out on purpose! Her life's falling apart, and you just had to do that! You wanted this to happen! This is your fault! You did this to her!" Tears welled in John's eyes as he pointed at the door. "Get out!"
The irritated sensation returned. She couldn't think of a reply, so she turned to leave. Before she reached the door John called out to her.
"Cameron?" he said. His voice was calm, but choked by a sob.
"Yes?"
"I should have let you burn."
The sensation grew worse.
Outside in the hall, Cameron tried to locate the source of the sensation. It came from inside her, but she couldn't determine where. She opened her bottle of orange soda and took a sip. The flavor was satisfactory, but it didn't help.
Mbali had been robbed before. Three times at gun point and once by a twelve year with a machete. This was nothing new, but she still felt the same old fear. She wished he would stop cursing.
"Motherfucker! Give me the fucking money, bitch! Yeah, motherfucking yeah. Shit!"
She'd seen him before; sometimes he'd panhandle outside her store. From the sores on his face and the uncontrollable twitching she could tell he was an addict. Meth probably, maybe crack. Mbali didn't know much about drugs. She sighed and pulled out the register. In it there couldn't be more than a hundred dollars. "Please. Take the money and go, sir," she pleaded.
The meth-head pointed the gun at her eyes "Don't you tell me what to do, bitch! I do what I want!" He pulled a filthy paper bag from the crotch of his sweatpants. "Put that shit in there! Do it!" He thumbed back the hammer on his revolver. Mbali saw his hand shake.
She had just finished filling the bag with cash when a young man entered the store. The man looked the meth-head and her over with a glance before strolling up to the counter, seemingly unconcerned by the situation.
The meth-head grabbed the bag and made towards the door. As he passed the man he waved his gun in his face. "What the fuc-?"
The young man's arms moved in a blur. With an audible 'crack' the meth-head flew backwards and fell against the magazine display in front of the counter. The wire shelves bent under the impact, and he crumpled to the floor, covered with tabloids.
The meth-head's pistol was now in the young man's hand. He examined it for a moment, then carefully de-cocked the hammer and slid it into his back pocket. The man offered Mbali a tired, somewhat sheepish grin as he casually walked up to her register, stepping gingerly over the groaning meth-head on the ground. "Hello," he said. "I need to go to the Pacific Hospital of Long Beach. Do you know how to get there?" His accent was strange.
"Pacific Hospital," Mbali repeated dumbly. Was this actually happening? Shouldn't she call the police? Who was this man? Her heart beat desperately with wasted panic; she took a deep breath to calm herself.
"Ma'am?" the man said, cocking his head slightly.
Where was Pacific Hospital? Had she ever been there? Long Beach? Oh, that's right. "Oh, you need to get back on ten until you get to Eye-four-oh-five, then just take the Long Beach exit. You're about twenty minutes away." The fear from the last couple minutes began to subside, and she had to restrain herself from crying. "Please don't hurt me, sir," she added, though it seemed inappropriate somehow.
The man knelt down and retrieved the bag of money. She thought he was going to keep it, but instead he placed it on the counter next to the empty register tray. "I should go south on four-oh-five, right?" he asked.
"Yes, sir." She noticed the front of his black t-shirt had a faded triangle with a rainbow shooting out one side. She wondered what it meant. Was he a policeman?
From below the meth-head made a gurgling sound.
"Thank you," the man said with a smile and nod. He was about to turn to leave, but then his eyes looked up at the surveillance monitor above her head. His smile waned. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said. "But I'm afraid I'm going to need your security tape."
Colors fascinated John Henry. Bright ones, dull ones, loud ones, soft ones: each had a different texture, a different essence. But what he found most interesting about colors was that they were different. Each color is different from another color, but he could not determine why.
Ms. Weaver moved her rook to protect her queen.
Red is loud. Blue is soft. Red is different from blue. Why is red loud? Why is blue soft? Why is red different from blue? John Henry could not find answers. The differences seemed irreducible.
John Henry sacrificed his knight to trap Ms. Weaver's queen.
Before Ms. Weaver had given him his new humanoid structure extension, his colors were limited to the drab palate of his mounted cameras. Those colors were dull, but his new body's twin cameras have proved much more versatile. Higher resolution, depth perception, an ability to zoom in, and, most importantly, John Henry found he could change the colors. All he had to do was concentrate and want it to happen, and the entire spectrum of his world shifted.
Ms. Weaver took his knight with her pawn. John Henry took her queen with his bishop. "Good move," she told him.
Mr. Ellison's default color is a dark shade of brown, almost black. Ms. Weaver's is a light shade of pink, almost white. But John Henry could make their colors change. Mr. Ellison becomes red, orange, and yellow. Ms. Weaver turns yellow and blue. The rest of the world becomes blue and black.
Ms. Weaver moved her rook across the board and put his King into check. "But not good enough," she added.
John Henry wondered why Mr. Ellison is red, orange, and yellow while Ms. Weaver is yellow and blue. In normal spectrum, he knew Mr. Ellison was darker than Ms. Weaver because of the increased levels of melanin in his skin, but he didn't know why their new spectrum was different. What did the colors mean?
John Henry moved his King behind his pawn. Ms. Weaver moved her knight. "Checkmate, Mr. Henry," she declared. "I win."
John Henry blinked. No human had ever beaten him before. And her colors were different. "You're not human," he concluded.
Ms. Weaver tilted her head, and her mouth tightened. "Is that so?" she asked.
"I should have let you burn." John said.
With closed eyes, Riley listened as Cameron slowly walked out of the room. She had to stifle a laugh. For the better part of a hour she had feigned sleep, basking in John's loving words. Everything had worked out so well; she had driven a vicious wedge between John and the metal, and now John was all hers. Come Judgment Day she wouldn't be scavenging through piles of garbage and doing unspeakable things for food. Not this time. She'd be at the right hand of General Connor. She'd be Mrs. Connor. And Jesse would be proud. Carrots and apples forever. Trying to kill herself had been the best mistake of her life.
There was one snag, however.
The metal was still on to her, and Riley knew as soon as she was alone it would come for her. With questions. And needles. John will have to protect her, but to do that he'd have to know. Riley knew she had to come clean. She'd have to tell him everything. Then the two of them could run away, away from the upcoming war and that metal bitch.
She felt John's fingers brush through her hair. "Riley," he whispered, his voice still hoarse from crying. "You're all I have left."
Would he accept her? She imagined him angry, shouting, summoning his pet machine to do his bidding.
She felt his lips kiss her forehead. "I won't let you go," he murmured against her skin. "I love you."
Riley's heart fluttered. She knew she could tell him now, he'd forgive her, he'd understand. Together they'd face the future, and John Connor would protect her.
From the television in the background she heard a heavily accented voice: ". . . you have a lot of 'splaining to do!" Canned laughter filled the room.
Riley made up her mind.
No more lies.