In the Hands of an Angry Machine
Chapter Three: A Second Chance
Sarah had said little during James' visit, only some muddled nonsense about turtles and dots. The doctors had had her pretty doped up -- more than James thought necessary. He suspected it was to prevent her from attempting an escape. After all, she had managed to break out of Pescadero, blow up a Cyberdyne office building and a bank, and, after eight years, come back from the dead. Evidently the Feds weren't taking any chances this time. They even had had her handcuffed to her bed.
James drove past a farm. Dozens of sprinklers watered the crops. A few droplets landed on his windshield.
The rest of the 'Baums' were in trouble too. Sarah had had her cell phone on her, as well as her fake drivers license. It was only a matter of hours before an investigation led to their front door. He hoped John found out before it was too late. And had enough sense to ditch his cell. James said a silent prayer for them.
Only one police cruiser sat outside the Heat & Air warehouse. Everyone else had already cleared up and left. Even the crime scene tape had been taken down, which Ellison thought was odd. It had only been a few hours.
James pulled off the dirt road and parked next to the cruiser. He entered the warehouse.
Two officers were questioning a short, fat repairman. From their disinterested expressions he could tell they were just going through the motions.
"Hello, I'm Agent Ellison." He flashed his badge. "I'd like to ask a few questions, if that's alright."
One of the policemen snorted. "You're late. Feds already up and left."
James shrugged. "I'm here on unofficial business. On leave, actually."
The other officer spoke. "This your idea of a vacation?"
"No, but I used to be part of an investigation on Sarah Connor. Back when she blew up that bank in '99." James shook his head and smiled. "Didn't expect her to walk out that one."
"Crazy bitch," muttered the fat man. "Why the fuck did she come here for?"
"Let me put it this way," James answered. "Sarah Connor thinks robots from the future are out to kill her son, because she believes he's destined to lead a scrappy band of rebels against an evil super-computer that takes over the world." He made a slight chuckle. "So, you tell me."
"Crazy bitch," the fat man repeated.
"Exactly," James affirmed with a nod. He looked around the place. Aside from the unpainted walls, the warehouse office was entirely unnoteworthy. "You get a lot business out here? Place is a little off the beaten pa--"
"Sorry to interrupt your sight seeing," the first officer cut in. "But you mind if we do our jobs here?"
"Screw it," said the second cop. "We're pretty much done as it is. Feds finished up quick. Why should we stick around?" He turned to the fat man. "If we have any questions, we'll call you." He motioned at his partner. "Let's go."
Without another word, the two cops walked out the door. The first officer gave James a dirty look before he left.
After they were gone, James turned to face the fat man. "So. . . " He read his name tag. "'Hank', you guys build any killer robots here?"
Hank scowled. "I'm glad you find this is amusing, 'cause I sure as fuck don't." He pointed at the chalk outline on the floor. "I've known Ed for almost two years. Now he's dead. Does it look like I'm laughing?"
James sighed. "Sorry, just making conversation, I guess."
"Yeah, whatever. I'm going home." Hank picked up a worn lunch bag and made towards the door.
"Mind if I look around?"
"Yes," Hank snapped. "I'm fucking closing. You think I'm going to just let you hang out in here?"
"No need to be nasty."
"Fuck you."
James followed Hank outside and watched as the fat man locked the door behind him, fumbling with the keys.
"What's in the warehouse?"
Hank walked to his truck as he spoke. "Air condition parts. What do you think?"
"I was told the warehouse was rented by another company."
"It is. And they keep their shit in there too." Hank climbed into his vehicle and started the engine.
"Nice meeting you." James muttered. He was about to get in his car and leave as well, but something in the distance caught his eye. In an empty field a quarter mile down the road a half-dozen men in gray jumpsuits were using shovels to pat down the earth.
If Sarah had wanted to destroy this place, she must have had a reason, and James was going to find out what that was. He'd return here later, when it was dark.
And he'd bring a shovel.
Riley fluttered open her eyes and saw John sitting next to her bed. He was watching an old sit-com on TV. He looked haggard. For a moment she almost convinced herself not go through with it, but she knew she had no choice. And he'd understand. He'd have to. She steeled her resolve.
"Hey, Cat Fancy," she croaked, making an effort to sound even worse than she felt.
John turned, his face brightening. He stood and knelt by her side. "How do you feel?"
She made a sour face. "Stupid."
He chuckled. "Yeah, you should. But I mean your . . . " He motioned at her wrapped forearms.
"They ache, but not too bad."
"Yeah, well, wait 'til the painkillers wear off."
She gave him a warm smile, and tried to think of a way to break the truth to him.
John pulled up his chair and sat down, leaning closer to her. "Why did you do it?" he asked.
"There's no hope, John."
He took her hand in his and stroked her knuckles with his thumb. His voice was nearly a whisper. "No, don't say that. I'm here. I'll be here for you."
"Cameron . . . " she said in a breath. "I'm scared of her, John. You've got to protect me from her."
At first John looked confused, but then his eyes turned hard. "What did she say to you?" he demanded.
Riley's arms began to itch. Here goes nothing. "I . . . I know, John." His mouth began to open, but he said nothing. She went on. "I know . . . I know what she is."
John's eyes widened. He let go of her hand. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice suddenly flat.
"I was sent back. I'm . . . I'm from the future, John." The color drained from his face, so Riley reached out a bandaged arm. He recoiled as if it were a snake.
"No," he said numbly, as he stood and began to back away, almost tripping over his chair.
"John, please. I was sent back for you!"
"No," he said again. His breath grew ragged, and his lips pulled back into a trembling grimace. For a moment Riley thought he might start laughing, but then she saw his tears.
"I'm sorry, John. I know I should have told you, but . . ." She felt a weight in her chest, and her voice went hoarse. ". . . but . . . We had to do something! You. And Cameron -- that machine. Please! You have to understand!"
He stood and stared at her, his face convulsing with silent sobs.
"Please!" Riley begged. "Don't do this to me!" She blinked back tears. He wasn't taking this as well as she had hoped. "I'm here to help you! It was for your own good! She -- it -- in the future. It was manipulating you! Lying to you! Everyone was worried! It was disgusting! She's was controlling you! You don't want that to happen, do you? You should be with me, not that thing! We're meant to be together!"
John said nothing.
"Please!" she cried through quavering lips. "I'm sorry. They said they'd kill me if I told you. And now that thing is going to hurt me. She said so! She said she'd torture me! You've got to believe me!" She tried to touch him with a feeble arm; he backed away. "Don't go! Please! I . . . I don't know what I'm going to do. Forgive me! Please! Don't be mad! You . . . you've got to protect me! I'm sorry! Help me, John! Please! I love you! I love you, please!"
His faced fell strangely blank. He turned to leave.
"I love you, John!" she cried out, almost shouting. "And you love me!"
John slammed the door behind him.
Cameron had only ingested 7.8 ounces of orange soda before her organic processing chamber filled to capacity. 16.2 ounces remained in the bottle, but drinking any more would result in an overflow from her mouth. That would compromise her human infiltration protocol, and several people were nearby.
Her next liquid evacuation cycle would not be ready for another three hours, sixteen minutes, and thirteen seconds. By that time the bottle's core temperature would have risen to 21°C. The flavor's optimal temperature was 3°C. She briefly considered pouring the drink into her mouth and spitting it back out, but decided that that behavior would be socially inappropriate. If she were human she could vomit up the beverage to make more room, but Cameron lacked the ability to regurgitate. And it would be socially inappropriate as well. It was important to maintain human behavior patterns.
She set the bottle on a table and picked up a magazine.
The waiting area had many different magazines. Cameron had chosen an issue of "Highlights." The back cover asked the reader to locate unlikely situations in a crudely illustrated picture. A quick scan of the drawing revealed a law enforcement vehicle with cube-shaped tires, a man walking through a door suspended in mid-air, a young child climbing a ladder to the moon, a fish wea--
"I love you, John! And you love me!"
A door slammed.
The words triggered a memory. Cameron repressed it.
John walked by without acknowledging her. He looked distressed.
"What happened?" she asked.
He did not stop nor look back as he answered. "I'm going to call mom. I left my cell in the truck." At that he entered the elevator as a nurse left it. The doors closed behind him.
Was he lying? Cameron could not tell, but from his gait and posture she concluded that some new development had agitated John further.
She stood up and walked to Riley's room. After pausing to determine whether she should knock or not, Cameron opened the door.
"John? Please, I'm so--" Riley saw who it was and froze. She had been in the process of leaving her bed.
"What happened?" Cameron asked.
Riley quickly climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over her body. "Stay away from me," she whimpered.
Cameron scanned her. Dilated eyes, shallow breathing, trembling -- Riley was afraid of her. Extremely afraid. Terrified. Being terrified of a 110lb human teenaged girl was irrational. It made no sense.
Unless.
Unless Riley was terrified of a 225lb hyper-alloy combat chassis covered with synthetic human tissue molded to simulate a human teenaged girl. Riley's concern would then be rational. She would have much reason to be afraid.
Cameron stepped forward to grab Riley's wrist, but Riley slapped down on the 'Call Nurse' button by the side of her bed.
There was no logical way to estimate how long she had before a nurse would arrive, but Cameron had to assume it would only be a couple minutes, at most. If a nurse showed up in the midst of an interrogation, hospital security may be called. Cameron might have to kill them. That would create complications.
An interrogation could wait until Riley was in a more manageable environment. She decided to go talk to John instead. Maybe he would tell her what happened.
Cameron turned to leave, but stopped herself at the door. She turned to look at Riley and smiled. "I'll be back," she reassured, then left.
John left the hospital and walked across the street to the multi-story car park.
He had known all his life he was destined for greatness, but it wasn't until now that he realized just how much the world revolved around him. 'Greatness' was an understatement; in the grand scheme of human affairs he was the most important man who had ever lived. The fate of mankind hinged upon his every action.
That wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for time travel.
If time travel existed during the Second World War, would the Nazis have sent back assassins to kill Churchill as a child? Would the British have sent back their own agents to influence him during his formative years? Sent deceitful lovers to sway his emotions, urging him towards one decision or another? Lie to him? Trample his feelings for a better tomorrow?
Churchill had it easy.
John entered the building and stepped into a nearby elevator. He pressed the button for the third floor.
His predicament was absurd. He could run away, take a plane to some far corner of the world, get a job, meet a girl, get married . . . and the girl would probably end up being a cyborg or a resistance fighter sent to manipulate him over something he won't do for twenty years.
He could hide like a hermit in a cave in the middle of nowhere, and a visitor would appear out of a bubble to lecture him about his duty. His every act was -- will be -- scrutinized in retrospect, and every friendly face he meets could be a marionette string from the future. There was no escape from tomorrow.
On the third floor, John exited the elevator and walked to the truck.
It was like his life was a river, and all the visitors from the future only wished to master the force of his current. Skynet wanted to dam him up, stopping his flow before he could do it harm. Cameron wanted to clear away such blockages and ensure his stream did not deviate. And Riley was sent to raise a levee to change the course of his life.
A levee built of lies.
I was -- will be -- with Cameron?
But he wasn't a river; he was a man, and he was sick of being exploited as a natural resource. Everyone cared about what John Connor could do for them, but no one cared about John Connor.
He searched the glove compartment. The Glock wasn't there.
A sudden wave of giddiness nearly overtook him. Billions upon billions of humans have lived throughout history. Why did he have to be John Connor? Why couldn't he be a Chinese peasant in the fifteenth century? Or a small town doctor in the 1930's? Or a citizen of the Roman Empire? Or a dog? A cat? A mouse?
He remembered a poem he once read. Something about a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas . . .
John returned to the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.
Why am I me? Why not somebody else? Who do I even exist?
The cruelty of his fate was staggering. He was John Connor: the loneliest man who ever lived. No one understood his terrible burden. No one cared.
When the doors finally opened, John left the elevator and stepped out from under the concrete portico. Blue sky greeted him above. Only a handful of cars were parked on the roof, leaving a near empty lot of asphalt. He walked towards the building's edge and looked over the metal railing. Eighty or ninety feet below laid a sidewalk of hard pavement.
A cold burning swelled in his belly, and his knees grew weak. What was he doing? Why was he doing it? The tears welled up again.
They had driven him to this. This was their fault. All he wanted was a normal life, just a brief taste, and Riley and those conniving bastards from the future had denied him this small respite. But no longer. No longer would he allow himself to be manipulated. No longer would the strings of his heart be pulled.
From now on, John Connor would take charge of his destiny.
He climbed over the waist-high railing and stood on the narrow ledge on the other side. He leaned forward, his hands holding on to the railing behind him. The ground called to John with a gentle breeze.
Footsteps. Running.
A voice. "John!" It sounded like Cameron.
Two pairs of running footsteps.
Two?
He let go of the railing.
At that moment John knew he had just made the worst decision of his life.
Time slowed down. He tilted forward. For one ludicrous instant he remembered a roller-coaster ride he had had as a child. His feet lost contact with the ledge, and he began to plummet.
An iron grip grabbed his ankle.
Gravity swung John downward, and he hit face first against the concrete wall of the building. Stunned, he could do nothing but watch the distant ground as he dangled. His left cheek stung and his ankle felt twisted, but he didn't think he had broken any bones. His nose was bleeding, however, and a drop fell from his face, disappearing into the distance below.
After an eternity of waiting, John began to feel himself being pulled up. By one hand.
Thank you, Cameron. Thank you thank you thank you . . .
What had seemed like inevitable resolve only seconds ago now collapsed into simple embarrassment. What was I thinking? He wasn't Winston Churchill, he wasn't a river, and he wasn't the loneliest man in the world. He was John Connor, and he had just made an ass of himself.
Was I really going to kill myself -- over Riley?
As he was lifted up by his foot, his t-shirt fell to his chest, and he scraped along the wall on his bare stomach, the rough surface of the concrete biting into his skin. But he didn't mind. He'd been given a second chance, and he didn't intent on wasting it. He'd have to prove himself again after today, but he'd make it up to everyone. Starting with Cameron.
Pulled from the precipice, under the railing, and back to safety, John slowly pushed himself up on his hands and knees and turned to give Cameron a hug. "I'm so--"
The first thing he noticed about the young man crouched before him was that he wore a Pink Floyd shirt. It was too small on him.
"Who are you?" John asked.
Before the man could answer, Cameron stepped into view, her mouth slightly open, and her eyes wide with what looked like panic. The young man saw John looking at her and turned his head to follow his stare.
"Cameron?" the man asked with surprise. From the profile of his face John could see the beginnings of a confused smile.
Cameron stared at the man and cocked her head. "Kyle?"
James drove his car with the headlights off and parked it on the side of the road, a couple hundred yards uphill from where he had seen the men earlier that day. With flashlight and shovel in hand, he made his way down to the site.
He walked in the dark, pausing every now and then to listen for anything out of the ordinary. Other than the chirp of crickets, he heard nothing.
"If those men were burying robots," he mused. "I might have to rent a U-Haul." Cromartie had been heavy; James had almost busted a gut lifting his carcass into his trunk. If he had to, however, he supposed he could fit five in his car. One in the trunk, three in the backseat, and one riding shotgun. But the idea of all that lifting made his muscles ache. And if he got pulled over he'd have a lot of explaining to do.
James reached the site and searched the ground with his flashlight. Though he could see a few foot prints here and there, the men had done a thorough job of smoothing out the earth. He picked a spot at random, placed his flashlight on the ground, and started digging.
At the third thrust he hit metal.
Ah-ha! Maybe the chip would be intact on this one. Ms. Weaver would be pleased. He dug around and scraped away more dirt.
It wasn't a robot. It was a smooth sheet of steel, about a couple feet across. James dug into another spot. More flat steel. It wasn't until he cleared away the third patch that he realized what it was. A floor.
No. Not a floor. James knelt down and brushed away some more of the dirt. He ran his fingers along the metal and felt grooves. A series of interlocking teeth ran along in a straight line down the steel floor --like a giant zipper.
James thought of the giant doors of an underground missile silo.
The steel was a door. Doors. Two great sliding doors, at least twenty feet across.
From behind him he heard the sound of rusted hinges. He spun around and squinted into someone's flashlight.
"Hey! You!" a voice called from behind the light. "Stay where you are!"
James ran.