In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Four: Plan B

James had run only a few feet when he heard the first shot.

Shit!

He hunched over and turned, sprinting to his left.

Another shot, followed be two more. Crack! Crack!

They sounded like 9mms, maybe about twenty yards behind him. James switched back to his right and ran faster. A zigzag pattern would make him a harder target. On the ground he saw his faint shadow shift back and forth, cast by his pursuer's flashlight.

Two more shots. As he ran he glimpsed a tiny geyser of dirt spraying from the ground by his feet. Shit.

In the dark he couldn't see far, but he knew his sedan was parked somewhere up the road. Maybe a hundred and fifty yards?

Another shot.

He kept running. His car might as well be on the moon.

I should have parked closer.

Two more shots.

And brought a gun.

Three shots in rapid succession.

And a vest.

Ahead laid a small knoll. It was no more than a couple feet higher than the surrounding terrain, but its tall grass would give him some cover. He scrambled behind it and quickly looked for his vehicle.

It was closer than he had thought. Fifty yards, tops.

James heard faint voices in the distance, and he stole a glance over the knoll. The one flashlight was now three; the beams swung around, searching.

Shit! Shit!

But they were farther away now. Thirty, perhaps forty yards. And the beams were scanning the ground. They didn't know where he was.

But they would soon enough, if he stayed put.

"Jesus save me," he prayed as he sprinted towards his car.

A shout. Two shots. Another geyser at his feet.

Zigzag. Zigzag. His car was closer now, about thirty yards.

Another shot.

He ran and ran. About ten yards away now. He thanked God he left his door unlocked.

James rushed the final distance and hunkered down against the drivers side of his car. His heart pounded viciously in his chest.

Good thing these guys are bad shots.

Something bit his right buttock.

James quickly swung open the drivers seat door and cli--

And his left knee.

--mbed into the seat. He fumbled with his keys. With a 'crack,' a spider web appeared on his back window. The left side of his car 'pinged.'

For one terrifying moment James thought his car would act like it was in a bad horror movie, but the engine started at the first turn of the key. His tires kicked up dirt as he pulled away.

The three beams gradually grew smaller in his rear view mirror.

"Kyle?" he thought. But then he saw it. The man was shorter and slighter in build, but he had Derek's face. Only his features were less rough, and his eyes were kind.

It's my face.

"You're . . ." But John couldn't find the words. He tried to stand up, but his right ankle buckled, and he fell back to his knees. Kyle -- my father -- caught him under his arms.

"Easy there." Kyle said with a smile.

Cameron walked up behind Kyle and touched him on the back of his neck. "You're human," she said. "But you lifted John up by one arm. A human of your size and build could not do that." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "You're not Kyle."

"How do you know who I am?" Kyle asked. "You haven't met me yet."

John thought he caught a trace of an English accent.

Cameron cocked her head to one side, then the other.

"You're . . ." John said again. He clutched at Kyle's forearms and pulled himself up. Kyle's arms didn't waver in the slightest. "You're . . . Kyle Reese," he said at last.

Kyle gave him a quizzical look. "And how do you know me?" No. Not English. Australian, maybe.

John tried to stand on his own again and pushed away Kyle's arms. He managed at first, but his balance was off, and he began to tip over. But before he could fall, Cameron came around and wrapped his left arm over her shoulders, holding him up with her right. She led him away from the railing, allowing him to use her body as a crutch. John squeezed her shoulder for extra support.

She carefully swiveled John around as she turned to face Kyle. "Kyle was sent to 1984," she said.

Kyle frowned. "No, I wasn't. I was sent here. To 2007."

"Why did I send you back to this year?" John asked. He was afraid he already knew the answer.

Kyle stared at him as if he had just spoken nonsense. "You? You . . . didn't send me back."

The pain in John's ankle turned numb. He felt faint. "But . . . who sent you?"

"I sent myself," Kyle said, then nodded at Cameron. "But she gave me the mission."

"Cameron . . . ? But . . . what about me?" John asked, his voice almost cracking.

"You? What do you mean?" Kyle asked.

"Wh . . . Where was I in the future? In your future, I mean. What was I doing?"

Kyle said nothing, then glanced off the edge of the building.

Oh.

No.

Dizziness.

Darkness.

"Cameron, I need to lie down, please." he heard someone say.

Gentle hands lowered him to the ground.

The world really did revolve around him.

Cameron laid John carefully on the asphalt. Over the past few seconds his heart rate and adrenaline level had increased drastically. He was suffering a mild synoptic episode. The blood flow to his brain would need to be increased. She lifted his legs above his head and made a cursory examination of right ankle. It was only a sprain.

The person identifying himself as Kyle walked over and stood next to her. "I can explain everything later," he said. "But we don't have much time. Your 'Baum' identities have been compromised."

Cameron looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Approximately one hour ago Sarah Connor was apprehended by authorities outside a warehouse in Thousand Oaks. They determined her identity through a fingerprint check. An investigation is curr--"

John lifted up his head. "Mom? What happened to my mom?"

Kyle made a slight grimace. "Your mother was shot in the leg while attempting to destroy a warehouse. She is being held at the Los Robles Medical Center."

"Mom!" John cried. "We've got to save mom!" He tried to pull himself up.

Cameron placed a hand on John's chest and firmly pushed him back into a prone position. "Don't worry, John," she said in a soothing voice. "Everything will be alright." His perspiration level increased, and he began to sob quietly. She turned to Kyle. "How do you know this?"

"You told me." he said. "Anyway, I'll explain later. Right now you need to dispose of your and John's cell phones. The authorities may be tracking them as we speak."

"I need to warn one of our allies first." Cameron said. She decided not to say Derek's name. That might complicate the situation.

"Right. You do that, but hurry." Kyle said. "I'll commandeer a vehicle." He walked towards a line of parked cars at the far end of the lot.

Cameron turned her attention back to John. He was recovering, but she would have to observe him closely from now on. His suicide attempt would have been successful were it not for Kyle's intervention. She thought about John's accidental handgun discharge a few weeks ago. The spent casing had burned his cheek. That might have been a preliminary attempt.

If John had tried before, he may try again.

She would have to ensure he did not succeed.

As she took out her cell phone, she saw Kyle drive his fist through the drivers side window of a SUV. He had told her she had given him his mission. She would ask him about that later, when they had more time.

Cameron called Derek.

Derek used to love Spongebob Squarepants. Back when he was ten. Not so much anymore. Out of all the things he had missed from the Pre-Judgment Day world, a cartoon about a talking sea sponge was near the bottom of the list.

But he watched it anyway. Being drunk helped.

Nah. Fuck that. He changed the channel.

Some black and white shit. Boring. He changed it again.

Barney. Uh, no.

He was about to switch to the Cartoon Network when his cell phone rang. He stretched an arm off the couch and picked it up. It was Cameron.

Great. Fucking tin. He flipped it open.

"What?" he said.

Beep. Beep.

He sighed and pressed two buttons in return. "What is it?"

"I'll explain later," Cameron's voice said. "The 'Baum' identity has been compromised. The authorities may be tracking our phones as we speak."

"What happened?"

"Complications. I'll explain later."

He sat up. "Is John alright?"

"John is alright."

"Where are you?"

"We're at a hospital."

"What? Why?"

"Riley attempted suicide. She failed."

"Shit, " he said.

"Yes. Shit," Cameron repeated. "You need to destroy your phone and vacate your location. The authorities may already be on their way."

"Alright, alright," he said. Goddamn it. He liked his phone.

"You know where to meet me." she said. "I'll be there this time tomorrow."

"Okay." He hung up.

Derek got up off the couch and stretched. He had just moved into this apartment two weeks ago. Damn. He liked having his own place. He finished his beer and tossed the bottle on the ground. Oh well, better pack up quick.

But first he had to warn Jesse. If the feds tracked their phone records, her number would come up. She'd have to ditch her cell and lay low too.

Derek called Jesse.

The SUV pulled out of the car park building and drove down Pacific Avenue.

The last half-hour had felt like a dream to John. Riley's confession, his suicide attempt, Kyle's appearance and rescue, and finding out his mother had been shot and taken into custody. All within a few minutes. It was just past two o'clock.

But the worse revelation had only been implied. Did Kyle really mean . . . ? John repressed the thought before he grew dizzy again. If it had been true, it wasn't any longer. Things had changed, and John was alive.

Cameron sat in the backseat next to him, watching him like a hawk.

"Where are we going?" he asked Kyle.

Kyle glanced back. "I'm not sure. We can't go to your home. The authorities may already be there. Do any of you have any money?"

"I have fourteen dollars and fifty-seven cents," Cameron replied.

John shook his head. "I don't even have my wallet."

Kyle paused for a second. "How much is a hotel room?" he asked.

"A lot more than fourteen dollars." John said.

Kyle frowned. "I'm going to have to procure financial resources, then."

"But what about my mom?"

"Your mother is safe. Her wound was non-critical."

"How do you know?" John demanded.

"I know," he said.

"But what's going to happen to her?" John asked.

"We'll worry about her later," Kyle said. "First we should secure a base of operations."

"But . . ." John started.

Cameron put her hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, John," she said. "We'll do something about it later." She smiled at him. He wondered if it was real.

Kyle pulled the SUV into a 7-11 parking lot and came to a stop in the alley behind the store. He withdrew a small snub-nosed revolver from his back pocket. "I'm going to pick up some money," he explained.

"You mean you're going to rob the place?" John asked.

"Yes. Did you want me to get you anything?"

"No. I'm alright."

"You have been under a lot of stress, John," Cameron said. "You need re-hydration fluid."

It was true. His clothes were damp with sweat, and he had a headache. "Okay. In that case, give me a Gatorade. Lemon-Lime, please."

Kyle opened the door but turned to Cameron before he got out. "What about you? You want anything? A peachy-keen smoothie, perhaps?"

Cameron cocked her head. "No," she said. "I'm alright."

"Right," Kyle said, and smiled. "Stay here. I'll be back." He closed the door behind him and disappeared around the alley's corner.

For a while neither of them spoke.

"Don't do that again," Cameron said at last.

"Do wha-- ? Oh. I . . . um . . . " John trailed off. He didn't really want to talk about it. "I won't," he said.

"Why did you do it?"

"I . . . " He looked out the window, focusing on a broken beer bottle on the ground. "It was Riley. She's from the future."

Cameron didn't say anything.

"You were right, Cameron. She was lying." He swallowed and tried to hold back his tears. His eyes stung from all the crying.

"I'm sorry, John."

"No, you're not."

"I'm sorry she lied to you."

John ignored her and rested his head against the window, shutting his eyes against the world. He was exhausted, but knew he couldn't go to sleep; the adrenaline still had its spell on him. He took a deep breath and sighed.

A hand touched his arm. "Are you going to try to kill yourself again?"

John turned to look her in the eyes. Cameron stared back intently, and he thought he saw a trace of concern, but it was probably just programmed mimicry. "No," he said.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Kyle came back around the corner, a gun in one hand and a big bag of groceries in the other.

Jesse wheeled the wooden box into the cargo container and stacked it with the others. Forty AK-47s, five to a crate. She had made a tidy sum from Moishe's diamonds, and had invested every penny of it. This shipment alone would net her ten grand, and with her connections she could do this at least once a month. Carrots and apples.

She wiped sweat from her brow. If business got too big, she'd have to hire help. Maybe Derek would be interested.

Her phone rang. It was Derek.

"Hey," she answered. "I was just thinking of you."

"Hey," said Derek. "This is important. Listen."

"What?"

"You got to ditch your phone. The Feds may be tracking it. They might even be listening in on us right now. I don't know."

"What?" she almost shouted into her phone. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"The Connors are in trouble. I'm not sure. I've just been told to get rid of my phone. If they search our call records, your number will come up. Scrap it."

"What happen?"

"Don't know." he said. "Something about John's girlfriend. She tried to off herself or something. I guess the police got involved and shit hit the fan. Don't know yet."

Jesse left the cargo container and paced in a circle. Fuck. "Shit, Derek," she said. "They're tracking us?"

"Hell, for all I know they're on their way over right now. Just ditch your phone. Take out the battery, smash it, whatever. And lay low."

"Fuck. Thanks for the warning." She liked her phone. It was a Blackberry.

"No problem. Tomorrow at eight I'll meet you where we first met -- this year."

"Alright. Love you."

"Love you too," he said, then hung up.

Shit.

Jesse tossed her phone on the ground and pulled out her .45. The bullet shattered it into a thousand pieces, sending bits of plastic and circuitry in every direction. She thought of Cameron.

Her truck was parked out front, but if the Feds were really on their way, she had better take some things with her. She walked to the back of the warehouse and unlocked a door. A short stairway led down to a supply room.

The really aggravating part was not knowing whether Riley had accomplished her mission or not. Suicide? That might hook John on sympathy, but only if Riley had played her cards right. Knowing Riley, she probably hadn't.

And what if Riley talked? What if Derek already knew? Tomorrow morning may end up an ambush. No. Derek wouldn't do that. He'd understand, and he hated Cameron almost as much as she did.

Almost, but not enough.

No, he wasn't her Derek; he had known a different General Connor, a John who had still known which side of the war he was one. This Derek wouldn't understand the necessity of her plan.

Her plan. Her bad plan. Taking Riley with her had been a mistake. If only she had had more time to prepare, to find someone better, someone who was more than just an useless tunnel rat. But Jesse had had only a matter of hours before someone would have whispered her name. And that would have been it; they would have come for her. If Cullie's brother hadn't been there to bubble them away, Jesse might have ended her life in an interrogation chamber.

She entered the supply room and switched on the florescent lights. The walls were lined with small arms, and ammunition crates sat in two neat rows on the floor. Her personal stash. She picked up a duffel bag and chose a few select weapons, stuffing them inside.

She'd have to play it by ear for a while, see if Riley's gambit had paid off. Maybe Riley would end up Mrs. Connor after all. Good for her. And wouldn't it be nice if John blamed the machine for what Riley did? Super.

But Jesse had a feeling it hadn't played out that way. Her plan might have even backfired. Shame, really. She knew his pet metal was useful to him, but John tended to grow too attached to his toys. She'd have to do something about that. For his own good, really.

She went to a long silver rifle case at the end of the room. Unlocking the latches, she opened it to reveal a Barrett M82 .50 caliber anti-material rifle.

If Riley had failed her, Jesse would just have to move to Plan B.

James crawled from his garage onto the kitchen floor and pulled out the first aid kit from under the sink. His knee wasn't so bad, just a graze, really, but his ass was killing him.

He shifted his right leg over and felt the bullet grind against bone; he screamed through clenched teeth. Unbuckling his pants, he pulled them off and twisted his head around to get a better look at his wound. The right side of his white briefs was red; he gingerly slid them down.

The hole wasn't bleeding as bad it could have been. It obviously hadn't hit his femoral artery or anything like that. Otherwise he'd be dead by now.

He pulled a roll of gauze from the first aid kit and began to wrap it around his hips. Then stopped. He suddenly felt very foolish. "What am I going to do?" he thought. "Bandage my ass and go to bed?" He needed medical attention; the bullet wasn't going to remove itself, and, when it came down to it, he didn't really know what he was doing.

But going to the hospital wouldn't do. That'd be awkward. There'd be an investigation, of course, and even if his fellow FBI agents believed him, whatever secrets the "Heat & Air" warehouse kept may be protected by scary government 'men in black' types. They may not appreciate him snooping around their secret robot factories. James didn't want to be disappeared.

If only he knew a shady doctor who wouldn't ask questions.

Hell, he could do better than that. He had his very own multi-millionaire patroness. If anyone could make this problem go away, she could.

Oh well. I was going to call her anyway.

This was going to be embarrassing, he just knew it. He took out his phone.

James called Ms. Weaver.