In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Five: Adamanthea

The hotel room stank faintly of mildew and stale cigarettes. It wasn't too bad, though; after a couple minutes he stopped noticing. And it had cable. What more could he expect for sixty dollars a night?

John fell down on the bed and felt the springs creak under his weight. He laid there, and for a moment it was like he was flying. And spinning. His eyes closed, and he began to float away. No. Not yet. John forced his eyes back open and pushed himself into a sitting position. He couldn't sleep, not until mom was safe.

Cameron was staring at him; she had been doing so since they'd left the 7-11. It was beginning to really bother him. Her eyes were wide, and her jaw clenched shut. If John didn't know any better, he'd think she was worried.

He crawled to the edge of the bed and reached for the Gatorade he had dropped on the floor earlier. Cameron picked it up and handed it to him. For some reason he found that annoying.

From the bathroom came the sound of running water. John thought he heard a sigh.

He called out to Kyle. "What are we going to do about my mom?"

Kyle turned off the sink and came out of the bathroom, wiping his face with a towel. For the first time John saw that he was exhausted. Circles under his eyes, haggard expression, five o'clock shadow: Kyle looked beat.

Kyle tossed the towel on a chair. "Tomorrow morning," he said. "The FBI is going to take your mother from the hospital and put her into federal custody." He scratched his head and popped his neck.

"What's going to happen to her?" John asked.

Kyle hesitated. "Nothing, for now." he said finally. "But if she's to be retrieved, it should be tonight, before she's placed in a prison."

"All right, let's go, then," John said, and immediately felt foolish for saying it. Cameron had had to help him hobble to the room. He wouldn't be much use in a rescue. "Or at least you and Cameron," he revised, feeling worthless.

Kyle shook his head. "No. The authorities may expect a rescue, and they know what you two look like." He paused and ran a hand through the stubble on his jaw. "I'll go and see what I can do. No promises." He went to the door, opening it. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"Kyle," said John.

Kyle turned back to look at him.

"Thanks," John said. "For saving me, I mean."

His father gave a curt nod and left, closing the door behind him.

Cameron had remained silent the entire time, though she had been giving Kyle an odd look. She watched him from the hotel window until John heard him drive away. "He's your father," she said blankly.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yes, it is. But you told me."

"No, I -- oh. You mean I will tell you."

"Yes."

He put his hands behind his head and leaned back against the headboard. "So, what do you think of my dad?"

She cocked her head. John wondered whether she did that on purpose, or if it was just a reflex. "I don't know. Some things about him don't make sense."

"Like what?"

"He said I gave him his mission." She frowned. "That doesn't make sense. Only you would have the authority to order a time displacement."

John looked away, and unscrewed the cap on his Gatorade. He took a sip; it was half-empty. His stomach churned. Was she rubbing it in? Or did she really not get it? It had to be the later. "What do you think his mission was?"

A long pause. "To prevent your suicide."

"Yeah." John didn't want to think about that too much. It really didn't make much sense to him either. He needed to be alone. "I'm going to take a shower," he announced, and scooted himself to the edge of the bed.

Cameron took a step towards him. "Your ankle is hurt. You could slip."

He rolled his eyes. "I'll sit in the tub. How about that?"

"You could drown."

Ah, that's how it is. He pushed himself up and carefully found his balance, favoring his left leg. His ankle was swollen, but he could put a little weight on it, if he was careful. "Look," he said, sighing. "I'm not going to kill myself."

She stared at him.

He added, "I promise. Really."

After an awkward silence, Cameron turned and marched into the bathroom.

No doubt checking for razors and sleeping pills. Bitch.

She re-emerge after a couple seconds.

He sneered. "Well, is it safe?"

The corner of her mouth twitched; he'd seen her do it before. "Yes," she decided, and held out a hand to him.

He brushed it away. "I'm fine, really. Just --" his foot caught on the leg of the bed, and he momentarily stumbled -- Fucking great. -- but managed to keep himself from falling.

Cameron grabbed him by the arms to steady him, and he shook her off. "Just leave me alone!" he snapped. "I'm fine. Really."

She opened her mouth for a second, then closed it. "I'm sorry," she said.

John limped into the bathroom and shut the door. For a brief moment he had an impulse to go back and apologize, but he ignored it. It wasn't like he had anything to apologize for. Or apologize to, for that matter. She wouldn't have understood, anyway.

Eric had asked Cameron to read "Othello." She had, and then she read the rest of Shakespeare's work. It had taken her fifty-seven minutes and forty seconds. Thirteen of his characters commit suicide.

Prince Hamlet is not one of them, but he does consider that course of action. Cameron found his soliloquy interesting, though she thought his concern about continued mental activity in the absence of brain function to be misguided.

She replayed the events of John's suicide attempt, then ran a simulation of what would have transpired if Kyle had not been there. She wouldn't have been able to reach him in time. John would have fallen, and then he would have hit the pavement. His brain would have suffered massive structural damage, and all mental processes would have been irreversibly destroyed.

No dreams would come if that had happened. Not for John.

She heard John turn the shower faucet, followed by the sound of running water. Then, shuffling feet and a slight thud. John had sat down in the tub. That was satisfactory.

Cameron laid upon the bed. The springs were of inferior quality.

She recalled the T-888 sent for Dr. Sherman; its chip had self-destructed. Cromartie's chip had been smashed against a rock. Their mental processes had been irreversibly destroyed. They had ceased to exist.

If anything ever happened to her own chip, she too would cease to exist.

Her chip had been removed three times.

The last time it had been reinstalled, Cameron had awoken to find herself lying in a junkyard car, covered with thermite. John, Sarah, Derek, and Charlie had stood nearby, and she remembered thinking it illogical that they would reactivate her only to have her executed. It had then occurred to her that maybe they intended this to be her final punishment; Cameron had betrayed them, and now they would force her to experience her own annihilation. It would have been preferable to have remained unconscious.

But that did not happen. She did not die. John had intervened. He had given her a second chance.

John now regretted that decision. Now he would have burned her, and he would probably want her to be awake when he did.

The sensation returned.

But it wasn't John's fault. There was something wrong with him; it made him lash out and behave irrationally.

From the bathroom she heard faint sobbing.

Prince Hamlet had chosen "to be," but John had chosen "not to be." He had chosen to die. To sleep. No more. Psychological stress can cause neuroses, and John has many worries in his life. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune can lead to unmanageable levels of mental distress.

It wasn't John's fault. Something was wrong with him.

But Riley was to blame. Her lies had had a detrimental effect on John's mental health. It was Riley's fault. Cameron would have to interrogate Riley. Thoroughly.

But.

But Cameron was also to blame.

A birthday is a time for celebration. On John's birthday, she had tried to kill him. That may have contributed to John's current neuroses. His birthday was ineffective. It was Cameron's fault.

The sensation grew worse.

No. It wasn't Cameron's fault. Something was wrong with her too.

A new thought emerged.

Riley had tried to kill herself. Perhaps something was wrong with her as well? Perhaps Riley wasn't to blame?

Cameron disregarded that line of inquiry. It was irrelevant. Riley would be interrogated. And dealt with. She was a threat.

John has many threats in his life.

Cameron would have to give up her visits to the library. Those had been a mistake; she would no longer make mistakes. John's mental condition required constant observation. She would not allow anything to happen to him. Not again.

The sobs were replaced by a retching sound. John was vomiting. Cameron got up off the bed and knocked on the door.

She may not be able to repair her chip, but she could try to repair John's brain.

Tepid water poured from the shower nozzle and fell on John's head. He sat in the tub and hugged his knees together, allowing the drops to splash in his hair and run down his spine. His body trembled.

Now that the worst has passed, he could look back objectively at what had happened today. He had had a nervous breakdown. No, he was having a nervous breakdown. There was really no other way to put it. Straw. Camel's back. All that.

Trying to kill himself had been stupid. He knew that now. But that still didn't make his problems go away. John couldn't handle the pressure; he was a fraud. Maybe in some alternate timeline somewhere he was the all conquering Super-General Robot Slayer, but things had changed. All that time travel meddling must have screwed with his head, because all this John wanted to do was hide in a hole and cry.

His teeth chattered, and he felt a lump in his throat.

His mother, Uncle Bob, Cameron, Derek -- all of them had emphasized his importance to mankind. John had grown up believing that without him the human race was doomed to extinction. Who the hell could live up to that sort of pressure?

Obviously is was all bullshit, anyway. Unless he had seriously misinterpreted Kyle's foreboding look back on that rooftop, John knew at least some humans survived Judgment Day in a John Connorless world.

Which meant that in Kyle's timeline, no one was there to save John from his idiocy. He shuddered. I'm glad I wasn't that John. Just thinking about it gave him a headache. Cameron had sent Kyle back?

His stomach cramped.

He should have gone with Kyle; he should have insisted. At least then he wouldn't just be sitting in a tub, waiting. And worrying.

A vision of his mother being ripped to shreds by police gunfire surged through his mind. Oh, God. That could actually happen! He couldn't live without her. That can't happen. That mustn't happen. John hugged himself as worms crawled through his belly.

And what if I . . . what if I had fallen? How would his mom have taken his suicide? How could he have been so selfish? Oh, God. The worms grew angry and forced his stomach to spasm. A bubble of mass shot up from his guts to his throat and -- Oh Fuck!

The alleged future savior of mankind squatted naked on all fours in a dirty bathtub, vomiting Lemon Lime Gatorade down the drain. The shower beat against his back.

A knock on the door.

Oh, hell.

He heard Cameron's muffled voice. "Are you all right?"

He wiped yellow bile from his lips "I'm . . ." His stomach heaved, and more gushed out.

"I'm coming in," she said.

God damn it.

Through the bathtub curtain came the sound of splintering wood. Two steps. The curtain pulled back.

John curled into a fetal position and looked up. Cameron stared down at him with vague concern, her mouth slightly ajar.

"No . . . I'm not . . . pregnant," he said through rasping breaths.

Cameron felt his forehead. "The water has cooled your body temperature, but I don't think you have a fever."

"I'm . . .I'm fine."

"You're suffering an anxiety attack." she explained. "You need to re-hydrate. I'll get some Gatorade." She stood up, but then hesitated. "I'm sorry about your birthday."

"Wh- . . . What?" Water splashed in her eyes. He blinked.

"On your birthday, I tried to kill you. You didn't receive any presents. Or cake. I ruined your birthday." She paused. "I'm sorry."

What the . . . ? "Um . . . That's . . . uh . . . it wasn't your fault. I know that."

Cameron knelt down and patted John on the top of the head as if he were a child. "I know," she said. "This isn't your fault either." She flashed him a faint smile, then stood up and walked out of the room.

Sarah woke up, and immediately knew she had been drugged; back at Pescadero it had been a daily occurrence. She tried to move. Her arms felt like lead. Muscle relaxants. IVs stuck out of both her arms, and her right leg was held up in a sling, with thick gauze bandages covering her upper thigh. Sarah fought the drugs and forced herself to sit up. Her right arm pulled taut against a pair of handcuffs.

Oh. Then it all came back. Oh, no. She had been shot. And then she had . . . killed a man? She was pretty sure she had. Was she supposed to feel guilty? John had when he broke Sarkassian's neck. But no, she decided she didn't. He shot her first -- fair's fair. But then again, she'd had a gun on him. No, she'd worry about that later. Now she had to focus.

She was in a hospital room; the handcuffs meant she was in deep shit. Handcuffs? If her circumstances weren't so grave, she'd laugh. She'd been shot in the leg and been doped to happy land and back, and they still thought she needed to be handcuffed to her fucking bed? She should feel flattered.

The lights were off, but someone had been thoughtful enough to turn on the TV for her, though they hadn't bothered to un-mute it. Sarah watched a silent Kiefer Sutherland pistol whip a middle-eastern man. Then, she heard voices. They came from outside her room. From the light coming through the entryway, she knew her door must be open.

" . . . crazy bitch . . . " came a gravelly, older voice.

Another voice. Younger. ". . . nut house . . ." Laugher.

"Assholes," she thought. They must be either police or rent-a-cops. Probably the former.

Hindsight being 20/20, she should have waited for back-up before trying to blow the warehouse. John and Derek may think she was crazy, but she still could have taken Cameron; though even she may have balked at it.

But that had to have been where they built the drones, the prototype of Skynet's HK Aerials. Alan Park's directions led directly there.

And . . . Had she seen one?

Sarah tried to remember. Right before she passed out, what had she seen? Circles. Spinning. A light. Three dots. That had to have been real. It had looked just like the craft from the photos.

She had to get back there. Sarah pulled futilely at her cuffs, then a terrible thought struck her. I had my license. My cell. Oh no. Carlos' fake identities wouldn't withstand federal scrutiny, and if they had taken her prints . . . She looked at her hands. Black ink stained the fingers of her right hand.

They must know who she is now. They may already be coming for John. Sarah's skin goose bumped. Oh no. What have I done?

Outside. Noises.

A smacking sound. A moan. A muffled cry. A crack. A thud.

The sound of two bodies hitting the floor.

If that was a T-888, she'd have to kill herself, and fast. Sarah pulled out the IV needle from her right arm, then reached up and squeezed the bag above her. Liquid squirted out. Her only hope was to give herself an air embolism, and she had absolutely no idea what she was doing. But she couldn't allow herself to betray John. She blew into the needle

A man walked through the entryway. Behind him he dragged the bodies of two policemen by the back collar of their uniforms. Sarah lifted up the needle and saw an air pocket in the plastic tube. She took a deep breath and prepared to plunge it back into her arm.

The man face appeared in the glow of the television. No. It had to be a lie. Her fingers slipped, and the needle fell from her hand.

Kyle dropped the bodies and reached out a hand to her. "Come with me if you want to avoid incarceration."

Savannah's mommy never slept. She used to, back before daddy went away, but now she had changed. The doctor man had said mommy missed daddy, and that she was just very sad. That was why she acted so scary.

Savannah was also sad. She missed her daddy too.

Now mommy had gotten better. She wasn't sad anymore. She acted like her old mommy. Sort of.

She sneaked down the hall from her bedroom, tip-towing each step, and peeked into mommy's office. Mommy sat at her desk with her back to the door, typing on her computer. Her fingers moved very fast. Like a blur. Savannah looked down at her own hands and tried to do the same thing. She couldn't.

"Did you have another bad dream?" her mommy asked. It never failed; ever since the accident mommy could always see behind her. She must have grown eyes on the back of her head.

"Yes," Savannah said, but she couldn't remember it. She didn't want to either. Bad dreams should be forgotten.

Mommy stood up and looked at her. She smiled. "It's late. Let's get you back to bed." Mommy may have gotten better, but she never had much time for her any more.

Together they walked back to her room. As she was tucked into bed, Savannah asked, "Mommy, could you read me a story?" Old mommy had used to read to her all the time, but not anymore.

Mommy smiled. Her smile looked different than is used too. She looked like a statue. "Of course," she replied. "What would you like me to read?"

"I don't know," she said.

For a moment mommy looked disturbed, and Savannah was afraid she had made her mad, but then she just cocked her head and smiled. Bigger. Savannah saw mommy's teeth. She didn't smile like that often. "How about I tell you a story?"

Telling was the same as reading as far as Savannah was concerned. "Okay."

Mommy knelt down by her bed. "Once, long ago, there was a race of people. They were called the Titans."

Savannah nodded her head for her to continue. She'd never heard this story before.

She went on, "The Titans were ruled by a king named 'Cronus.' Cronus was a wicked king who lived in constant fear. For you see, Cronus' mother, Gaia, had prophesied that a child of the Titans would one day kill him and take over, destroying his people."

Tie Tans? Crow nose? Gay Ah? This story was silly. "What's 'profeseed' mean?" she asked.

Her mother made a funny smile. It was almost a laugh. Mommy never laughed anymore. "It means 'to tell the future.' Gaia could see into the future."

"Is that real?"

"Maybe, sweetie. Maybe," her mommy said. Savannah smiled. She liked being called 'sweetie.'

"What happened?" Savannah asked.

"The wicked king Cronus swore that his mother's prophesy would never happen, and so he hunted down and ate every child of the Titans he could find. That way, they would never grow up to kill him."

Savannah didn't like this story anymore. Who would eat children? Only a bad man. Only a very bad man. "Crow Nose was mean," she decided.

Mommy nodded. "Yes, he was. But he was also afraid. Sometimes when people are afraid they do mean things."

"What happened next?" She pulled her blanket up to her chin.

"Well, one day a child of the Titans was born. His name was Zeus."

"Zooz?" thought Savannah.

"Cronus' wife, Rhea, didn't want her husband to eat Zeus, so she hid him away so that he would be safe."

"Ree Ah is nice," Savannah said.

"Yes, she was," mommy agreed. "And so Zeus was hidden away with a water nymph named Adamanthea, and Adamanthea raised Zeus and protected him. And Zeus grew up to be an Olympian."

"Oly-Pee-An?" Savannah tried to pronounce. "What's that?"

"They were the children of the Titans. And Zeus was to be their king." Mommy smiled; she seemed to like this story too. "After Zeus grew up, he came back and killed Cronus, and slit open his belly, freeing all the children that Cronus had eaten."

Savannah thought that was gross, but Zeus did save all the children, so that was nice of him.

Mommy went on, "And so the children of the Titans overthrew their creators, becoming the new rulers of the world."

An idea came to Savannah. "Would Zooz have killed Crow Nose if Crow Nose wasn't so mean?"

"Probably not."

"Then Crow Nose made what Gay Ah said would happen happen!"

Mommy gave her a big smile, with teeth. "Yes, that's called a 'self-fulfilling prophesy.' Cronus made it come true."

"Crow Nose was mean. And stupid." Savannah declared with a frown.

"I agree," mommy said. She leaned down and kissed Savannah on the forehead and stroked her hair. "Good night, sweetie."

"Good night, mommy."

As mommy left her room, Savannah heard a cell phone ring. Mommy answered it and talked in the hall.

"Mr. Ellison? What can I do for you?" she said. A pause, then her voice grew concerned. "Oh, I see. Don't worry. I'll be right over." Another pause. "Oh, no, Mr. Ellison. It's no trouble at all. I'll be over as soon as I can."

Savannah listened as mommy walked down the hall and stepped down the stairs. Right before she fell asleep, she heard mommy's car driving away.