In the Hands of an Angry Machine
Chapter Six: I'll Explain Later
She had only known him for two days, and that had been sixteen years ago. But Sarah's memory of Kyle had never faded. His kind brown eyes and that sad, almost desperate expression were permanently engraved into her soul. By the dim light of the television, his face looked down at her.
"You're . . . you can't be . . . Kyle?" she said. She had to be dreaming. Or crazy.
Kyle blinked. "Everyone seems to know who I am," he muttered to himself. Moving to the right side of her bed, he examined her handcuffs.
"But . . . how?" she asked.
He grasped the handcuff chain between his fingers. "You tell me," he said as he furrowed his brow and squeezed the chain, twisting it. Sarah watched the skin of his fingers turn white with pressure until a link snapped, and she was free.
"You're . . . you're a machine!" He had to be a trick, a ploy by Skynet. She tried to climb out of bed, to run down the hall, cry for help -- anything. But she could scarcely move. He casually pushed her back down with one hand.
"No, I'm not," he said. "I'll explain later."
"Get away from me!" she screamed. "I'll nev--!" Kyle's hand clasped over Sarah's mouth. She bit into his palm savagely; he didn't flinch.
"I'm here to rescue you. Don't sabotage that." He removed his hand, pulling his skin from her teeth; Sarah hadn't even drawn blood.
"I'll never lead you to John," she spat.
Kyle gave her a puzzled look. "You . . . don't have to. I already know where he is. He's safe. With Cameron."
No one's ever safe.
He knelt down and with almost inhuman efficiency began to unbutton the shirt of one of the cops. "I'm on your side," he added.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"You don't, but if I wanted to find your son, I wouldn't have come to you." He pulled the shirt off the policeman and began to unfasten the pants. Sarah sat up and watched; the cop was still breathing, though blood drooled from his mouth. "You don't know where he is," he went on. "The police have already searched your home."
"How do you know this?"
"I just do. I'll explain later." He pulled off the policeman's pants and shoes, then stripped off his own clothes, t-shirt first, then sneakers, then jeans. He wasn't wearing any underwear.
The Kyle she remembered had been covered with scars and marks. Plasma and laser burns, the work-camp tattoo, shrapnel wounds from countless battles . . . this Kyle lacked all of that. His skin was entirely unmarred.
"You're dead," she said. It seemed a stupid thing to say, so she clarified, "You died in 1984."
"That's news to me." He slipped on the officer's slacks. They were too big on him.
And my Kyle was taller. She tried to remember; yes, he definitely had had a good six or seven inches on her. This Kyle was shorter than her son.
"What year are you from?" she asked.
"2027. We need to hurry." He quickly buttoned up the navy blue uniform and slid on the shoes and gun belt. A wheelchair laid folded up against the wall. Kyle pulled it out and pushed it to Sarah's bed. "Here. Get in."
She pulled out the IV from her other arm, and Kyle helped her into the chair, gingerly sliding her leg from the sling. "What's your plan, exactly?" she asked
"To wheel you out of the hospital."
"You think that will work?"
Kyle handcuffed the unconscious men's hands to the bedrail. "If the hospital staff believe I'm a member of law-enforcement, they'll not question me."
She shook her head. "I hope your right."
He pocketed a small revolver from his jeans and pulled out a roll of duct tape. Wrapping a length of tape around each of the cop's heads, he covered up their mouths. He then tossed his clothes, along with the other gun belt, into Sarah's lap. She cringed as pain shot through her thigh -- whatever the doctors had given her was beginning to wear off.
"Sorry," he said off-handedly as he pulled off the bed sheet and threw it over her legs. "Here, cover them with this."
Sarah padded down the sheet and slipped her hands under it, keeping her fingers firmly on the grip of the policeman's Glock. Not that I have the strength to use it.
"Right, let's go," Kyle said. Sarah caught the vestige of an . . . English? . . . Australian? . . . accent, but it was very subtle.
Kyle opened the door to her room and wheeled her out. It must have been fairly late, because the hallway was mostly empty, a couple nurses, an old man with a walker, no one else. He walked casually, and nobody paid them any mind. The elevator door opened as he pushed her up, and they went in. He pressed for the ground floor.
A thousand questions raced through Sarah's mind. She snatched at one. "Why were you sent back? To break me out of the hospital?"
A slight pause, just long enough for her to notice. "I'll explain everything later," he said.
The elevator opened. He rolled her out.
To his credit, no one bothered them until they were nearly to the front doors.
"Sir? Sir!" cried a woman's voice behind her. Kyle sped up the tempo of his walk. "Sir? Officer?" the voice went on. "You can't check out a patient without . . . " The automated doors leading to the vestibule slid open and Kyle's gait stepped up into a light jog.
Sarah watched decorative plants and a tiled fountain pass her by. The sliding doors to the outside opened up and Kyle pushed her out into the parking lot. His jog shifted into a run.
About half an hour after James called, Ms. Weaver pulled into his driveway. He had spent the mean time lying on the kitchen linoleum and trying very hard not to move. Once or twice he had made a half-hearted attempt at standing, but each time the bullet grinding against his hip won out.
He held a bloody fistful of gauze over his bare right buttock and did his best to apply pressure, but blood was beginning to pool on the tiles, and his arm had cramped. He hoped Ms. Weaver knew what she was doing.
She didn't bother to knock, and James hadn't thought to lock the door, so she walked on in.
"An eventful night, I see," she said.
He looked up at her and gave a weak grin. "Yeah, well, that's what I get for hunting robots."
"I should give you a raise," she said, and knelt by his side, popping open a first aid kit. It was much nicer than his own. Antibiotics, painkillers, burn ointments . . . He saw sutures and a hypodermic needle.
"You know what your doing, right?"
"I'm a woman of many talents, Mr. Ellison."
"Yeah, but I wouldn't have thought patching up bullet holes would be your forte. I assumed you had people for that."
She took out one of the hypodermic needles. James had to restrain an urge to scoot away. "What's that?" he asked.
"Local anesthetic," she said. "I don't have to give it to you if you don't want it, but . . ."
"No, no, please," he said. "I'm just not too partial to shots. Especially in my butt."
"A little late for that, it would seem." She leaned over with the needle. He looked away and waited for the sting. Nothing. "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
He laughed. "Not at all."
Ms. Weaver took out a small bottle of peroxide. "Now, what exactly happened?"
"Out in Thousand Oaks, there's this warehouse. It's got this sort of big silo door in the grou--" He heard the fizz of the antiseptic as she poured it over his wound. It felt mildly cool against his skin. "--ground." He paused. "I have reason to beli--"
"The 'Heat and Air' warehouse?" she interrupted. "Didn't they find Sarah Connor there today? Something about explosives, I believe?"
James said nothing.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Ellison," she said. "I've done my homework. The massacre of the police station, the events at Pescadero, her attack on the Cyberdyne building, Silberman's ravings . . . Sarah Connor and robots seem to follow each other around." She dabbed at his wound with gauze.
"Well," he began. "If she thinks there's something worth blowing up there, there must be a reason."
"Hold still. This may hurt." James felt something metal slide into his wound. It must have been forceps. The anesthetic kept it from being painful.
He went on, "There's something near the warehouse. Like I said, big doors in the ground." The forceps clamped onto something inside him, and he felt a yank. His flexed his glutes in sudden pain, which only made it worse. The metal quickly slid out, and James sighed with relief.
She held the bullet out to him between her thumb and index finger. He cupped his hand, and she dropped it into his palm."Big doors in the ground?" she asked.
"Yeah, about, I don't know, two hundred yards down the road." He felt a slight tickling on his butt. Sutures? "East from the warehouse, I think. Guards shot at me when I started digging."
"Hmm. We may have to investigate this further."
"I don't think I'll be doing any running around for a while."
"Don't worry about that," she said. "I have my own . . . people . . . for matters such as these. People who specialize in . . . camouflage." James wasn't looking at her, but he could hear a smile.
"You have other people who know about . . . ?"
"No, just the two of us, Mr. Ellison." She pulled the sutures tight and placed an adhesive bandage over the wound. "There you are," she said as she stood up and held out a hand. "Can you stand ?"
He took her hand and pulled himself up; though most of the effort was on her part. She was surprisingly strong.
His ass still hurt, but not as bad as he had expected. "Looks like it," he said.
She handed him a bottle of Vicodin. "Take these as needed. And I recommend a few days rest, no sitting, no heavy lifting . . ." Her mouth twisted into a wry grin. "And no bullets."
"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."
"Not a problem. I'll let you know what I find out." She walked towards the door, but stopped as she reached for the knob. "How would you like to come over for dinner? Say, this Wednesday? I'll make sure there's a nice cushion on your chair."
"Ms. Weaver, I'd be delighted." Was this a date? He hoped so. Or maybe he didn't. James wasn't sure.
"Call me Catherine," she said.
"Alright, Catherine. I'll be there."
"Until then, James." And she left.
As soon as he heard her drive away, he noticed she had left her first aid kit on the ground. I guess when you're rich things like that don't matter. He glanced over the contents: bandages, needles, sutures, antibiotics, . . . but no forceps. There wasn't even an empty spot for it. Had she been carrying it when she left? No, James didn't think so. Her suit didn't have any pockets either.
He looked down at the bullet in his hand and wondered how she had pulled it out.
The upholstery was ripped and smelled of mold, and fast food waste littered the floorboard. After they escaped the hospital, Kyle had abandoned the SUV in a parking lot and exchanged it for this old station wagon. Sarah laid in the backseat and wished he had chosen a nicer car.
She propped up her leg on the cracked plastic armrest and watched Kyle as he drove. He still wore the police uniform, which was at least two sizes too big. Sarah thought of Cameron after she had come back from retrieving Vick's hand.
And somewhere, a naked cop lies bleeding in a hospital room.
A couple minutes passed; the silence began to grow awkward. "How did you do that?" she decided to ask. "With the handcuffs, I mean?"
"Augmentations, I'll explain later." In the front seat next to him sat a boxed laptop and some speakers; he had had them with him earlier.
"What's with the computer?"
"I got it from Radio World. On the way over to pick you up." He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She noticed his eyes were blue.
"Okay. What's it for?" she asked.
He patted his stomach. "I have a message that needs to be played. It should explain everything."
"Explain what? Was your mission to keep me out of Pescadero?"
He looked back at her. "No."
"Then what?" she demanded.
"I'll explain later."
She was growing tired of this. "Fuck you. Explain now."
From the side of his face she saw him frown. "Your son . . ." he trailed off.
Sarah's skin grew cold; the ache in her leg vanished. "What about my son?"
"I was sent to prevent his suicide."
The cold turned to ice. Suicide. She remembered his accident with the handgun. No. Through a suddenly dry throat, she forced herself to ask, "Is . . . Is he . . . ?"
"I told you before, he's safe."
Suicide? "Why . . . ?"
Kyle misunderstood. "I don't know," he said with a hint of exasperation. "I'm just carrying out a contingency plan." He shook his head. "Cameron evidently thinks he's important."
"Cameron?"
"Yes. Cameron."
The ice boiled away into steam. "Tell me everything. Now."
He did.
Cameron laid on the bed next to John and watched him sleep. He had been unconscious for four hours and sixteen minutes. Brushing her fingers against his cheek, she detected trace amounts of apocrine gland secretion, but he had stopped perspiring, and his heart rate was normal. The anxiety attack had passed.
John had had a stressful day. Emotions can be stressful.
Humans have emotions. Cameron did not. This made understanding them difficult, but she concluded they must be a form of internalized non-sensory stimuli employed as a determinable for the human decision making process. As a determinable, however, they failed to function properly. Emotions can lead to irrational behavior.
Cameron lacked total recollection of the Allison glitch incident, but of what she did remember, she found the experience . . . disconcerting. Colors had been more vivid, tactile sensations more intense, sounds more vibrant. And that man, threatening to strike her -- she had felt something then that she couldn't yet classify. It was analogous to the vague apprehensions she had encountered on prior occasions, only stronger, magnified. Overwhelming.
She would not choose to repeat that experience. Except perhaps the part with the foosball -- in a controlled environment.
Though the details were scrubbed by her reprogramming, she knew Skynet had created that personality by simulating the neural structure of the human brain onto her CPU chip. If that incident was any indication of what it was like to be human, it was little wonder they suffered from so many psychological maladies.
John began to stir, and for a moment she considered getting off the bed. He may become agitated if he saw her in such close proximity. John agitated easily.
He opened his eyes and saw her. Too late.
Behind his closed mouth, he ran his tongue over his teeth and made an expression of distaste. Vomit residue must have an unsatisfactory flavor. "How . . . long have I been asleep?" he asked.
"Over four hours," she replied, setting her voice into a soft tone.
"Have they come back . . . ?"
"No."
His mouth tightened into a frown, and he looked at the ceiling.
"I'm sure your mother is all right," she lied.
"I hope so." He swallowed.
Neither of them spoke for twelve seconds.
"I . . . I'm sorry," he said. "About what I said to you, at the hospital." He looked at her; droplets of moisture began to emanate from his tear ducts. "I shouldn't have . . . said those things."
John required reassurance that his apology had been accepted. Cameron reached out and held his hand in hers. "It's okay," she told him.
He squeezed her hand back. "When I said I . . . wished you had burned . . . I didn't mean it." He blinked tears from his eyes to clear his vision. "I just want you to know that." His eyes drifted back to the ceiling. "I'm sorry."
The sensation returned. But this time it was different. It wasn't an irritant. It was the opposite.
It was a preferable sensation.
"It's okay," she told him again, and smiled.
A car pulled into the hotel parking lot. Cameron let go of John and went to the window to watch. The vehicle was unfamiliar, but an infrared scan revealed the occupants to be Sarah and Kyle.
"They're back," she said. "You should put some clothes on."