In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Thirteen: Cassandra

Back in the future, Riley had always heard stories about the world before Judgment Day. How people flew through the air in great winged machines, with not a Hunter Killer in sight. How the air was clean, the sky blue -- not red -- and how stars shone at night, with no dust to blot out the heavens.

Flowers, grass, fresh fruit and vegetables. Meat that didn't come from a rat. Water you could see through. It had all seemed like fairy tales, and Riley had thought it cruel that she'd been born too late to enjoy this lost paradise.

And then came Jesse, and, for a while at least, life was good. Carrots and apples.

One of the characters in many of these stories -- not a character, really, but rather a place, or maybe an idea -- was America.

The United States of America.

In the future, when people would gather around burning barrels to talk of things Before, they would whisper in reverence words like "freedom" and "liberty" when referring to America. Riley hadn't known what these things really meant. General Connor's word was law; how could things be any different? But some of the kinder scavengers -- the older ones, who still remembered the Before, would describe how people could vote for their Generals. Ordinary people, choosing them! Of course, back then, Generals were called Presidents.

America: they could have ruled the world if they had wanted to, the scavengers had said (and they had even put men on the moon!), but in their arrogance they had unleashed Skynet upon mankind. "Pride cometh before a fall," she had heard someone once say.

But none of it had ever seemed real. She had also been told that ghosts haunt the ruins of churches, and that drinking urine from a skull allows you to talk to the dead through your dreams. Not everything she heard was true, she knew. America must have been a myth, like Superman and Eskimos.

Even after she went back with Jesse, it still hadn't seemed like something that really existed. It had all been . . . abstract. Like a concept -- thought of and talked about and believed in, but never seen. Sort of like God.

Of course, she had seen civil workers and policemen -- and had even been in a Mexican jail once. But real authority never came across as actual or concrete.

Until now.

The United States Government really did exist, and they were made up of very scary men in very nice suits.

"You know," said the gray haired man who sat across from her. "Three months ago, 'Sarah Baum,' 'John Baum,' 'Cameron Baum' . . ." He shook his head. ". . . They didn't exist." The man had cold, blue eyes, almost gray like his hair. Everything below his nose smiled . . . but his eyes, they didn't smile at all.

"I . . . I didn't know that," Riley lied. She looked down at the gray metal table, so he couldn't read her eyes.

The gray table, the gray walls, the gray ceiling: the whole room was gray. Even the lights on the walls leaked dreary and dim illumination -- cold and impersonal. A gray blue.

"In fact," the man continued, as if she hadn't spoken at all. "Five weeks ago, you didn't exist." His smile grew and showed well cared for teeth. He narrowed his eyes.

Riley looked back down and said nothing.

"Anything you'd like to tell me?" he asked.

"No," she whispered. Were they going to hurt her? This was worse than the Mexican jail. At least they had seemed nice. Or at least polite.

"Does the name, 'John Connor,' mean anything to you?" asked the man.

She looked up at him, and for a split moment it was like he could read the truth from her eyes. Like stealing her thoughts. She felt . . . violated somehow and looked back down into her lap.

The gray haired man chuckled. "Ah, it looks like you do. I had hoped so . . ." He leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on the table. "Tell me about Serrano Point," he demanded.

Riley forced herself to not react. Don't look up, he'll steal the lies from your very eyes! But . . . Serrano Point? That was where the Resistance got all its power from. Why would he ask her . . . ?

The man pulled out a vanilla folder from a briefcase by his feet. He opened it up and displayed it on the table for Riley to see.

Photos. Of Cameron. And John's mother. Riley didn't recognize the place, but it looked like a factory or something. Concrete. Lots of pipes and valves and metal supports. A couple of the pictures had Cameron fighting some bald man in a shirt and tie.

"These are surveillance images from inside the Serrano Point Nuclear Power Plant," the man explained. "Taken about a month ago." He leaned forward again and stared at her. Gradually and nearly against her will, she looked up to meet his gaze. "Do you recognize these people?" he asked.

She pointed at Sarah and Cameron. "That's John's mom and his sister." There couldn't be any harm in telling him that, could there?

"That they are," the man said and nodded. "But let me tell you, John's 'sister' sure can fight. It's almost . . ." He paused and gave her an funny look. ". . . inhuman."

Riley didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing. He couldn't know, could he?

"Anything you'd like to tell me?" the man asked again, arching an eyebrow.

"No," she said quietly, and shook her head.

"Tell me, have you ever heard of a place called Guantanamo Bay?" He smiled, and this time his eyes smiled too. Riley wished they hadn't.

"No." It didn't sound like a nice place.

"Well," he said, as if he were speaking to a small child. "Let me put it this way. Just like . . . that." He snapped his fingers."I could have you sent there and . . . " He mouth twisted into a barely restrained laugh. ". . . they'll strip you naked. Lock you in a cage. Cold water dripping on you day and night. Rock and roll heavy metal blaring in your ears . . . you'll never sleep again." He pointed at her bandaged wrists "And we won't let you take the easy way out."

Riley tightened her jaw and closed her eyes. Must not cry. But the fear. Like at the hospital. And Cameron. No. The tears flowed readily, and Riley felt ashamed. They were going hurt her. And she hadn't done anything wrong. "Please . . . " she said, her vision bleary and distorted through her tears. ". . . you . . . can't do this to me."

The man laughed, and Riley heard two other men laugh behind her. She quickly turned to look but could only make out shadows in the dark corners of the room. They were cruel laughs, coming from men who enjoyed their work far too much.

"'Ms. Dawson,'" the gray haired man said. "We're the Department of Homeland Security. We can do whatever the hell we want."

She began to tremble. She felt . . . vulnerable. In the future they had said America was all about freedom and voting or whatever. But these were bad men. Like machines. Except worse . . . The things they could do to her . . . It had all been done before, of course. In the tunnels. In the dark. The men would crowd around her at night and . . . she started to cry.

One of the men snickered.

"How about you tell use the truth?" the gray haired man asked.

"Okay," she croaked. "Please don't hurt me . . ." She looked up at him and saw elation in his eyes.

"Tell us the truth, and no harm will come to you."

What could she say? Would they believe her? Her options were gone, and she couldn't even think of a plausible lie. Didn't someone once say that truth was always the best policy? Well, that didn't work out with her and John. He had sent in his robot to kill her. Stick needles in her arms. Riley whimpered. But no. These bad men would know if she lied. They'd know, and they'd hurt her and laugh.

Gwatomanobay? She didn't want to end up there, whatever it was.

"Ms. Daw--"

"I'll talk," she said.

The man almost looked disappointed. "All right," he said "Where are you from?"

"I . . . " She cringed. This was going to be embarrassing. And painful. ". . . I'm from the future."

She looked at the man. He didn't blink. His expression didn't change.

"Go on," he said.

"Okay," the waitress said. "Here's a full breakfast platter for you." She laid down a tray for John consisting of pancakes, scrabbled eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, and a glass of orange juice. "And for you, a nice slice of apple pie." She placed the desert on the table in front of Cameron. "You sure you don't want anything to drink, sweetie?"

Cameron cocked her head. The waitress had called her "sweetie." Cameron made herself smile and said, "No thank you." Smiling is polite.

"God, I'm starving," said John before beginning to ingest the eggs.

The time was 4:23am. The stress of the last couple days had disrupted John's circadian rhythm. Eating this late is unhealthy. He should be in bed. Sleep is important for humans.

Cameron doesn't sleep.

But she can eat.

She took a small bite of her desert; apple pie was new to her. The syrup-covered apple fragment on her tongue produced an interesting juxtaposition with the dry powdery crumbs of the pie crust.

Analyzing the ingredients, she detected a high sugar content. The taste was satisfying. Sugar improves flavor.

"Can you taste food?" John asked through a mouth full of hash browns.

Cameron swallowed. "Yes," she said. "I can taste food." She began to divide the pie with her fork into bite sized portions.

"But can you taste," John paused to chew. "Like me?"

She decided to try something new. "I don't know. I've never tasted you before."

"No, I mean . . . " He stopped for half a second, and his face turned a slight shade of red. He smirked. "Did you just make a joke?"

Cameron smiled. "I don't know. Was it funny?"

He blew out a breath that could have been a laugh and held up a hand, tilting it back and forth. She recognized the gesture as meaning, "sort of." "Not too bad," John said. "For a first." He gave her a lopsided grin.

Her attempt at humor had proved partially successful. That was . . . good. She allowed her smile to increase in width.

"But seriously," John said. "Does food taste the same for you as it does for me?" He drank some of his orange juice.

Cameron thought about that. How could she know? "It's hard to say," she decided, then looked at her pie. "Here." She scooped up a piece with her fork and held it out to him. "Try this."

John hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward and ate the pie off the fork. He arced his eyebrows and slowly nodded his head. "Good pie," he said.

"So it tastes good?" she asked.

"I think so."

She smiled and nodded in approval . "I think so too."

"Well," He chuckled. "It still doesn't answer my question, but . . . " His shoulders shrugged. "I guess there's no way to know for sure. I mean, whether we taste the same things or not."

"No, there isn't," she agreed. She motioned with her hand at his orange juice and John nodded. She picked up the glass. "You'd have to be a machine," she continued. "And I'd have to be a human." She sipped his drink. Too acerbic. It had come from concentrate. Freshly squeezed orange juice is superior.

"Yeah, but you're more than just a machine," John said.

Just a machine. The word "machine" carried negative connotations for John. Cameron considered that irrational. "You're not more than just a human. We are what we are." She took another bite of her pie. The aftertaste of the orange juice contaminated the flavor.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." He glanced out the window at the hotel next door. Cameron saw worry in his eyes.

"You're mother is going to be all right," Cameron said. "Her fever is mild, and Kyle will return soon with antibiotics."

John chewed on a piece of bacon. "He's been gone for a while."

Kyle had been gone for seven hours, thirty-eight minutes, and forty-seven seconds. "He's collecting money," she explained.

John laughed. "'Collecting.' Nice euphemism, there."

Cameron smiled again. Collecting is a nice euphemism for theft. An unintentional joke?

They ate in silence for a forty-seven seconds. John's posture slouched; he needed more rest. She watched as he pushed his eggs around with his fork. "So . . . " he said finally. "Find anything interesting in the flash drive?"

Should she tell him about her chip? Even knowing about the patch, John could still become agitated. Or even become afraid of her. John agitated easily.

And then there was the long-term problem. From the drive she had learned that within approximately fifteen years her cognitive functions would begin to erode. Skynet hadn't designed her neural net to last forever; her future self eventually had to transfer her consciousness to a new chip. John would react negatively to that news.

"Cam, what's wrong?"

Cameron looked up. She shouldn't have hesitated. That had caused him concern. She decided to tell him about the patch. He should know.

To offer reassurance, she reached out a hand and touched his own. "John," she said, and noted that his body temperature dropped. "The damage to my chip, it's going to get worse."

John scooted his eggs around with his fork, making a small pile in the middle of his plate. He didn't feel hungry anymore, and for a passing moment he felt that growing panic climbing up in his insides. But he forced it down and away. No anxiety attacks today, thank you very much.

But despite knowing what needed to be done to stop Skynet -- and that flash drive was a life-saver -- he suddenly realized how uncertain his future really was. They were all wanted by the law -- again, and John wasn't sure how they were going to get out of this one.

New identities? Enrique had been their only real contact for that, and someone had killed him and his nephew.

Were the four of them just going to roam from hotel room to hotel room for the rest of their lives, living off stolen cars and robbed convenience stores? How much money was Kyle going to "collect?" Enough to start a new life? If only the cops hadn't gone through the house . . . all those diamonds . . .

And did Kyle really know what he was doing? And do I trust him?

Cam seemed to; maybe she knew something he didn't.

"So . . . find anything interesting in the flash drive?" he asked.

Cameron paused and looked down at her half-eaten pie. She was hiding something.

"Cam, what's wrong?" he asked, feeling a vague dread.

Cameron looked at him and reached across the table to touch his hand. The gesture came across awkward and stilted, but John knew it was her way of trying to keep him calm, which of course only made him worry all the more.

"John, the damage to my chip, it's going to get worse."

For a second her words seemed meaningless -- just noises, really, but then they sank in and took form, and a sudden chill seeped through his skin. It wasn't fair. Mere hours after he tells her he loves her . . . and now she's doomed to go craz-- Wait a minute. Future Cam seemed okay enough . . .

"It's okay John." She gave his hand a squeeze and pulled out something from under the table. It was a small clear plastic case with a computer chip inside -- about the size of a fingernail.

"What's that?" John asked.

"Kyle brought it back with him," she said. "He told me it'll fix the glitches."

"Will it?" John asked.

Cameron cocked her head. "I don't know."

"You don't know . . . " John said. He didn't like this one bit; too much was at stake, and as for Kyle . . . "What did your future self do? She didn't have that." He pointed at the chip.

"Xander Akagi had to work on me," she said.

"Alex Akagi's son?"

She nodded. "According to the drive, it took him over a month to fix me, and that may have been by accident. My future self later had to repair damage he inadvertently caused." She paused, and her mouth twitched. "But there's someo--"

"What's going to happen?" John asked. Please, not another birthday party . . .

Her eyes showed hesitation, but knew he had to know. He rubbed her knuckles with his thumb, and she gave his fingers a light squeeze.

"The Allison glitch will return," Cameron said. "Blackouts. Servo malfunctions resulting in involuntary movements . . . "

Without thinking, John's eyes darted to her hand. She noticed and pulled it away and looked down into her lap.

"No, no," John said, suddenly feeling like a dick. He reached out for her retreating hand and clasped it between both of his palms. "It's okay, it's okay," he said. "Now, just tell me how much time we have?"

Cameron's mouth opened, then closed, then, "A couple of months."

"All right," John said, forcing himself to smile. "That's plenty of time."

"John, if it doesn't work . . . "

"It will," John said, trying to sound confident. "Or we'll think of something else."

Cameron frowned slightly and looked at the hand John held. "We'll need the same computer hardware you used when you read Vick's chip," she said.

That had all burned up in the fire, but John decided not to bring that up. Not now. "Okay," he said. He'd have to call Kendo again.

"I want you to do it," she said and smiled.

"And not Kyle," sang the unspoken second half to that sentence. John felt a little lump crawl in the back on his throat.

This was his chance. His real chance. He had fucked up before, and the falling dominoes of that mistake had reverberated down through time for twenty years . . . circling back around and resulting in his resurrection. The Foundation? New Zealand? Kyle? It was like an of elaborate Rube-Goldberg machine, constructed of human lives and set in motion by Cameron's undying love.

But did he deserve it?

Future Cam had believed he died hating her, and in death that hate must have seemed immortal, eternal -- frozen in time, like a mosquito sealed in amber.

Kyle said Cam cried . . .

John tried to imagine how he would feel if his mother told him she hated him, and then killed herself. His eyes began to water, just slightly.

If his suicide was a boulder crushing against future Cam's soul, then those final, spiteful words would be that stone wrapped in thorns.

Kyle was right -- not many people get a second chance, and John was not about to waste his. He could never make it up to future Cam, but he would do everything in his power to set things right with his Cam.

"Will you? Remove my chip?" she asked, her smile fading, as if she was afraid he'd tell her "No."

"I will. I'll be there for you," John said, rubbing her hand with both of his own. "I promise." he added.

Her smile returned.

He thought of the "Allison" incident (and who was "Allison" anyway? Why had he never asked?) and tried to picture it happening after his death. She'd be all alone, wandering the streets lost and scared, thinking she's someone she's not . . .

Future Cam must have been desperate to have gone to Xander for help. Xander may be a genius, but working on her chip? It'd be like getting Thomas Edison to repair a space shuttle.

Kyle's chip thing better work, but even if it didn't, John knew he'd stand by her side. He'd prove himself to her. He'd earn his second chance.

And her love.

Cameron suddenly turned to look out the window, and John got a good look at the flesh colored bandage that covered her missing ear. "We should have killed Derek," he thought.

"Kyle's back," she said.

Kyle pulled the truck into the hotel parking lot and chose a space by the side.

Resting his head back in the drivers seat, he sighed. A busy night. It's amazing how bad the security set-up was in some of these retail places. Radio World and Home Depot might have surveillance cameras, motion detectors, and metal bars pulled down over their doors, but there was nothing to prevent an enterprising freelance socialist from coming in through the roof. All he had needed was a sledgehammer to break through the ceiling, a rope a climb down, and a blowtorch to cut the safe.

Over thirty-five grand, a pound of thermite, a bag of pharmaceuticals, some raw chemicals, and a nice set of power tools: not a bad haul. Kyle had to admit it had actually been kind of fun, relaxing even. Sort of like his missions for the Foundation, except without all the killing. This could be a nice hobby for him . . .

From the corner of his eye he caught John and Cameron sitting at a booth together at the waffle house. They were holding hands.

Kyle's good humor dissipated like steam, and he clenched his jaw. Since he had traveled back, it seemed now that his entire life had been merely a tiny part of a much bigger work, one that began twenty years from now in a future he would never know. His own role had been minor and had only come into play during the tale-end of that grand epic called Cameron's life.

Kyle watched as Cameron looked in his direction. Kyle nodded his head at her and gave her a half-wave. She turned to say something to John.

Traveling to 2007 had been like flipping back the pages of a story and peeking at the parts he had skipped. His Cameron never told him much about her life before the Foundation. He had known about General Connor, of course, and young John and his spiteful suicide . . . but most of the real details had never materialized, and since talking about it upset her, Kyle never asked.

In New Zealand, only Xander, Alex, and Professor Donnelly had known Cameron from before, and they hadn't known her long or well. None of them had ever met John. With only Cameron's cryptic reverence to go on, John had seemed to young Kyle to be nearly a long lost legend. Or a dead god.

He stepped out of the truck and leaned back against the drivers side door. The jagged teeth of the shattered window pressed through his trench coat, tickling his spine. Inside the restaurant, he could see John talk to Cameron as she paid the waitress.

To finally meet John was to walk in the mythology of her early life. No, not just walk; interfere. He had disrupted what should have been. Like picking a chapter in a history book and tearing out all the pages that followed, he had destroyed what had come after.

True, he had been following Cameron's orders, but he still could have disobeyed.

He watched as Cameron and John left the waffle house and walked towards him. Kyle smiled, but only for Cameron's sake.

If he could go back a couple days, would he let John fall? It wasn't too late, of course; he could still kill him. Make it look like a suicide. Then Cameron would be all his . . .

Deep inside, a pang of guilt throbbed, like an unseen barb pushed against nowhere.

He knew that if anything were to happen to John, Cameron would cry. Kyle had only seen that once in his life; he must have been thirteen or fourteen at the time. The two of them had been cuddled in bed together, and in the glow of Auckland's city lights, she told him of John's final hate. He remembered being almost frightened by her tears, understated though they were, just wet eyes, really, with tiny rivulets silently rolling down her cheeks. For Cameron, though, that might as well had been unabashed wailing. It had been at that moment that he realized how deep John's death had hurt her. John had burned her, and that wound would never heal.

Kyle couldn't do that to her; he'd sooner murder the world than see her hurt. He looked down at the pavement and toed a soggy cigarette stub with his sneakers.

"So, how'd it go?" John asked, walking up with Cameron by his side.

Kyle sighed and half turned around, reaching in through the broken window. He pulled out a backpack, unzipped it, and withdrew a bottle of Bactrim.

"Let's go have a look at your mother," he said.

John lays on the operating table, unconscious. Cameron stands over him wearing a nurse's uniform. In her hand rests a scalpel.

Sarah watches from across the room, standing paralyzed and mute.

Cameron smiles down at John, and begins to make an incision along the right side of his head. The short razor blade cuts in a semi-circle, and the John's scalp peels back like a loose flap, revealing bloody white bone beneath.

White bone. With a round hole. Sealed with a cork.

John's brain port.

Cameron smiles at her handiwork and puts down the scalpel on a nearby tray. From it, she picks up a corkscrew.

Sarah tries to scream, but nothing comes out. Her body feels as if it's enveloped in cold glass.

Cameron begins to twist the corkscrew over John's port. Around and around. The spiraling spike digs deeper and deeper into the cork.

After pausing for dramatic effect, Cameron yanks it out with a "pop."

A burbling torrent of blood gushes from the open port, like red wine from a cask. Cameron puts down the corkscrew and picks up a champagne glass off the medical tray. She holds it under John's head, filling the glass with his life blood.

Sarah can't move. She shrieks silent screams of fury.

Cameron lifts the glass to her lips and smells John's blood. She smiles at Sarah and takes a sip.

The blood has stopped flowing from John's port. His head is empty. His soul is gone.

With cosmic hate, Sarah wails against her invisible bonds.

Something begins to crawl from John's empty hole. A turtle. A tiny turtle. A tiny mechanical turtle. It's little servos make faint "whirring" sounds as it leaves it's cranial home and crawls onto the table.

Another robotic turtle appears from John's head, poking out it's little turtle neck.

Then, another.

Three tiny mechanical turtles.

They all crawl off the table and hit the floor, one after another, and make their way towards Sarah. With each baby step, they grow bigger and bigger, the tiny metal joints and gears and rivets expand and fold in on themselves. Becoming more massive with each flip or pivot.

They each grow to the size of a large dog.

And the faces . . .

The faces . . . with green skin and reptile eyes, the face of Kyle looks at her from each of the turtles head. The three Kyles smirk, as if her terror were a private joke.

They open wide their green metal jaws to reveal perfectly capped teeth.

They move closer.

And closer, and are about to bite into her knees when . . .

Sarah looks at Cameron, who is now standing in a bra and panties. Still holding the wine glass filled with John's blood, Cameron winks at Sarah, and opens her mouth to say, ". . . in Thousand Oaks early this morning. Authorities say the explosion was caused by . . . "

Sarah woke up.

". . . was caused by an underground reservoir of natural gas . . . " explained the television.

The sheets slid in frustration against her warm body, and she could feel the dampness where her night sweat had taken hold. She pushed away the bed's comforter and forced herself to sit up.

A dream.

All a dream.

". . . all thirty-six employees of the Desert Canyon Heat and Air company were killed in the blast . . . "

Her bed of sweat turned cold. The warehouse -- it had only been a couple days; funny how it seemed so long ago now. She hadn't really even thought of it since the hospital. All the recent drama had drowned it out from her mind; you can only worry about so much at a time.

"Two days ago, I killed a man," she thought and wondered why she didn't feel it.

On the television a helicopter camera man panned around to show the devastation. Light tendrils of smoke drifted out of a collapsed landscape. Not just the warehouse, the whole area, like one giant sinkhole, or a great foot-print made by an unimaginable god.

What could have done that? A big bomb?

And Skynet? Destroying evidence?

The drone.

She hadn't hallucinated that.

The drone was real. Which meant . . .

Like an adult who just found proof of Santa Claus' existence, Sarah immediately and unequivocally knew, at that moment, that she wasn't crazy and never had been. Her heart beat loudly with renewed strength, for in this revelation laid vindication. She felt herself smile.

The drone was real; the destruction of the warehouse was proof of that. No doubt could remain. Not anymore.

And if the drone was real, so were the three dots.

The three dots . . .

Her dreams were real. Really real. She always knew that, deep down. It was faith. And they had been too vivid. Too intense. Normal dreams -- mortal dreams -- were never like that. She would not dare explain them -- for who could account for the wonder of miracles? -- but by the work of some higher power, be it God, or angels, or some vague cosmic force for Good, she knew her dreams were prophetic.

She was Cassandra, the woman who could see the future . . . but no one would ever believe her.

They would now though. No crazy Sarah. Not anymore. That warehouse didn't blow itself up . . .

But if her dreams were real . . . what about the one she had just awoken from? Could that be a warning? Sarah knew in her bones it was.

Cameron. Drinking John's blood . . .

She -- it -- had always hid behind dull stares and monotone words -- and those blank, dead eyes! -- but the dreams had shown Sarah the truth.

Cameron was stealing John's soul.

And the three turtles -- each with Kyle's grinning face . . . abominations. All abominations.

Cameron's little pets.

She would turn John. Make him one of them.

No. Sarah would never allow that to happen. Never!

"You can't fool me, you tin bitch!" Sarah thought as she ground her teeth until her jaw ached. "I know what you are!"

But what could she do about it? Perhaps the dreams would give an answer, though Sarah could already feel the solution flowing through her chest. Derek and Jesse had failed -- but she wouldn't.

The Tin Miss would have to go.

For John's own good.

For the world's own good.

She struggled to pull herself out of bed, but her rush of strength proved illusionary, and the weakness of the flesh returned once more. She fell back into the sheets with a creak of springs. Her head swam; the fever seemed a spinning heat in her brain.

Brain? . . . Brain . . . Brain cancer? Oh no, not now . . . Not while it was still alive.

A terrible premonition suddenly emerged, like a ship from a fog: What if Cameron had given her cancer?

But then, why would she tell me about it? So you won't suspect her, of course.

And to gloat!

It must be the eyes. Cancer rays. Shooting radiation into her. Wide brown pools of death.

"She wants to replace me!" she thought. "But of course she does," said a hidden voice in the back of her head. "The Tin Bitch wants John all to herself."

Sarah rolled her head back and forth. No!

"To fuck him." the voice continued, calmly and evenly.

"Please . . ." she begged the voice.

"Just like she fucked Kyle," it said

"No!" Sarah shouted aloud as her hands clawed at the damp sheets and squeezed them till her knuckles burned. She'd fight the cancer. Fight the cancer. And save her son. Save him from the hideous simulation of what John would think is love. Machines could never love.

And even if they could, they shouldn't.

Footsteps. Outside the room.

Sarah scrambled up and leaned back against the headboard. The doorknob clicked and rotated.

Where was the gun? Her eyes, seemingly on their own accord, darted about the room wildly. The walls shifted and tilted, and Sarah grabbed hold of her head to halt the vertigo. She pulled away her hands, and strands of hair came out between the fingers of her clenched fists.

No!

The door opened, and John and Cameron walked in, Kyle stepping in behind them.

Bide your time. Don't let them know you're on to them. Act casual. Behave.

Sarah repressed her inner scowl and forced herself to smile. "How'd it go?"

The contrast between the cool night air and the warm dankness of the hotel room was palpable, like stepping into a darkened sauna. John sniffed at the musk of fevered sweat.

"How'd it go?" his mother asked from the bed, an incongruent smile on her lips. John could barely see her in the dark; only the electric glow of the television produced any amount of light. An episode of "Who's the Boss?" played, the sound turned low.

Cameron flicked on the lights, and his mom squinted and turned away.

"I picked up some antibiotics," Kyle said. He walked up to her and felt her head. "Your burning up," he said.

"Is she going to be alright?" John asked. She looked like hell, her skin pale and clammy and her hair a damp frenzy. He stepped over next to Kyle and saw that her pupils were as small as pin pricks. Light blue marbles turned to look at him, and she furrowed her brow. For some reason John felt the need to take a step back.

"She'll be fine. It's not that high." Kyle said. From his backpack he pulled out a bottle of water. "Here." He handed her the bottle. And a pill.

She stared at the pill as if it were rat poison. Kyle rolled his eyes.

"Asshole," John thought. "How about her leg?" he asked. A vague nervousness swelled in his stomach.

"Let's take a look," Kyle said, seemingly unconcerned, and pulled out a pair of scissors from the first aid kit on the nightstand. He slowly cut away the bandages and began to peel them back. John held his breath and suddenly felt nauseous.

Once in Guatemala, back when he was about six years old, a guerrilla fighter had gotten gangrene in his foot. The punji stick he had stepped on must have been coated with feces, for the infection had spread quick. Everything from the toes to the ankle had been an angry pattern of black and red splotches, and clear, runny puss oozed from cracks in the dead flesh. It had smelled like almonds. His mother had forced him to watch as the doctor sawed off the man's leg. She said it would toughen him up.

Please, not gangrene. But John knew the fear to be irrational -- it had only been a few hours.

Cameron walked up behind John and took his hand in hers, positioning herself so neither Kyle nor his mother could see. Her thin fingers felt warm against his palm.

Kyle pulled back the bandages: the wound was only a vague red. Little more than a rash. John restrained from sighing in relief; that would seem too dramatic.

"It's fine," Kyle said, almost sounding surprised. "I think your fever's unrelated." He looked at the pill in his mom's hand. "You should still take that," he said.

His mother looked up and laid her hand back against the headboard. "The warehouse," she said. "Skynet destroyed it."

"Destroyed what?" John asked.

She turned her eyes to look at him. "I saw a drone, John," she said. "They must have been making them at the warehouse." She paused. "The three dots . . . "

"The warehouse where you were shot?" John asked. Strange how he never even thought to ask about that until now. Everything had been too distracting lately, what with his dad coming back from the dead and his uncle trying to kill his girlfriend . . . Girlfriend? Yes, that's right, John decided, and gave Cameron's fingers a squeeze. He realized the corners of his mouth had curled up into a grin.

His mother scowled. "You think this is funny?" she snapped.

"No . . ." John said. "But . . . " He let go of Cameron's hand.

His mother snatched up the remote off the bed and started flipping through the channels. John glanced at Kyle, who watched his mother with condescending amusement.

"Here," his mom said at last.

John looked at the TV, and his jaw dropped. "What did that?" he asked. The news footage showed a blackened pit, like a lopsided crater, a hundred yards or so across. It looked like a messy meteor impact.

"They said it's a 'natural gas explosion,'" his mother said. "Friday, I was there." She pointed at the screen. "Now it's Sunday. You think that's a coincidence?"

Kyle pursed his lips and frowned.

"No," John said. Then, to Cameron, "Did the flash drive mention anything about this?"

She cocked her head. "No. It must not be relevant."

His mom sneered, "'Not be relevant?'" She shook her head and smiled in anger. "You knew about it all along, didn't you?" she said, nearly in a whisper.

John sighed inwardly. "Look, we'll investigate it later, but right now we have do get our new identities figured out."

His mother glared at him, her eyes narrowed to slits. "The three dots, John," she said. "They're real. Remember that."

John took another step back from his mother. What was wrong with her? There was something wrong with her, right? But either the three dots really meant something, or she had just happened to stumble upon a warehouse that turned into a smoking crater two days later. And she did get shot. But Drones? Dots? John almost wished his mom was crazy. He wasn't sure if he wanted to deal with magical dreams or any of that crazy shit.

He looked at her, and one corner of her mouth drooped into a wry frown. He swallowed and suddenly felt the awkward silence that had descended upon the room. Well, maybe she is crazy. No, that wasn't right. She was sick. She'd get better, once she got some rest.

"Right," Kyle said, with only a trace of sarcasm. "Now, about our new identities . . . "

"Do we know any other contacts for that?" John asked his mom. "Other than Enrique, I mean."

His mother gave Cameron a dirty look, but then said, "Maybe."

Kyle held up his hands, palms out. "We don't need any 'contacts,'" he said. "All he need it right here." He turned to Cameron and pointed at the right side of her head.

"I don't understand . . . ?" John said.

"Originally," Cameron said. "I convinced Xander Akagi to connect my chip to the internet. I hacked into the national database and created a false identity." She paused. "I can also create bank accounts for financial resources."

"You can do that?" John asked.

Cameron smiled and tapped a finger against her temple. John thought of Uncle Bob. "I can now," she said. "The flash drive has instructions. Though the first time I had to learn by trial and error."

"We're not hooking her into the internet," his mother said and made a sour face.

"But --" John started.

"It's too dangerous!"

Kyle ignored her and looked at Cameron. "To repair your chip we'll need some specialized equipment."

"I know someone. He had what I needed last time," John said, trying to ignore his mother's poisonous stare.

"Where does he live?" Kyle asked. "If he has it, I can find it."

John shook his head. "No. No 'collecting.' We're not ripping him off. Kendo's a good guy." He didn't know that for certain, of course. He'd only met the guy once. but still . . .

"It'd save us money," said Kyle.

"No," John said. "We pay him." Kyle frowned at that. "And what difference does it make?" John added and pointed back at Cameron with his thumb. "If she can make money, then who cares?"

Kyle shrugged and sighed. "You got a point there."

"We're not hooking her into the internet!" his mother repeated, her voice sounding both tired and shrill.

"Mom, you need some rest."

"We can't trust her!" his mother spat, then jabbed a finger in Cameron's face. "I know what you're up to! I know!" For a second his mother's face resembled a gargoyle.

Cameron cocked her head, her frown almost imperceivable.

"Mom . . . " John started, but instead he just blew out a breath. His shoulders suddenly felt very heavy. Really, what was the point? He looked over at Kyle, who's expression came across as something not quiet annoyance. "I need to call Kendo," John said. "Where's the nearest pay phone?"

" . . . no problem, John," Kendo said into the phone. "Just come by around 6pm, and bring the money."

"Thanks, I really appreciate this," said John's voice.

"No problem," Kendo said again, and hung up.

Damn.

When the Feds came by yesterday, Kendo never really expected to actually hear from John again. Really, if the guy's pissed off Homeland Security, why the hell was he worrying about video game gear? And buying the exact same stuff he bought a month ago? What the hell did John do with it all, burn it?

For a full minute, Kendo considered not telling them. He hated narcs, and the whole idea of just getting involved left a dirty felling in his stomach. Like indigestion, but cold. Behind him, he heard gunfire and explosions as his cousins played Halo 3. No, he couldn't risk it. They probably had his phones tapped anyway.

And Kendo didn't want to end up in Guantanamo.

Bastards.

He sighed and noticed his hand trembling, just slightly. Why did John have to call me?

God damn it.

Kendo dialed Agent Baldwin's number.

Jesse sat on a couch in a dark basement of a warehouse and poured herself another shot of vodka."Shot" might be the inoperative word however; the glass was really way too big to be considered a shot glass. But she downed it, and gurned. She hated warm vodka -- warm rum she could stomach, but vodka . . . it was meant to be cold. Like Russia.

She poured herself another sho -- glass -- about three fingers worth. Already her cheeks had gone numb. She slapped them with her hand, and the tingle felt muted, as if it was happening to someone else. She downed the glass again and placed it on the armrest of the recliner. It slid off and shattered on the concrete floor.

Oh, well.

The waiting game. She hated it. Nothing to do. Just wait.

But the Connors couldn't hide forever. The Feds would do her work for her. John, or his idiot mother, or even that machine would make a mistake sooner or later . . . and Uncle Sam would come down on them like a bag of bricks.

Just wait. If the Feds find something, she'd know.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Jesse lifted the bottle to her lips and upended it into her mouth, but the vodka's sting gagged her, and she pulled it away, causing it to slosh on her tank top. Bleh. No more vodka for her. She put the bottle on the other armrest. Slip. Crash. Oops.

Damn.

Poor Derek . . .

A noise, like a little song, made of beeping sounds . . . her phone! Jesse patted her pockets. Where the hell was it? She leaned forward. There it was. By her feet! Without even looking at the number, she snatched it up and answered.

"Yeah," she asked, trying not to sound drunk.

The voice spoke without greetings or introductions, for none were needed. "We believe John Connor is going to appear at 'Kendo's Tech Shack' at 6pm today." Jesse heard a click; the call had ended.

Good 'Ol Agent Carlson. It was good to have connections.

Jesse dropped the phone in her lap and ran her fingers over her face. She was smiling.