In the Hands of an Angry Machine
Chapter Fourteen: The Golden Rule
A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid 13 for beta-reading part of this chapter. His advice has proven invaluable.
Derek surfaced from the black with a head full of fog. He tried to force open his eyes, but dried mucus kept the lids to a squint. Lights. Blurs. And cotton in his mouth? He heard a TV playing, the volume turned low. Sounds of dampened laughter carried weakly in the air.
He rolled his head. That felt nice -- like fluffy clouds in the brain.
The lights and blurs gradually sharpened into rigid form, and he saw he was laying in a bed. In a room. A hospital room. Dark. Nighttime.
By only the glow of the television set and the bleeding glare of outside streetlights, he saw -- but not felt -- his left foot hanging wrapped in bandages, propped in a sling. His right forearm stood erect, immobilized in a plaster cast, with an almost undetectable pins-and-needles tingling inside. He felt the pressure of bandages against his scalp, and he flexed his chest. A vague throb crawled from his ribs, and the wrappings of his torso contracted like a boa constrictor. Broken ribs?
Something had happened. Something was wrong.
Then it all came rushing back, like the unwanted recollection of a forgotten nightmare.
Jesse. Cameron. Kyle? And pain.
In the terrible light of these rising memories, the hippy-drippy fog evaporated into desolate clarity.
Oh.
Fuck.
What have I done?
No. He hadn't done anything. It was the metal's fault.
And . . . his brother's?
Derek blew out a breath and wished his life made more sense. Couldn't someone have explained all this to him? Obviously that Kyle wasn't his Kyle, but what kind of fucked up future did that Kyle come from where he would beat the shit out of his own brother over a fucking machine? Defending it? And Siberia? What the fuck had he been talking about? A metal loving Kyle? What happened?
He probably didn't want to know, anyway. And it didn't matter. Derek was screwed. Metal broke my wrist; brother broke my foot -- he remembered that. "Kyle" had grabbed it, and "snap." All methodical. Like a machine. A soulless monster with his brother's face and shiny capped teeth.
Derek tried to move, wiggle his toes, twiddle his fingers. The morphine -- that's what it was, he could tell -- made a dull anger of the pain.
Why wasn't he dead? Didn't Kyle and it say they were going to kill him? Sarah, or maybe even John, must have intervened. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of John saving him, though. It seemed so half-assed. Saving him wouldn't involve dumping him a hospital and leaving him to his fate -- and did the authorities know who he was? He'd find out, soon enough . . .
You should have either killed me or kept me, John. To do this showed a lack of resolve. More than that, it was a betrayal. Turning on his own uncle . . . over metal.
No, not just metal. There was "Kyle."
Kyle may be John's father, but not that Kyle, whoever the hell he was. But still, John's "dad?" A metal lover? Jesus Christ. That'd fuck with his nephew's head all right. Talk about a bad influences. "I should have been around more," Derek thought and frowned. John needed a father figure -- a real one. Maybe if he hadn't been eating hot dogs and fucking Jesse all the time, he could have prevented all this. Make John grow up right.
But had Jesse really been telling the truth? About John and Cameron?
Or was Cameron right?
For a moment, Derek's tingling wrist flared into pain.
No. If Jesse wanted John dead, she could have done that a hundred times by now. She'd certainly been spying on him long enough. Just a scoped rifle in the bushes and -- bang! -- there goes John.
The metal must be the one lying. Probably just to get him to turn against Jesse. Manipulators. Liars. That's all they were. That, and killers.
Really, what more proof did he need?
Metal can't be trusted.
And as for John, falling for her -- hook, line, and sinker . . . He thought back to when John held a gun on him and Sarah -- only a month ago -- to protect it. Yeah, Jesse had to be telling the truth. Derek could see it developing between them, easily. Twenty years down the line? He shuddered, and his head throbbed, but he couldn't deny it.
It's not like that sort of thing never happened before.
But to the future Leader of the Fucking Resistance? General Connor the Metal Lover? Fuck. Derek wondered how John kept it a secret for so long.
Well, he didn't, obviously. Not secret enough, anyway. Jesse knew, which means other people probably did too.
And how would the Resistance react? The was easy: badly. Very badly. Derek clenched his jaw. No wonder Jesse was so determined to kill it. It could cost them the war.
No one liked a metal lover.
There had been that Doctor-Science-Guy Derek once knew, back at Crystal Peak. What was his name? Something Japanese, though the guy had had a German accent. Well, he got outed as a tin-fucker, and it ruined his career. Went overnight from amicable eccentric to hated pariah. His machine got scrapped. He got thrown out. Probably had to eat rats.
Derek idly watched the TV mounted in the corner of the room. News footage panned over a smoldering valley. Grass fire? Plane crash? Meteor? Who cares? Didn't involve him in the slightest.
But that guy was just some little pervert scientist -- just a tiny fish in the ocean of the Resistance. What would happen if the same was found out about General Connor?
John would be finished.
Their leader in bed with a thing? Even ignoring the disgust factor, everyone would think his judgment had been compromised. Either by imprisonment or assassination, he'd be out.
And who'd lead then? Technically, General Perry was second in command, but what about Falkland? Or Edwards? Or Simmons? Or Stirling? . . . They wouldn't take Perry's promotion lying down. And that'd be just what they need: a civil war -- maybe even a multi-sided one. Skynet would laugh, if it could.
Inside him, Derek could feel the morphine slowly die. Ice formed in his belly.
This was way bigger than any of that "it's just a machine" or "it doesn't have a soul" shit. Even if Cameron did have a soul -- and who knows? Maybe she did have some electronic facsimile of personhood inside that plastic chip of hers. Probably not -- certainly not -- but even if she did, it didn't matter.
When it came right down to it, it was just plain selfish. Whether John liked it or not, he was the linchpin of the Resistance. If he fucked with metal, he fucked with the entire human race.
Not that there was much Derek could do about it now; he blew his chance in the supply shed. Should have just gone for the thermite.
He sighed and listened as his heart beat dully in his chest. The morphine had faded down to an indistinct cottony feel -- with a nausea afterglow. Dim pains began to multiply across his body. His shifted his back a little, but his ribs told him to stop.
The door to the room opened. Two police officers entered. One of them flicked on the lights.
Derek squinted in the glare and groaned. God damn it.
They said something; he didn't bother listening. He already knew where this was going. Blah, blah, blah . . . under arrest . . . blah, blah, blah . . . murder . . . blah, blah, blah . . . Andy Goode . . . blah, blah, blah . . .
His foot itched.
Sarah's eyes fluttered open. "No dreams," she thought. Or at least none that she could remember. But was that good? Her head felt flush, but stable. No dizziness, anyway; that was something. She sniffed and smelled the scent of body odor, musky, with an odd tang. Probably her own. And the bed. When was the last time she bathed?
And what was that sound? Like music and laughter and people talking, but all crowded and distorted, like coming from a tin can.
She pushed herself up with her arms and propped her elbows behind her. The muscles in her shoulders felt tired, but in a warm, taut way, like after a good workout.
The light streaming through the curtains betrayed a late afternoon, bordering on evening. How long had she slept? And where was every--?
She noticed the back of a head poking up from the foot of the bed, and for a moment though it was John's. Same dark brown hair, same ears . . . but then the head turned and -- no, not quiet.
"Morning," Kyle said, glancing back at her from the corner of his eye, then turning back away. The sounds abruptly stopped.
"What time is it?" Sarah asked.
"About six in the evening," he said, and she could tell he was smiling. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Better," she said, and was surprised by her own laugh. "But not great." She looked around quickly. "Where's John?" Her voice remained calm, though the shadow of habitual anxiety gave her a slight chill.
"He went with Cameron to pick up the equipment."
Sarah's brain seemed to swell at that, and her head suddenly hurt with a dull, spinning pain. Equipment. Cameron -- computers. And the internet . . . She frowned and narrowed her eyes. Who knew what chaos Cameron could unleash? She could contact 888s. Tell them where to find John. Use them to stage an attack . . . then Cameron would "save" him.
What better way to gain his trust?
A thought crept on Sarah, like a snake in the grass: could Cameron have been doing that from the very beginning? With Cromartie. Vick. Carter. . . All working for her? Ice ran down her spine.
Cameron ordered Cromartie to kidnap me!
Kyle turned around and looked at her. "John said something about a 'last time,'" He frowned. "I know about the explosion, but when did John . . . "
Sarah scooted herself over to the end of the bed (Her leg felt better now, only an easily ignored throb) and looked down at Kyle. He sat on the carpet, balancing the laptop between his knees. The monitor had been pulled down.
"John used her chip to hack into a traffic control system," she said. "It was later going to become part of Skynet." But that wasn't true, was it? No. Cameron and Vick must have planned it all from the start. They probably had meetings . . .
Sarah's eye twitched.
"So John . . . " Kyle trailed off and looked down at the floor and cocked his head. "She let him remove her chip?" He didn't seem to like that. Not one bit.
Sarah smirked. "Yes."
"He didn't touch it with his hands, did he?" When Sarah didn't answer, he sighed. "You know," he said. "It's kept in a vacuum chamber for a reason. Things aren't supposed to touch it. Not even air."
"How about a blowtorch?" Sarah thought. But instead said, "What are you doing?" She motioned at the laptop.
Kyle hesitated and frowned, then lifted up the screen. It was a photo of John -- no, Kyle. Much younger though, maybe a couple years younger than her son. In the picture, he sat at a table with his feet propped up, wearing a happy grin and a party hat. Next to him sat a rather bookish looking Asian kid, roughly the same age. Kyle clicked a button on the scroll pad, and the image sprang to life.
The video pans away from young Kyle and sweeps across the room in odd jerky shifts, not at all like the confused wobbling that mars most home movies. Sarah sees what looks to be like the inside of a mansion, furnished in a Neo-Victorian style. A crowd of what looks like well-to-do socialites mingle about with drinks in their hands. It's a house party, obviously fancy dress: tuxedos, night gowns, and a few guests wear an unfamiliar military uniform, dark green and vaguely anachronistic.
"Cameron must have put everything on here," Kyle explained with a sad smile. "This one's my thirteenth birthday party."
"She filmed your birthdays?" That struck Sarah as . . . disturbing. She tightened her mouth into a frown.
Kyle shook his head. "No, this is just a copy of her memory."
The video pans and stops briefly at a tall, dark haired man wearing one of the uniforms. He looks blankly at the camera -- Cameron -- and gives a curt nod. The camera nods back.
"That's Uncle Stark," Kyle said and grinned wryly, barely showing his teeth.
Cameron's eyes swing across the room, and Sarah can hear her tinny voice through the speakers as she speaks to her guests. "Nice of you to come . . . " "Are you enjoying yourselves?" "The restroom is down the hall, third door . . ."
Sarah sucked in a short breath through her teeth, hissing the air. She hated it when Cameron acted human.
Across the room, and through Cameron's eyes, Sarah can see Alex and Xander Akagi talking with a bearded man in a wheel-chair . . .
Kyle closed the video and scrolled through a list of files. "Hold on," he said. "Let me look for something."
Sarah was never sure what to envision when Kyle first told her of Cameron's Brave New World, but she never expected it to have anything to do with Victorian mansions and birthday parties. Weren't they all supposed to be zombies? Was this a trick? Did Cameron create this video in some studio? Use computers? All just to convince Sarah she wasn't a soul stealing succubus?
Sarah wasn't fooled. The dreams don't lie.
She drank his blood . . .
"Here, let me show yo--" Kyle started.
"Did all of those people have . . . " Sarah scowled and motioned at the screen. "'Chips' in their head?"
He raised his eyebrows and frowned. "At my party? No. She didn't start giving the Directorship 'chips' until a few years later. Before then it was just the drones."
The Directorship? And drones? From the warehouse . . . ? No, she remembered Kyle mentioning them on the ride back from the hospital. "Drones . . . you mean her lobotomized slaves?"
Kyle sighed and shook his head. "They weren't lobotomized. They were just implanted with neural nets. Conditioned."
"So they were like you?"
"The drones? No." He chuckled, and Sarah suddenly had an urge to slap him. "I'm a Sea-Seven with Nine-Fifty augments," he explained. "Most drones are just a basic Sea-Ones. Big difference." He clicked on a file. "Drones' mental capacities are more suited for . . . " He made a twist of his mouth that could have been a guilty smile. ". . . labor tasks."
She cut on their brains . . . Sarah ran her tongue across her teeth and cringed inwardly at the scum. "Labor tasks . . . " she repeated.
Kyle saw the look on her face and quickly added, "But she always made sure they were well cared for." He looked back to the monitor. "After all, they were the backbone of our economy." He continued to scroll through more files, and Sarah watched thumbnail images fly by, faster than she could see.
"Well cared for . . ." "Backbone of our economy . . ." If Cameron had her way, the entire world would be like that. Sarah's skin turned cold, and -- not for the first time, though rare enough -- her inner perspective rose up from the mundane fog-shrouded world of her personal life and broke through to the clear sky of pure objectiveness. All this -- Skynet, Judgment Day, Cameron and her Foundation -- went far beyond the mere safety of her son. It was global; the weight of all humanity hung in the balance -- and coltan was heavy. From a distance, her son's life seemed frighteningly insignificant.
"But he's not," she reminded herself. The world revolved around him, and Cameron's Foundation was but a glimpse of a future without a John Connor. A future with only two evil empires vying for world supremacy. A future without humanity. Without hope.
"Be strong," said a voice, like that of a young boy. "You're the mother of the future . . ."
Kyle evidently found what he was looking for. "Here," he said. "I think this one's from my graduation -- where I earned my conditioning." He glanced at her and beamed. "Only the best and the brightest were given the Nine-Fifty." He actually seemed proud of that, like an eunuch bragging about his castration. Sarah's mouth twitched into a frown.
He clicked "play," and the movie began.
From the awkward jerks of the frame, Sarah can tell it's through Cameron's eyes again. Sarah sees a grassy field, with a city skyline with three great shining towers in the background. Above, in the clouds, float three gigantic dirigibles, like a trio of fat, silver, godlike cigars. Along the side of each ship is a large blue hexagon with three blue dots along the edges.
Three. Three. Three. Nine. Sarah's eye twitched. Again.
The frame pans down and looks at a wooden platform in the middle of the field. A stage, seemingly for a ceremony. Cameron moves -- walks -- around to the back side of the platform. Sarah sees a large crowd of what look like students, many of them standing near a number of buffet tables. Some sit on blankets and eat, enjoying little picnics. A violin piece plays softly from somewhere. She recognizes it as Bach's "Air on the G String."
"And somewhere." Sarah thought bitterly, "Millions of lobotomized slaves work in factories." Her head pounded, and she tightened her mouth into a thin line.
The camera -- Cameron -- pans over to a teenage Kyle, about eighteen or nineteen. He is wearing one of the same dark green uniforms from the birthday party, but this one in a slightly more modern cut. He's talking with a twenty-something Derek and a young redheaded girl. They are laughing about something, when Kyle suddenly turns and looks at the camera. He smiles . . .
Kyle suddenly looked flustered. "Um, Actually," he said, pausing the video. "This is after the graduation. Um, let me go look . . . "
"No," Sarah said. "We'll watch this." He was hiding something, but what?
He looked at her and grinned sheepishly. "You . . . might not want to watch this one . . . It's kind of . . . personal." He shrugged.
Sarah narrowed her eyes and gave a grim smile. "No. Show me this one . . . " she said.
Kyle seemed to hide a smile. "All right," he said, his voice deliberately flat. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He started the video.
Cameron steps up to Kyle and takes him by the hand, leading him away from the crowd. Behind Cameron's eyes -- out of sight -- Derek laughs. Cameron leads Kyle to the side of the platform. She turns and looks at him, and places her hands on his shoulders. They are alone now.
Sarah frowned, and Kyle's eyes quickly glanced to her from the screen to Sarah, then back again. He picked at the carpet with his fingers.
"How was my speech?" Kyle asks, looking into Cameron's eyes.
"Your speech was effective," Cameron says. "You spoke well." It's her voice, her real voice, devoid of all but the vaguest semblance of inflection. The camera tilts at an angel and she asks, "The operation is at six in the morning tomorrow. Are you worried?"
Kyle looks down. "A little. It's . . . " He shrugs.
She gently places a hand on his cheek, stroking it. "I know you're nervous, but don't worry about it. The procedure is painless." She rubs her fingers through his hair and says, "Everything will be okay. I'm proud of you. You know that."
The hand on the cheek. Stroking. Rubbing. Sarah thought of Vick. And Barbara. And she pressed her teeth together until a molar screamed in agony. Vick never loved Barbara; she was just a pawn. Like Kyle.
Oh, Kyle, you poor deluded fool . . .
Kyle smiles and places his hand on the edge of the camera -- Cameron's face. He seems speechless, but then says, "I'll do it for you, Cameron." His face grows serious, intense, and he adds "I love you; I always have . . . "
Sarah breathing turned into a low growl. No. No. No . . .
Kyle looked over at her with concern, or perhaps embarrassment. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it.
Their faces move closer, and Kyle tilts his head. The screen is filled with both of Kyle's eyes, distorted and compressed by the binocular nature of Cameron's vision. He closes his eyes, and then Sarah hears the sound of Kyle and Cameron's tongues: sliding, weaving, slipping against each other and . . .
Sarah's stomach churned, and termites crawled under her skin, biting her flesh into goosebumps. "The voice was right," she thought. Of course, she already knew, but to hear it, see it . . . Why is this happening to me? Not my Kyle . . . Not my Kyle . . . Sarah's teeth began to chatter, and she felt the burning of acidic tears as they welled from her eyes. She shook her head. Cameron raised him. Little birthday parties? With party hats? To . . . kissing? The churning turned into convulsions, and she had to force her empty belly from expunging bile.
She heard the video stop. "Um . . . Sarah, look . . ." Kyle started, sounding almost guilty.
The tears flowed warm on her cheeks. Kyle. Cameron. Kissing that fake, stolen, lying tongue. "And fucking," said a little boy's voice in her brain. "She stole your Kyle . . ." No. Croaking sobs convulsed from her throat. No.
"Sarah?" Kyle asked.
He did this on purpose, didn't he? But why? For laughs? Or another conspiracy of his iron mistress? That metal demon, cloaked in a young girl's skin . . . why does she torment me so? Cameron had already given her cancer . . . wasn't that enough?
But Kyle . . . and his robot mommy. It was so . . . even if she -- it! -- were human, it would still be wrong. Cameron had molested him. "And she'll molest John, too," the boy's voice mocked. No! "She'll play 'doctor' with him . . . " Oh, God, the dream . . . dressed like a nurse . . . No! Don't you touch him! Not my baby! Her sobs reached a new crescendo as they shifted into a wailing screech. She buried her face in her palms, and the room began to spin.
"Uh, look . . . " Kyle started. His voice sounded awkward, but slightly amused.
Amused?
"He mocks you . . ." whispered the voice in her ear.
This was all Kyle's fault. He brought this evil upon her.
And her son.
My baby!
Sarah looked up from wet palms and glared at Kyle through tear-bleared eyes. Fury. Anger. Hate. She reached out to slap him -- No. Go for the eyes.
With nails out like a cat's, she lunged down from the bed towards his face. Claw his eyes into jelly!
A blur of movement.
Sarah flew backwards and landed on the bed, flat on her back -- unharmed. He hadn't hit her, she realized. He had just picked her up under the arms and thrown her back as if she were an unruly child. She tried to sit up, but Kyle's hand grabbed around her throat, tightening, holding her down. She clawed futily against the sleeve his dark-green trench-coat, and kicked her legs wildly, ignoring the soreness of her wound. No . . . he'll hurt John . . .
Kyle's face came into view over her. "Stop it," he said, his voice hard and cold.
He could kill me at any time. But he hadn't. He lacked the will.
Sarah hissed and spat, struggling against his iron grip. "Mother-fucker!" she shouted in defiance. "Mother-fucker! Mother-fucker! Metal mother-fucker!" She heard herself laugh, and felt waves of energy surge in her brain. Energy? Energy from the dreams . . .
But then Kyle's blue eyes . . . flashed blue.
Sarah stopped struggling, and felt fear sweat through her skin. The soul was in the eyes. But his eyes were . . . machine -- metal -- Cameron's eyes. Sarah had been wrong about him. "No soul -- at all," Sarah thought. All gone. Cameron had plucked them out and filled his empty sockets with Skynet.
Kyle was just one of them . . . She knew that now. The little boy whispered in the back of her head, confirming her suspicions, and she realized the voice belonged to a higher power.
Kyle looked down at her and sighed, then rolled his eyes (fake! fake!) and shook his head. He then let her go, and she listened as he picked up the laptop, clicked it shut, and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Lying on the bed, Sarah rocked her head back and forth and started to cry.
As he turned onto Somerset Blvd, John elbowed some of the broken glass out of the driver's side window. He shifted in his seat, and felt a tiny sliver poke him in the rear; he reached down and brushed it away. He wished Kyle would learn a more subtle approach to grand theft auto.
Sitting next to him, Cam stared out the passenger window at something on the sidewalk
In his head, John ran through the big picture. With all the craziness, it was getting harder and harder to keep a clear head -- and he didn't want to end up like his mother. But then again, maybe she was right about the three dots thing. But how? Woman's intuition? God? Telepathy? Leprechauns? Probably just a coincidence. After all, Dakara wasn't Skynet. Sooner or later she was just bound to come across something, if only by accident.
Still, pointless to investigate it anyway. The path they needed to take had already been laid out befor them. All the snooping, fact-finding, wasted hours -- all taken care of. It was like being told the ending to a murder mystery. Future Cam's Spoilers. She had told them the who, now all they needed was the how.
How to destroy Skynet? Guarded in an office building? 888s? A T-1000? Difficult, but conceivably doable.
John's mind drifted to Ellison. Why?
"I should have let Cam beat the truth out of him," he thought. Not too late, though. Maybe they could use him . .
He set it all aside; they could fill out the details later.
After they fix Cam, of course.
He came to a red light, and his mind blanked.
"Which way now?" he asked.
"Turn on right Clark Boulevard," Cameron said, cocking her head at a sparrow outside.
"Thanks," he said as the light turned green. He really should have let her drive; he didn't want to be late.
Cameron turned to look at him. "You said I did wrong. In New Zealand," she said.
John glanced sideways at her and gave her something between a smile a frown. Maybe a weak grimace. "Yeah, but that's all behind us now." He shook his head. "Don't worry about it. It wasn't you, anyway." And it was all his fault. His eyes drifted away from her and went back to the road.
"But why was it wrong?" she asked.
John pursed his lips into a little frown. "It just . . . is." Good answer, stupid. "I mean . . . " He trailed off. What was he supposed to say? Because God said so? He wasn't sure if he believed in that, and he certainly didn't want to get involved in a theological debate. Not with someone who didn't know why forced lobotomization was a bad thing. But then I must not know either . . .
He glanced at her. She stared back with patient eyes, eager to hang on his every word, and suddenly he felt absurdly embarrassed, as if he were a fraud addressing an auditorium full of overly inquisitive professors over a subject he knew nothing about. Why hadn't he done this earlier? After all, this was his responsibility; he owed her this.
And she loves me . . .
But how should he explain it? What did he say to Uncle Bob? "Because you can't?" That probably won't work with Cam.
She cocked her head and frowned. He better say something.
"People have . . . certain . . . ," he began, and realized he didn't have a finish for the sentence. He decided to start over. " . . . It's wrong to . . . to hurt people. To do bad things to them." Having to explain that set him at unease. He watched her from the corner of his eye, and cringed slightly, knowing the one word question she'd ask next.
"Empathy," she said, and nodded her head as if she understood.
John looked back at her and grinned. "Yeah. Empathy." He blew out a breath, like an inaudible whistle, and felt a small, tight warmth in his chest. He drew his smile bigger; that was easy. Maybe Cam was more human than he thought.
He stopped at an intersection, and turned right on Clark Boulevard.
But then he remembered her flipping Ellison face first into a floor of broken glass, and his hopes dimmed somewhat. Did she really know what empathy meant? Did she feel it? And if she didn't feel it, how could he . . . ?
"But the implants didn't hurt," Cameron said. "They were painless, and the subjects were made more effective." She paused and looked at him with vague confusion in her eyes. "Isn't that empathy?"
"Uh . . . " John turned to face her. Great. He wished his mom was here to -- no he didn't. But . . .
Cameron's head shot to the road, and she pointed. "John!"
John slammed on the breaks and tightened his grip on the steering wheel; the inertia shoved him forward. But it was all unnecessary; the SUV wasn't that close. "Thanks," he said, his heart beating in his chest. He wished Cam wasn't so cautious.
She nodded. "You're welcome." Then, "We should talk about this later. You're distracted."
"All right," John said. He suddenly felt warm. Why was he wearing a jacket? He slipped it off and started the truck again down the street. Maybe he should stick with just a set of rules for now -- the Uncle Bob approach. He could worry about the "whys" later. There must be someone better qualified to teach right from wrong. Maybe he could give her a book on ethics.
"Turn left at this intersection," Cameron said, nodding at a upcoming street sign.
"Okay," he said.
He frowned and ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth. "I'm her teacher . . ." he thought. Might as well explain a rule now. "It's wrong to do things to people -- especially things like brain surgery -- without their permission," he said. A few days ago, he would have added, "And don't ask 'why.'" But not anymore. No more being a douche bag. Not to her, anyway. And it was good she wanted to learn.
"Like Derek?" she said. "When he tried to remove my chip?" Her voice sounded flat, annoyed, almost angry. He noticed her hand had stopped inches from the radio dial.
He paused and gave her a look. She clearly held a grudge against Derek, but who could blame her? He hated Derek too, now. But suddenly he felt as if he had been overlooking the obvious, like the solution to a laughably simple analogy, staring him in the face. But what? "Yeah," he said, finally. "Like that," and gave her an odd half-smile.
Cameron ran an analysis on the relative velocities between their truck and the SUV. Their truck was traveling at 38 miles per hour. The SUV laid 29.9 feet ahead of them, moving in the same direction at 21 miles per hour. A collision would be imminent in 1.2 seconds. While the driver's side airbag would save John from serious injury, it would create complications. And John could suffer bruises on his face. And a broken nose.
She pointed at the SUV. "John!"
John applied the necessary pressure to the brakes, and the truck rapidly decelerated to a halt. Cameron heard the squeal of skidding rubber. Perhaps she should trade seats with John? Her driving is superior.
John looked at her. "Thanks," he said, with an anxious grin. The proper word is "sheepish."
"You're welcome," Cameron replied. Her inquiry about the morality of human brain modification has impaired John's ability to drive safely. The discussion should be discontinued. "We should talk about this later. You're distracted."
"All right," John agreed. His face appeared flush. He shed his jacket, pulling his arms out of the sleeves; their near vehicular collision had increased his stress level. That was unsatisfactory.
John continued driving down Clark Boulevard.
Cameron looked out the window and scanned another passing bird. A Band-Tailed Pigeon. Patagioenas fasciata. Today she had seen three birds of that species. The bird waddled near a trash receptacle and pecked at a disregarded hamburger bun. A scavenger. In the future, many humans will become like pigeons. Adapting to one's environment is an effective strategy.
They arrived at Harvard Street. "Turn left at this intersection."
"Okay," John said.
He appeared irritated. He had clenched his jaw, and was frowning. She was about to lean over to touch him, but decided against it. John responded negatively if he knows he's being scanned. Instead, she should turn on the radio. Music may relax him. Music is good for the soul. She reached for the radio dial.
"It's wrong to do things to people," John said suddenly, gesturing with his hand. "Especially things like brain surgery, without their permission."
Brain surgery. Permission. Consent. "Like Derek?" she asked "When he tried to remove my chip?" A dim, irritant emerged; Cameron suppressed it. Derek was a liar. She had misjudged his character.
John glanced over at her and gave her a thoughtful look. "Yeah. Like that."
Was it like that?
Cameron recalled one of the password protected files from the flash drive: Experiment TK421. The subject of the experiment, Alice, had been a nineteen year old female captured in an insurgency raid outside Auckland. In order to better determine Alice's changing mental states, the future Cameron had kept her conscious for the duration of the procedure. During this time, Alice had displayed severe psychological distress, and made many repeated requests to be released from the experiment. These requests were denied. But after the operation, Alice had ceased her complaints. Cameron's future self had inadvertently damaged the Broca and primary motor center of Alice's brain. Alice could no longer speak. Or move. Experiment TK421 had been a failure.
Derek had not sought Cameron's permission before attempting to remove her chip.
Her future self had not sought Alice's permission before operating on her brain.
Cameron concluded the two scenarios were analogous.
To be in Alice's position would be unpreferable.
A thought emerged. "The Golden Rule," she said.
John looked over at her, surprised. "What?"
"'Do to others as you would have them do to you. Luke 6:31.'" She looked at him and smiled. "The Golden Rule."
He breathed out a laugh. "You read the Bible . . . ?"
"I don't sleep."
"I know," he said. "But yeah. The Golden Rule." He nodded his head and smiled at her. "That's a good rule to follow."
Cameron smiled and looked back out the window. John wanted her to follow the Golden Rule. The Golden Rule is empathy, and empathy is to vicariously experience the feelings of others, and help them. Since Cameron would never have to conduct experiments like TK421 -- her future self had seen to that -- the augmentation process would carry no adverse effects. To show empathy is to augment.
If she loved John, she should augment him. As an I950, John would have increased physical and mental attributes. And an unlimited lifespan. And the conditioning would keep him psychologically satisfied.
But shouldn't she first seek his consent? John may become agitated if she did not. He would be angry, and that would produce in her an unsatisfying sensation. And John would not be psychologically satisfied -- even with the conditioning.
But if he were not augmented, he could die from an injury a I950 would survive. Also, he would eventually die of old age. Cameron could not allow either one of those to occur.
She should augment him.
Perhaps she could do it as a birthday present?
A surprise one, if necessary.
She scanned the nearby street signs and looked over at John. "Kendo's Tech Shack is on the next right," she said.
"Thanks."
John stopped at another light, and Cameron saw a dead Rock Pigeon laying on the side of the road. Columba livia. It looked as if it had been crushed by a passing vehicle. The driver had not shown the bird empathy.
That, or the driver didn't know it was there.
Jesse squatted on the roof of a Radio World and watched Kendo's Tech Shack. Nothing yet, but then she still had another twenty minutes before six.
She knew that head-shot must have done something to Cameron's chip. Either that, or the damage from that explosion had gotten worse. A quick bit of online research showed that Kendo's business dealt in real high-end computer hardware. Stuff you usually could only get from Korea. So either John just really wanted a good graphics card for Halo, or he's going to work on her chip.
Jesse smiled. That kind of information might be useful.
Two black vans pulled up in the alley behind the Tech Shack. Their back doors swung open, and six federal agents quickly filed out, entering the store through the rear entrance. Jesse looked through her binoculars: pistols and shotguns. She sighed and shook her head. She had at least expected assault rifles. One of them wasn't even wearing a helmet. If John showed up with his metal -- and he would -- those men wouldn't stand a chance.
That surprised her, actually. She had assumed someone among the Feds knew what was what; after all, "Agent Carlson" had contacted her first. And then there had been all that initial aid she received when she and Riley first bubbled back: contact numbers, money stashes . . . Ollie hadn't lied; they had taken care of her.
But who were they? They obviously wanted Cameron dead too, or at least not John's right hand fuck buddy. Did Perry send back his own teams? Or were they just Men in Black, somehow in the know? She supposed it didn't matter. It was nice to have secret friends in high places, like having a team of guardian angel G-men.
And maybe the agents were prepared. Spent-uranium slugs?
She had considered bringing her own M82. Try again. Help the agents out. Really, if that shot yesterday had hit an inch to the right, Cameron's chip would be plastic confetti. But no, unlike the East Basin district, there were people here. If she starts popping off .50 caliber rounds here, a hundred cell phones would call 911. Police, SWAT teams, helicopters . . . What was that game Derek had played? Grand Theft Auto? Yeah. Jesse didn't want to play a real life version of that.
No. No stupid stunts. Patience. Bide your time. You need to plan the metal's destruction. You need to track them.
She glanced down at the GPS chip, about the size of a dime. She really wasn't sure what she was going to do with it when John showed up. Attach it to his vehicle? No, after this -- killing a half dozen feds -- he'd certainly switch cars. And just tailing them in her truck won't work. If John didn't catch her, the metal would.
She frowned and looked back at the store.
That was assuming, of course, that John wasn't killed. Cameron could take a bath in their lead, but John still could get hit in the crossfire. Wouldn't that be something? Then what? Would the human race really be doomed? General Connor did start the Resistance . . . but only because the Resistance that had already been sent back knew he was supposed to. John Connor was the leader because he had been in another timeline.
And even in Derek's future --the dead Derek, not her Derek (Jesse's looked down at the gravel on the roof and flicked a pebble with her hand) -- John had benefited from future help only because he had been the leader.
John is because he was because he had been . . .
That sounded stupid.
But had there ever been a first John Connor, one who earned his position purely on merit, with no time travel? That John Connor would truly be a god among men. An once in a millennium type, like Alexander the Great. Or Spartacus. Not the sniveling neurotic her John Connor had been, clinging to the advice of a machine. Letting her -- it -- run things. Trusting them over real people.
And making deals with the enemy.
Or maybe there never had been a first, just an endless stream of General Connors, each varying slightly from the last through the previous futures' meddling.
There was a term for that, right? Something about eating your tail? Worm Oroborus? No, not that . . .
Jesse looked up as a gray pick-up truck pulled into Kendo's parking lot. She lifted up her binoculars and watched as John and the machine stepped out and walked towards the shop. The machine. Yesterday, it had tortured and killed Derek . . .
Jesse took a deep breath. No, stay on task. Focus. This is a mission.
She looked at her watch: 18:02:36. Got to be quick. She had fifty yards to cover between here and their vehicle.
Her heart quickened, and she felt the the floodgates of adrenalin flow into her being. It's showtime.
Waiting until John and Cameron were out of sight, Jesse tossed the ladder rope over the edge of the roof and began to climb down. Her hands and feet quickly went from one rung to the next. The ladder -- just a rope with rings, really -- slowly swung back and forth like a pendulum.
Halfway to the pavement, Jesse remembered: an infinite regress.
That's all John was, an endless cycle of diminishing returns, each new future xeroxed from the last -- but changed. Diluted.
And if something were to go wrong today, the cycle would be broken. A new leader would have a chance. Who could that be?
Jesse made it down and jumped the last few feet. She glanced at her watch: 18:03:11. Hurry. Her heart thumped with that old addictive excitement, and she turned and sprinted down the back alley of Radio World towards Kendo's shop. Her sneakers -- worn specifically for this mission -- made light padding sounds as she ran. She felt the little impact of each step, running up her legs like the percussion of drums. She ran faster.
For one hubris-filled instant, she fancied herself as the heir to the Resistance. Make her own cycle. Why not? She wouldn't fuck around with metal. And she could be rich by the time Judgment Day came around. Armies of mercenaries? General Flores? But no . . . just wishful thinking. She'd run the war into the ground, and she knew it.
She turned around the corner of a wooden fence barrier and . . . Gunfire? Coming from the store. A cacophony of pistol pops, like a string fireworks. Three shotgun blasts go off, one after the other. Well, it wasn't like she didn't see that coming.
She sped towards the Connor's truck, keeping herself crouched down as she ran. Her watch: 18:03:36.
The gunfire died down, and as Jesse sneaked behind the bed of their truck she withdrew her .45, for all the good it'd do if the metal spotted her. She should have brought more, but it'd weigh her down. Jesse kept her finger on the trigger guard, but prepared to open fire if it came out. Aim for the eyes? That might blind it. Maybe. Her black tank-top and cargo pants were already soaked. Out of shape? No, just excitement. She felt her mouth twitch. It always did that on missions.
From inside, she heard one final "pop." 9mm, probably.
Still hunched down, She worked her way to the truck's drivers side door. A broken window? Hmm . . . let's peek inside, shall we? She peered over the jagged teeth of ruined glass and looked. There had to be something she could put the GPS tracker on. Something they'd keep when they switched vehi--
Then she saw it. A jacket, resting on the back of the driver's seat. But was it theirs? Or the previous owners? A quick look at the watch: 18:03:47. Fuck it. Just put the bloody tracker in there. Not having time to be clever, Jesse reached into the truck and slipped the chip into the jacket's breast pocket. Hope it doesn't fall out.
Now, time to get the fuck out. She tightened her grip on her gun and sprinted in a half-crouch away from the truck and back towards the fence barrier. No time to look at her watch. Don't want to be caught in the open.
She bolted around the fence and took a moment catch her breath, leaning back against the wooden planks. The rough, splintery surface tickled the skin of her shoulders, and she waited as her heart calmed down. Her sweat grew cool, and she felt as if she had been strolling through a light autumn rain. She took a breath; this had been actually kind of fun. She missed missions like this . . .
Jesse pulled out her GPS monitor and turned it on: the chip, seventeen meters to the south. Ha.
Would Perry be proud of her? She'd like to thi--
From the other side of the fence, she heard the sound of the front door opening.
Shit. Why the fuck was she just sitting here? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Slowly, with gradual and deliberate movements, Jesse stood up and turned her back from the fence. She leaned forward and peeked through a slither of space between two of the planks.
The metal.
Cameron didn't look so pretty anymore. Her black leather jacket had been shredded by what looked like shotgun blasts, and through a ruin of skin and hide, spots of gleaming, bloody coltan could be seen over her torso. Cameron turned her head back and forth, scanning, and Jesse caught a glint of sunlight off the right side of her head.
In her hand she held a Glock.
If she sees me . . . I'm dead. Jesse froze and felt little jolts of jitters crawl up her arms and legs. Just sit still. Don't move. It doesn't know your here. It can't see yo-- but the space between the planks! If Jesse could see Cameron, then Cameron could see Jesse -- especially with her machine eyes. She cringed and imagined Cameron's bullets punching through the cheap wood of the fence, digging holes into her flesh. A sitting duck. Her sweat turned to ice water, and she didn't dare breath.
"It's clear," she heard the metal say. Her cute little girl's voice . . . probably the last thing Derek ever heard. I'll kill you one day, you metal cunt! But then, Jesse already had, hadn't she? She smiled; then she'd just have to kill it a second time -- and watch John cry all over again.
Still peeking between the planks, Jesse watched as Cameron stepped out into the parking lot. John left the store, following behind her. He looked pale, frightened, and a little angry, and Jesse could see him tremble slightly.
Ladies and gentleman, the future Leader of the Resistance . . .
Shifting her weight, Jesse's heel ground against a pebble of gravel. A tiny, barely audible scraping sound came out.
Cameron stopped abruptly and glared at Jesse's hiding place.
Shit!
No time to think. Fight or flight? Just a .45? Run like fuck.
Jesse bolted from the fence and ran down the alley -- fifty yards from cover. "I'm dead," she thought, and for a moment considered turning around and fighting it out. Better to die shooting than getting a bullet in the back. But she knew she wouldn't. It'd be a futile gesture; even eye shots probably wouldn't blind it. Not .45 ACPs.
Her legs pumped and pumped until they burned, and she realized she was smiling, wide mouthed, teeth bared, breathing with lungs of fire. A few more yards now. In her chest, her heart beat against her ribs like a hawk trapped in a cage. She passed the still swinging rope ladder, crouched down, and slipped around the corner of the Radio World with a flourished dash.
Free.
Her sweat felt hot. Like lava running off her skin. Alive. After a few seconds of heaving breaths, she hazarded a peek around the corner.
An empty alley.
Well, that was anti-climatic. She almost wished she had been chased. Make her feel alive. Real fun, that -- causing your own problems. Getting into scrapes. No, that was crazy. Don't be crazy. Focus. But in any case, she probably should have brought something more than just a handgun.
She took labored breaths, like slow sighing, and shot panicked looks around.
A busy street. During business hours. A passing driver stared at her and sped away.
Oh.
Jesse put up her gun and smiled wryly.
Then her cell phone rang.
Agent Carlson.
She answered without speaking.
Carlson's voice came through clear and bland. "The man suspected of Andy Goode's murder is being held at the Pacific Hospital and will be transferred tomorrow at 8am to the Camarillo Prison Medical Facility." Carlson hung up.
Derek . . . tortured? But alive!
"Thank you," Jesse whispered, and felt her brain pound with joy. Guardian angel G-men. Got to love them.
Derek was alive!
Jesse laughed
As soon as Cameron stepped through the door, she knew something was wrong. The last time she and John had been here, there had been several teenagers playing video games. Now the store was empty, with just Kendo standing at the far end.
And last time Kendo's body language and facial expressions had conveyed a casual friendliness. Now he stood still, and his eyes betrayed fear. Cameron detected excess sweat on his brow.
John walked a few steps into the room while Cameron kept pace behind him. "Hey Kendo," John said. From the tone of his voice, she knew John could sense it too.
"Hey," Kendo said. His eyes momentarily glanced to one of the open doors along the wall.
Cameron initiated her combat alert status and boosted her audio detection: breathing -- from the two open doors on either side of them -- and from behind the partition wall next to Kendo.
From the room to her left, someone whispered, "Now."
Ambush.
Footsteps, coming from the left, the right, and the front.
No time to warn John. With her left hand she grabbed him by the shoulder and flung him to the ground. John let out a cry and skidded along the tiled floor. With her right she withdrew her Glock 17 from her back waistband.
Two men appeared from behind the partition, standing to either side of Kendo. They held .40 Sig 250s and wore body armor with the letters "FBI" displayed on the front. Before either of them could ready their weapons, Cameron fired a single 9mm bullet into each of their brains. Left eye. Bridge of the nose. Deceased. Deceased.
Their bodies fell to the ground. Kendo stood in shock and did nothing.
Four other federal agents appeared: two men to her left, a man and a woman to her right. They were armed with Remington 870s and .40 Sig 250s. The agents to her left were closer to John. They were the greater threat.
As she turned to engage her left, a shotgun blast dug into the right side of her abdomen, destroying a fist sized portion of her organic covering. .40 caliber rounds ripped into her back. From the left, another shotgun blast shredded the skin covering where her heart would be were she human. Two pistol rounds deflected off her chest plate. Another dug into her shoulder. The damage to her tissue felt . . . irritating.
She killed an agent with a bullet to the center of the mouth. The one next to him died from a shot to the right eye.
Sparing a split second glance at John, she saw he was curled up on the floor in the corner. John was safe, but he looked highly agitated. Through the gunfire she heard him calling loudly to the Christian deity, along with non-sequitur references to copulation. Later, she would have to take measures to alleviate his stress.
Cameron turned around to face the last two agents. A .40 round ricocheted off Cameron's forehead, and a 12ga blast ripped along the top right side of her scalp, knocking her head back momentarily. Her human infiltration was severely compromised. That could create complications. She would have to wear a hat.
One round to the nasal cavity killed the female agent. Another along the crown of the head neutralized the man with the Remington. He screamed and clutched at his ruptured skull before terminal cranial blood loss rendered him unconsciousness. He should have worn his Kevlar helmet.
All six agents were dead.
Cameron scanned John. He was safe. That was good. She lowered her Glock.
Then she turned her gaze to Kendo.
Kendo had crouched down and had pushed himself into the far corner of the room, curled up against a speaker system. An ineffective strategy. He would have been better served had he retreated through the emergency exit. He stared at Cameron with wide eyes, and she knew he saw her exposed hyperalloy. A witness.
"Please . . . " he said. "Please don't kill me . . . please. I'm sorry . . . " His eyes began to tear up, and his mouth trembled with sobs.
Behind her, she heard John stand up. He breathed heavily.
Kendo had conspired against John.
An irritated sensation.
John could have been killed.
The sensation grew worse.
She raised her Glock and aimed it at Kendo's head. He whimpered and shielded his face with his hands.
"No!" John shouted behind her. "Stop!"
Kendo was a threat.
"Please don't ki--"
"No! Cam! D--"
Cameron pulled the trigger.
The bullet severed Kendo's left middle finger and entered his brain through his eye socket. Deceased. His hands had provided inadequate protection.
"Cam!" John shouted behind her. She turned around and looked at him. He stared at Kendo's body, then at her, and then at the agents on the ground. His eyes showed fear, and his skin had paled. He bent over at the waist, resting his hands on his knees, and his breathing began to hyperventilate. John was suffering an anxiety attack.
Cameron stepped over and placed a hand on his shoulder. Through his shirt, she could sense high apocrine content in his sweat. "It's all right, John," she said in a soothing voice. "They can't hurt you now."
He made an indistinct grunted and jerked away from her, walking over to one of the bodies -- the one she had shot in the right eye. The impact of the bullet had caused brain tissue to eject from the man's ear. John saw the fragment and clutched at his stomach, doubling over. He threw up; the vomit contained partially digested pancakes, scrabbled eggs, bacon . . .
"John?" she said. They had to leave. The FBI may send reinforcements.
John spitted and wiped a particle of egg his mouth. He glared at her, his eyes angry. Cameron cocked her head; she must have done something wrong.
A realization.
Kendo.
Kendo had requested that he not be killed. She should have showed Kendo empathy. The Golden Rule.
"I'm sorry, John," Cameron said.
He just shook his head and gave her a withering look. "Let's go," he said, almost whispering. He began to walk towards the front door, but stopped himself. "Fuck," he said, thrusting his fists down. He turned around and went to the back of the store, his legs shaking and uncoordinated.
John took a moment to examine Kendo. Kendo's hands had fallen from his face, and blood leaked from where his left eye had been. His right eye remained wide with fear. But Kendo was not afraid; to experience fear, one must exist. Kendo did not.
John covered his mouth and looked away from the body. "Come on," he said as he walked behind the partition wall. "Let's get what we need to fix you." His tone was hostile.
Cameron followed him into Kendo's inventory room and watched as John searched through the merchandise. Cameron should help. She quickly selected the appropriate equipment and placed them in a nearby duffel bag.
She handed him the bag. "I should have spared Kendo's life."
"Yeah, you should have." John agreed. His voice sounded agitated, and she noticed his body trembled slightly. John needed rest. He started towards the entrance, but Cameron stepped ahead of him, stopping him with a hand across his chest. She should go out first. He looked at her, the muscles around his eyes drew tight in anger.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"A little late for that now." He shook his head, and his hands twitched, clenching in and out of fists.
Cameron looked away and replaced the magazine of her Glock. John was correct. It was too late. But had she done something wrong? No. Kendo had been a threat. What she did was right.
She looked through the glass front door. No sign of hostiles.
No, Kendo had not been a threat. Not then. She had killed him because of what he had done, not for what he would do.
But, he could have reached for one of the agents' weapons . . . ?
No. John would have wanted her to show empathy. She had not.
John was disappointed in her.
Now he hated her. Again.
She felt an unsatisfactory sensation.
. . . Sad?
She stepped out the door and waited for any snipers to shoot. She scanned the area. "It's clear," she said.
As they walked back to the truck, Cameron heard a sound near the fence to her left, approximately twenty yards away. She turned to look. Then: running footsteps. Should she investigate?
No, she decided.
That would leave John undefended.
She should protect John.
To love is to protect.