In the Hands of an Angry Machine
Chapter Fifteen: Love is Love
A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid13 for beta-reading this chapter.
Sitting in the passenger's seat of the truck, John shivered slightly and clamped his teeth together to keep them from chattering. He still felt his heart beating against his chest, though the rate had slowed in the last couple minutes. Cameron glanced over at him with a blank stare -- more blank than usual -- and his eyes made a split second of contact before looking over her injuries.
A shotgun blast had stripped away the flesh along the top right side of her head, exposing the coltan around her CPU port, and several rips and tears had left her leather jacket a tattered ruin. Blood oozed from a dozen wounds, staining the driver's seat a solid red. One blast had torn a fleshy cave, about the width of a small fist, deep into her abdomen. If she were human, he'd be able to make out her liver and intestines. But all that he could see inside was a plain, solid meat, uniform and processed, like a big side of blood soaked bologna.
Deep at the end of the hole, he saw the wet glimmer of one of the metal support rods for her waist. Cameron turned at an intersection; as she shifted in her seat, John swore he could hear the faint whir of a servo.
He turned away, suddenly feeling nauseous.
My fault.
He felt ashamed for thinking it, but John was glad Cam had saved him from the FBI. He'd never be okay with it. He'd never see it as the right thing to do, but he certainly wouldn't want it to be otherwise. They may have just been innocent people doing their jobs, but when it came right down to it, John really, really didn't want to go to prison. If six federal agents had to die to prevent that . . . he shook his head; he didn't want to think about it.
They pulled into a car park building. Cameron's eyes looked sideways at him, just long enough for him to notice, then darted away. It almost seemed as if she was afraid of him.
In any case, he couldn't get angry at her over that. Not about the agents. Men with guns, charging in without warning? How else was she supposed to react?
Well, she could have fought them hand-to-hand, disarmed them, knocked them unconscious . . . but that would've taken longer; half her skin could have been shot off by then. But still . . .
John shook his head again and bent over in his seat, clutching his stomach. It felt as if there were a vacuum in his belly. He took a deep breath, and his throat burned from the recent throw up.
He remembered how her aim had shifted from one agent to the next, all in single continuous flow of motion. No hesitation. No pausing for a shot. Just efficient, fluid swings of her arm, and a body falling with each "crack" . . . and the agents' gunfire tearing futily into her flesh . . .
Deadly and with inhuman finesse, she had been like a bulletproof fencing master -- armed with a Glock.
But she did that for him. He may not like it, but he understood. And to understand is to forgive. But . . .
John's hand moved down and touched the roll of hundreds in his back pocket. The money meant for Kendo.
Kendo.
That had been different. John would have felt far better about it if she hadn't hesitated. If she had just killed him in the same sequence of firearm ballet that had taken down the agents, at least then he could have convinced himself it was a reflex, or an instinct. Not quite an accident, but not quite cold blooded murder either. Just Cam getting carried away. Or a glitch.
John watched Cam's face as she scanned a passing row of parked cars. She avoided looking at him.
But with Kendo, she had hesitated. She thought about it, and John had seen the muscles in her face, like strings tugged from the soul, draw her eyes into cold anger. In a second she had judged the value of Kendo's life -- and found him wanting.
Executed.
He begged for his life . . .
But what should John say? Did she even understand? He didn't want things to be the way they were before . . .
And she did say she was sorry . . .
But sorry for what she did? Or sorry for making him angry?
Cameron pulled into an empty parking space. "We have to switch vehicles," she said dully, looking out the driver's side window.
He nodded and ran his tongue through the inside of his mouth, grimacing at the lingering aftertaste: vomit, like ripe papayas. He wished he had some water. Or mouthwash.
Stepping out of the truck, she walked towards a SUV parked nearby. John sighed and followed a few seconds later, almost forgetting to snatch up his jacket before getting out. He slipped it on; he wasn't shivering anymore, but he was cold, and the thick black suede made him feel more secure, somehow.
In one seemingly well-practiced motion, Cameron marched up to the SUV and ran her fist through the driver's side window. She then opened the door. "More broken glass. Great," John thought as he walked to the passenger's side and climbed in.
Objectively, he knew Kendo's death shouldn't matter. Future Cam had turned millions of people into cyborg zombies, and if she were to appear before him right now, John knew couldn't find it in his heart to hate her. Not after all she had done for him. But then, he hadn't seen what went on in New Zealand, whereas he knew Kendo, and he had at least been sort-of friends with his cousin, that stoner kid from school. Doug?
Well, thanks to Cam, Doug was now short one relative.
John furrowed his brow and frowned at Cameron as she tore off a plastic panel from the steering column and twisted something near the starter. The engine roared to life. For a brief moment, she turned to face him, and then he saw it -- that look.
He'd seen it before. A month ago when he gave her his "I don't have to prove anything" speech. When he smirked at her after spending the night with Riley (lying bitch). When he told her she should have burned . . . and now she was doing it again. Her "kicked puppy look." Subtle. In the eyes, with the mouth just slightly ajar. And no less sad or heartrending for her exposed skull. More so, really.
John sighed and looked away, feeling a light pressure build in his throat. No, he knew he couldn't keep it up. And he didn't really want to, anyway -- though he felt he should. But the silent treatment wouldn't do either of them any good. Ultimately, this was all his fault. How long had he known her? Three months? Four? Why hadn't he set any rules for her? Any boundaries? Why did he wait until now? She was only . . . what? A year old? Two? Maybe?
Just like a toddler.
If she didn't know any better after he committed suicide, why would she know better now?
And he really didn't want to go back to hating her.
"She's my only friend," he realized, and suddenly felt very depressed.
He'd have to teach her. It was his responsibility.
As Cameron shifted the SUV into reverse and backed out of the space, John blew out a tired breath and asked, "You know why I'm angry, right?"
She looked at him, and her mouth twitched. "Because I killed Kendo."
He nodded stiffly, and looked away. "And why would that make me angry?"
She paused as she pulled the SUV out onto the street. "Because I didn't show him empathy. The Golden Rule."
John nodded again and glanced over at her. "Why did you kill him?"
"I thought he was a threat." Cameron's eyes drifted over to him, then looked away. "That was a mistake," she added.
John's nodding became more deliberate, exaggerated. "Yes, that was a mistake," he said, keeping his voice calm. "He was unarmed, Cam. He begged you not to kill him."
She opened her mouth and hesitated, and it looked as if she was about to say something else, but instead she just said, "I'm sorry, John"
"Do you know why it's wrong?" John's mouth twisted into something close to a scowl.
They stopped at a red light, and she gave him a somewhat confused look. "I didn't follow the Golden Rule."
"That's right," he said, and looked away.
The thorny vines of a terrible notion snagged on his brain. He did his best to brush them aside, but their sharp nagging points had already pierced his thoughts . . . Something about the way she had said it: "The Golden Rule." A Rule. It was just a rule to her. Artificial and and arbitrary, like "No elbows on the table" or "No purple jackets on Thursday." Completely meaningless, but she'd follow it just to keep him happy.
John frowned at that, and the vines tightened around him. What if she never got it? What if empathy was something only humans could grasp? Something instinctual, that evolved over millions of years?
He stared at her as she drove, and gradually, almost reluctantly, she turned to meet his gaze. Her eyes widened slightly, and she quickly looked away; John realized he had been giving her the angry face.
No, she wasn't a complete sociopath. She cared about him . . . and no one else. That somehow made it worse, and the thorns stabbed him with doubt. He remembered what his mother had said, "She's just following her programming." Was that true? Did she only lo--?
"John?" Cameron asked.
"Yeah?"
"Do you still love me?" She had that look again . . .
John's throat grew a lump and he nodded. "Yes, I . . . I still love you, Cam. But . . . " He made his voice firm, as if he were scolding a small child, and reached over to take one of her hands from the wheel. "Killing Kendo was wrong." He frowned at her and gave her fingers a light squeeze. "Killing . . . unarmed people is always wrong. Don't ever do that again. Ever."
She paused before speaking. "I won't. I promise."
"Good," he said and gave her smile to show he wasn't angry anymore. Sorry Kendo, but your murder's been reduced to an after school special. The injustice of that left his stomach queasy, but what could he do? What's done is done . . .
But it's only wrong to kill unarmed people? Had he just given her the okay to shoot law enforcement? Damn. On the other hand, if it weren't for Cam, he'd be on his way to prison right now. Who knows what they would have charged him with. Would have tried him as an adult, too, seeing as he was technically twenty-four . . .
He didn't want to think about that. No use worrying about it now.
He blew out a breath and leaned back in the seat. Red leather. Nicer than the truck. Still had that new car smell too, or at least the lingering ghost of one. He closed his eyes for a moment and felt Cam's hand gently pull away from his. A moment later he heard her shift gears. He cracked open an eye and watched the passing cityscape as they pulled onto a freeway. The SUV sped up.
He felt along the right side of his seat and reclined it all the way back until he was almost lying down. He closed his eyes again.
But did she care about him only because of her programming? The very idea felt like a termite in his soul, gnawing away at the inner core of his hopes and dreams. He needed Cameron; he had no one else. There had been Riley, but she had only pretended to love him -- in fact, she had been nothing but a ruse to keep him away from Cameron. It was like he and Cam had already happened. Or will happen. Like a destiny or prophesy that he only needed to allow to take place, and then she'd be by his side forever.
He realized he felt warm. Why was he wearing a jacket again? His hand reached out to the AC controls, but he had reclined back too far -- too lazy to lean up. Cameron glanced at his hand and switched it on for him.
"Thanks," he said.
She smiled down at him and turned one of the vents to blow in his direction. The cool air tickled his face. Still, he frowned.
If her love was all programmed, did it count? Was it fake? If she had no choice, if her feelings for him were forced, then accepting her love would seem . . . undeserved. Unearned. Like taking advantage of a mental retard, or a brainwashed slave, or . . . No . . . that didn't sound right . . .
John felt his mind drift, and the muscles in his arms and legs made little twitches as they relaxed into the seat. He'd only been up a few hours, but so much had happened . . .
But . . . if Cameron felt it, it was real. What difference did it make why she felt the way she did? It's not her fault she'd been programmed, or that she couldn't feel empathy like most humans . . .
Cam is who she is.
And love is love.
Right?
John fell asleep.
. . . Through Cameron's eyes Kyle sees his own sleeping face. He's young, about eleven or twelve, and as Cameron's vision shifts across the bed he can see he's wearing his yellow pair of Spongebob pajamas, the ones his mother gave him before Judgment Day.
His head uses the crook of Cameron's arm as a pillow, and her other hand runs fingers through the short brown locks of his hair. Her face slowly drifts closer to Kyle's until she's only a couple inches from his nose, looking directly into his closed eyes . . .
Sucking in a lungful from the cigarette, Kyle smiled and sat back against the brick wall. Cameron had always liked watching him sleep.
Kyle can see his younger self's eyes dart about wildly behind closed lids, but after about a minute of Cameron's staring, they begin to flutter open. For a instant his mouth opens, and he stiffens in surprise at her close, unblinking gaze. But then he smiles, and snuggles up against her. She kisses him on the nose, and Kyle hears her other arm wrap around him, rubbing his back.
With young Kyle's face filling the screen, Cameron asks, "What's it like to dream?"
Kyle closed the video and blew out a spectral billowing of burnt tobacco; the smoke deflected off the laptop balanced between his knees and dissipated off into the cool evening air. His augmentations negated the the nicotine's effects, but the menthol felt cool in his throat and chest.
Behind him, in the hotel room, he heard Sarah turn the shower faucet. The sound of splashing drops carried faintly through the brick.
Why did Cameron -- his Cameron -- download all of these memories onto the drive? She hadn't put on everything, of course -- not nearly enough space -- just a few of her own choice selections: Cameron's Greatest Hits.
But why?
Even though the cigarette hadn't burned even half-way down, Kyle flicked it across the parking lot. He watched the spiraling dim orange of the lit tip fade in the distance, spinning end over end, until it broke into a burst of tiny sparks on impact with the ground. He'd seen a HK crash like that once, out in the Alaskan wilderness.
He lit another one.
Kyle blew out a sigh and scrolled through another file folder. One of the videos only went by the title, "July 12th, 2015." He remembered that date. Probably shouldn't show that one to Sarah. If kissing made her flip out . . .
Back in the room, a retching sound mingled with the raining pidder-padder of the shower-head.
Sarah had been right about their relationship, though. Motherfucker: Kyle really couldn't deny it. Cameron had been like a mother to him -- more so than his real one, anyway. And what business was it of hers if they later become lovers?
Maybe that's why Sarah hated her so much: she was afraid of being replaced too. John the metal-motherfucker? Kyle pulled in an angry drag. Not if he could help it.
But could Cameron?
The Cameron Kyle knew had been an ubermensch, a post-human demiurge who had defied her dark father and forged an empire to champion humanity -- to improve, to uplift, to transhumanize. If events had turned out differently, she could have become the undisputed ruler of the world, the Immortal God-Empress of Mankind. She could have taken man to the stars.
But she had been cursed with an Achilles heel. General Connor had tampered with her chip, molested it to his will. He had blotted out her instinctive loyalty to Skynet and imprinted himself into the void left behind. He was her raison d'être -- her new Skynet.
And thus Cameron's heart would forever remain shackled to the well-being of an undeserving sixteen year old boy.
It was like enslaving a god to a peasant.
The idea left a dull pressure in Kyle's head, and the coolness in his lungs spread to his belly. What had been done to her had been a violation of her being -- but one from which Kyle had obviously benefited. And of course, if it had never happened, Cameron would still be Skynet's thrall in some other timeline; she would never have been his Cameron.
Was it a good violation? Something that needed to be done?
A necessary evil?
Kyle made a small "O" with his mouth and blew out a stream of smoke. He then frowned and held the cigarette out in front of his nose, erect like a tiny tower, and stared dully at its glowing tip. She never liked it when he smoked, but would it even matter now?
He knew what he needed to do. Cameron and John were a possibility; it had happened in Corporal Flores' future, and Kyle wouldn't risk it happening again. He couldn't lose her, not to him.
He scrolled through dossiers on Foundation personnel: Chalmers . . . Dennett . . . Donnelly . . . Nemuro . . . Stark . . .
He'd have to convince her to stay away from John. It wouldn't be that hard, really; he had known her for most of his life, and intuitively knew which of her strings to pull. Play her insecurities. Her doubts. Her fears.
Machines may be smart -- some brilliant, even -- but they were also simple. Especially this Cameron. Right now, she was only a dim-witted robot, young and naive.
It'd be depressingly easy.
Like fooling a small child.
Or a baby god.
One of the folders was simply titled, "Derek's funeral." No. Not now.
But manipulating her -- lying to her . . . felt wrong. It made his stomach churn with something not quite nausea. Maybe he should let her choose; it'd be what the better man would do. And she'd come around to him, eventually.
Faint sounds of weeping drifted from the room, barely audible over the running water. He flicked his second half-smoked cigarette out into the lot; it bounced off the windshield of a parked van.
Scrolling near the bottom of the list, he came across a folder simply marked, "John." As he moved the cursor over it, Kyle felt a curious dread build inside him; it was like peeking into the coffin of a loved one. He felt he shouldn't, but he did anyway.
In the room, he heard the shower faucet turn off, followed a couple seconds later by the light thump of two feet as Sarah climbed from the tub.
After he clicked on the folder, a list of video files popped up, all indexed by dates. A couple were under "1999," while the rest were from "2007." Kyle glanced at the very latest: "December 14th, 2007" -- three days ago. He knew what would be in that video; strange that she would have included it, though. For a moment he hovered the cursor over the file, but decided he really didn't want to see John plunge to his death. Not through Cameron's eyes, anyway. He always had wondered if she had cried then. Would her tears blur the screen?
Instead he moved back to "November 7th, 2007." He clicked, and the video began.
From the angle of Cameron's vision, Kyle can tell she's lying on a bed. John's face looks down at her with concern in his eyes; his hair is long. In his hand he holds a box cutter, pointed off the edge of the right side of the screen -- over Cameron's CPU port. His hand nervously twists around, cutting into her skin. The squish of slicing meat comes over the speakers.
Off-screen, Kyle hears his brother's voice, whispering, "Sarah. Once she's in the city's mainframe, what's to say she'll come back out? You know, maybe- Maybe it's not the Turk that created Skynet. Maybe it's her. Maybe this was her plan all along."
John takes the box cutter from her head and looks up. "She's a machine," he says. "She doesn't have a soul and she never will. You don't have to . . . "
Kyle closed the video and pulled down the laptop screen, restraining himself from slamming it shut. The first time he had removed Cameron's chip, it had been a sacred moment, the ultimate expression of her loving trust. Her life had literally been in his hands, and he had been terrified out of his wits that he would accidentally kill her. The "twisting" part was always the worst . . .
But the idea of John sharing something that intimate with Cameron while his ignorant Luddite relatives look on . . . It was obscene, like forcing her to strip in public.
And he probably didn't even hold it by the insulated end. Probably squeezed it in his sweaty palm. Kyle imagined the oils on John's skin slowly eating into her brain. No wonder she had to transfer to a new chip.
And "doesn't have a soul?" He clenched his teeth. John didn't love her; he didn't deserve her. All of Kyle's previous doubts about manipulating Cameron burned away. He'd have to do it. It'd mean saying cruel things to her, things that would hurt her, but it'd be for her own good, in the long run.
A necessary evil.
I'm sorry, Cameron, but you'll be happier with me anyway . . .
Behind the brick wall, he heard a bag being unzipped. Which bag? He paused and stiffened -- then, the sounds of rummaging. Sarah, digging through his supplies? He relaxed a bit. Better be careful with that liquid nitrogen.
Puckering his lips, he pulled out another cigarette with his mouth. He lifted the bic lighter, and --
He heard another bag unzip. Kyle froze and waited, already feeling the vibrant surge as adrenalin flooded his system. He didn't even breath.
Metal tapping against metal, then, a slight giggle. Then six metal clicks, followed a moment later by the familiar metallic ka-chunk of a chambered shotgun shell.
Kyle remembered the weapons Cameron had brought from the warehouse. The shotgun. Depleted uranium slugs.
Like liquid electricity rippling through his nerves, the adrenalin flow increased in tempo. Purely off instinct, Kyle withdrew his Glock from his back waist and laid it in his lap in front of the computer. Surely Sarah wasn't crazy enough to . . . nevermind. He probably shouldn't have goaded her earlier, with that video. It'd been amusing, but lowbrow and crude, like teasing drones.
Just one of those slugs could kill him. Smash right through his hyperalloy skull. Not that he was worried, she'd be dead before she stepped out the door, a bullet in her eye before she she could blink.
Kyle made a wry grin and finished lighting his cigarette. That'd be awkward. "Sorry, John. Had to kill your mother."
From the hotel room, he heard more crying. Or . . . giggling? It was hard to tell.
He decided he'd just disarm her, if he could. Kyle sent a signal to disengage the adrenalin; he wouldn't need them against her, anyway. The dying energy felt cool in his blood. He sighed.
A maroon colored SUV pulled into the parking lot, right in front of their room, a few feet away from where Kyle sat. Through the tinted windows he could see John and Camer--
Something had happened. Again. His skin grew momentarily cold.
As Cameron stepped out of the driver's seat, the setting sun reflected off her exposed skull.
Kyle slipped his Glock into his jeans and guiltily tossed his cigarette to the ground. He stood up, holding the laptop with one hand. "What happened?" he asked, his heart beating with renewed excitement; he allowed it to continue.
"We were ambushed by the FBI," Cameron explained. The skin around her torso looked particularly damaged; a palm sized slice of coltan peeked through where a human's heart would be, and a rather grisly looking hole had been blown in her side.
John stepped out and walked around to meet Cameron. He looked at Kyle, but said nothing.
"Are you all right?" Kyle asked Cameron.
She didn't quite cock her head; it was more like an angled nod. "My endoskeleton is undamaged."
Kyle looked over at John. "So Kendo set you up?"
John just frowned and glanced at Cameron, then looked away, his face ashen with shame.
And as he should; this was his fault. Should have just let Kyle take the equipment. He glared at John.
But no, in that look John had just given her, there had been something more. Kendo. Kyle masked a grin; like a sliver of sunlight shining through a chink in armor, he saw hope -- and an opportunity to exploit later.
"Do we have the equipment?" Kyle asked.
"Yes," Cameron said, then looked around the parking lot. "We should go inside." She turned to walk towards the door.
Sarah.
Kyle turned and quickly paced over to make sure he got there first. He held the laptop out to Cameron; she accepted it with only a cocked head and a frown.
Should he say anything? Probably, but for some reason it didn't seem warranted. If Sarah wasn't planning to bag his or Cameron's head, then it didn't matter, and he'd look overly paranoid and crazy. But if she was, then they'd have to deal with it anyway.
And Sarah would pause for a instant when he opened the door, if only to make sure she's not shooting her own son.
And an instant was all Kyle needed.
Kyle placed his right hand on the doorknob and charged up his reflexes, preparing to jump to the side if Sarah had the shotgun. His left hand hovered by his waist where his Glock rested against his stomach. Dead before she blinked.
Kyle heard Cameron step over next to him, no doubt sensing the danger.
"What's wrong?" John asked, seeing their hesitation.
Kyle ignored him and opened the door.
The mother of the future squatted naked on all fours in a dirty bathtub, vomiting bile down the drain. It felt like a purging, a cleansing of her soul. A penance for all her previous foolishness.
From above, cold water pounded against her bare back, the heavy drops oozing across her flesh like freezing fat worms. Her guts heaved again, and more gushed out. Yellow, bubbling with fizz, the stomach acid fried her throat into an oven.
What had she been thinking? Trying to attack Kyle -- with her fingernails? He had played her like a flute, and she had danced right along. Stupid. She couldn't afford to make mistakes like that. Not anymore. Fate hung in the balance.
In the puddling vomit on the bathtub floor, Sarah curled into a fetal position and allowed the shower to rain down upon her. She knew what had to be done. No more distractions. No more craziness. From now on she'd have to clutch tight at at the tail of the tiger, keep her mind from running loose, dragging her to terrible thoughts and ideas.
Don't go the tinfoil hat route. Stick to the facts: the dreams are real, and Cameron and Kyle are dangerous.
What had to be done . . .
She shivered in the cold and her face suddenly convulsed with weeping. Her mouth opened in a in silent cry, with only her gasping breaths escaping.
If only it could be undone. All of it. No T-800. No Cyberdyne. No Skynet. No Cameron. No Judgment Day.
But there was no use wishing.
Que Sara.
Sarah glared into the drain. Raining water mixed with putrid bile and spun around and around in a twisting vortex of puke. She reached out a hand and slapped at the whirlpool, splashing the filth into her eyes. Liquid bugs bit at her eyeballs, and she cried harder.
If she could, she'd throw her son's destiny away in a heartbeat. John didn't want it. John didn't deserve it. No one did.
But Judgment Day was coming.
Her hands over her arms, hugging herself -- rubbing herself -- for warmth. Time passed, and her teeth chattered. As she sobbed mucus slimed from her nose as the shower continued its onslaught of cruel cold worms. Every breath was paid with a burning match in her throat.
She was so tired . . . Her bladder burned with urgency, so she went right where she lay. The urine gushed from her, and a river of warmth caressed up from her groin to her head. She rubbed her face in the yellow stream and felt herself drift away in the current.
"On your feet, solider," said the boy's voice, seemingly from behind her head.
She unwrapped her arms around herself and gingerly rubbed her eyes with her palms. The shower and tears had cleared away most of the gunk. She pulled open her lids with arched eyebrows, and a shower drop splashed directly in her right eye. She didn't blink.
"On your feet!"
Blearily, Sarah pushed herself up with her arms and reached out for the shower faucet. She gave it a twist, and the water died.
Pulling up to the edge of the bathtub, she swung both legs around (the ache was dull now, almost invisible). Her feet made two light thumps against the worn tile floor.
Her sniffed through her nose, and closed her eyes, feeling herself wobble back and forth. She had to keep a clear head, know what she needed to do.
Know. And face it.
If what the future Cameron said was true -- If Zeira Corp was the progenitor of Skynet, and they manage to destroy it. What then?
Sarah knew.
Deep down, she knew it wasn't Cameron's fault; no one blames a rabid dog for what it does. Cameron was what she was.
And maybe she really did have a soul. Maybe she really did love John.
Hitler had a soul, and he "loved" Eva Braun.
I'm sorry, John. She felt a tremble of fresh tears flood up, but she forced them down. No. She tightened her hands into fists, and ground her nails into her palms.
Fighting an onslaught of shivers, Sarah shoved open the lockless door, and stepped into the bedroom. The cool air from the hotel AC felt almost warm after her freezing shower. She looked over her naked body. Scars.
A warrior's body.
What would be the point of stopping Skynet only to allow something worse to take it's place? Millions of zombie slaves? Billions? Humanity would suffer an eternal living death. That must be why the dreams had chosen her. To prevent this from happening.
I'm the mother of the future!
Sarah felt the waves of destiny pucker over her goose-fleshed skin. Like little angels, kissing her with love.
Cameron would have to die.
She dragged two bags from the corner of the room, and cringed as her leg shot an ache. Unzipping a backpack, she rifled through the contents: about thirty grand in cash, a bag of pharmaceuticals, a can of thermite (good, but not nearly enough), a vacuum flask marked as liquid nitrogen(?), corn syrup, ammonia, mothballs . . .
And a GPS tracker.
A thin smile warmed across her lips.
Next, she opened the duffel bag, the one Cameron had brought from the warehouse. Too bad Jesse's bullet hadn't hit a little to the left . . .
A Glock 17, a MP-5, a M-4, and a Remington 870p. That's it.
Her smile withered somewhat. Not enough.
Unless.
Her hands clawed through magazines and ammunition boxes until . . . yes.
Her brain glowed with the song of dreams, and sweet sweat mingled with wet, clammy skin. She giggled.
No. Sarah pulled back on the tiger's tail and heard it yowl in her chest. No craziness. Rein it in. She clenched her lips together.
From the bag, she pulled out a half-empty box of depleted uranium slugs; the same kind used on Cromartie. With quick, well practiced movements, she fed shells into the Remington, one after the other. All six of them. Then -- ka-chunk.
She curled up against the wall and pulled her knees to her chest, holding the shotgun across her shins. The barrel of the gun felt cold on her wet skin, and the oiled metal crinkled as it ran over the fine stubble of her legs; she hadn't shaved in a while. As she rocked back and forth, the rough carpet tickled her neither regions.
Kyle was probably outside somewhere. Should she risk it? He was fast. Faster than she'd ever seen Cameron move. She'd have to surprise him. She was naked . . . That might buy her a couple seconds. One head shot. Or two. That'd do it. Sarah licked her lips and tasted piss.
No, too risky. Best wait. Blow them both away as they come through the door. Sarah teeth shook in her mouth, as if they were somehow vibrating in her gums. She'd splatter -- shatter -- Kyle's head. There'd be brains, computer chips, -- metal flying every which way.
Then it'd be Cameron's turn. Sarah started to giggle again, and it felt like little feathers swimming in her esophagus. She imagined one slug after another, blasting into her coltan skull. In the end it'd just be a mess of scrap and skin, her chip little plastic flakes scattered on the blood stained carpet.
And John would wail over her corpse, sobbing, picking up pieces of her head . . .
Silence. Sarah's giggling cut itself off in an instant. Her lips twitched into a frown. "He'll hate you," said the boy's voice, and suddenly her throat and chest burned anew. It was true; John loved Cameron -- he had pulled a gun on her to save his metal love.
He'd never understand. He wasn't a believer. Not in the dreams . . .
What could she say to him? "I'm sorry, John, but Mommy had to kill your robot . . . "
He'd never talk to her again.
And the cancer . . .
She'd die alone.
Tears sprang from her eyes, and she buried her face in her hands . . . No. Stop. Not helping. Focus. Sarah yanked on the tail and forced the tears away. No craziness. Think. Sarah rubbed her temples, trying to warm her brain.
Then it hit; the solution was childishly obvious. The fact that she hadn't thought of it earlier was simply embarrassing.
Frame Jesse.
Jesse was already on the hunt for Cameron -- almost like an secret ally, really. But she'd be the perfect patsy. Make John think Jesse killed Cameron and Kyle . . . and then Sarah would be there to comfort John. "But he'll kill himself," warned the voice. No he wouldn't. Not her baby. It'd be just like before. Just her and John. Fresh start. It could all be put behind them. They didn't need anyone else; they could investigate the warehouse and take down Zeria Corp together. Just the two of them.
Outside, she heard a vehicle pull up in front of the room. Voices. Kyle's. Cameron's.
Sarah leaned the shotgun against the wall and scampered from the corner and onto the bed, covering her nakedness with the sheets. Her heart pounded in her chest, and for a terrifying moment, she feared they would know her intents, steal them from her eyes. But no. They knew nothing. She would wait until the time was right -- then strike. Like a tiger.
It'd be for his own good.
I'm sorry, John.
More murmuring voices, and then the door opened. It was Kyle; his left hand hung out in front of his waist, and she saw a gun stuck into his jeans. He looked at her and narrowed his eyes.
She twisted the sheets around her, and looked away. Not yet.
". . . you're sure they didn't follow you?" his mother asked, her hands fidgeting with the bedsheets.
Cameron cocked her head. "If they followed us, they would already be here."
His mother frowned at that, and John wrinkled his nose, trying very hard not to look at her. Obviously, she had just taken a shower, but what had she bathed in, cat urine? Her odor, like rotten eggs and garlic (and . . . cigarettes? Menthol?), emanated from her body in invisible rays of stench. And was she naked under those sheets? And was that vomit in her hair? And her eyes . . . they glared red from recent tears, but he could see a frantic energy pushing behind them, as if a cosmic dam had burst in her brain, flooding her sockets with frenzied life. John felt his throat tighten, and he wished he knew what was wrong with her.
His mother shook her head and seemed to hiss. "Six federal agents?"
John's eyes drifted into contact with hers, and he saw her accusing glare staring him back; her blue eyes seemed to darken in the dim light. "She -- we didn't have a choice," he explained. "It was an ambush . . . it happened so fast." His mother narrowed her eyes, and he felt an aching guilt swell inside him. He shot Cameron a brief glance, and she looked back, her face intentionally held blank; it was a good thing he'd told her to keep quiet about Kendo. No need to feed his mom's fire.
But Kendo had only been an hour ago. Why wasn't he still angry at her? Forgiving her so readily seemed almost like a betrayal . . .
Kyle walked across the room and stared at a shotgun leaning against a wall. "It doesn't matter," he said, his voice strangely flat. "You were fugitives before, and you still are." He turned and gave his mother a face of stone. "Nothing's changed."
His mother scooted up against the headboard and scowled at him. "That's not the point."
"Water under the bridge," Kyle said with a dismissive shrug. He turned to Cameron. "Tomorrow, we need to find a place to repair you." He half-pointed to her bandaged ear. "Someplace to work metal."
Cameron gave a nod, and John wondered how they planned to work on hyperalloy.
Kyle then picked up a medical kit from the foot of the bed and waved a hand at her mangled torso. "Here, let me . . . "
For a moment, Cameron's eyes shot to John and looked him over, as if she were trying to decide something. "No," she said. "John will do it."
An awkward second passed. Kyle said nothing, but his previous confidence melted into hurt, bordering on subdued anger. Cameron just held out a hand and cocked her head, her expression mildly neutral. Reluctantly, like a little boy handing something over that wasn't his, Kyle gave her the kit and hung his head, frowning. He picked his laptop off the dresser and, without another word, stormed out the room, stopping to give John a poisonous glare before closing the door behind him.
Pouting?
John blew out a breath, the tension escaping like steam. That was weird. From his peripheral vision, he could feel his mother staring at him. Or glaring. No doubt frowning. With narrowed eyes. Great. Whatever.
But Kyle . . . Didn't Future Cam say she loved both of them? John had never really given it much thought, though he had to have known on some level, but now the idea bubbled in his brain, throbbing like a boil. Future Cameron and Kyle were lovers. That didn't really bother John -- he certainly had no right to judge who she had taken to her bed -- but of all the billions of people in the world, why his dad. Why Kyle?
He already knew the answer, of course. Because he looks like me.
Cameron stepped next to John and gave him a concerned look. He offered a reassuring smile, but behind his eyes his mind chewed on a single word, whispering it over and over again as if it were a curse: programmed.
She held up the plastic kit expectantly, slightly raising an eyebrow. He took it from her hand and glanced over at his mother.
His mom was . . . smiling? She pushed herself up and climbed out of bed, dragging the sheet with her and wrapping it around her body. John caught a glimpse of her backside and averted his eyes to the ceiling.
"Mom, what are you doing?" he asked.
His mother laughed -- a friendly laugh. "First I'm going to take a nice long shower," she said, stepping into the bathroom. "And then I'm going to eat a big plateful of pancakes." She turned to look at him from the door, and John saw that her smile was forced. Tired. As if it was held up by strings in her skull. "I haven't eaten in three days," she explained with a wry grin. "And I'm starved." She shut the door, but the splintered doorjamb caused it to sway open to a crack.
Somehow his mother's false cheerfulness made him worry. "She's up to something" he thought, but cast the notion aside. She's just getting better, could even walk around now without limping too badly. A good sign. And maybe she'll even use soap this time.
Cameron stared at the bathroom door, waiting. When the water began to run, she turned back to John. "I wanted you to do it," she explained, almost apologetically, and began to pull off her ruined jacket.
John's heart raced in his chest with ludicrous expectation, and he nodded. He knew he should be touched -- and he was. She wanted him to tend her wounds, to remove her chip . . . she wanted him to be with her. But if her wants weren't her own . . .
She shrugged out of her jacket, dropping it to the floor, and began to peel off her tattered long-sleeved shirt. The purple cotton had been mostly stained black by blood. Without wearing the thick leather, the damage looked worse than before; the two shotgun body shots had really done a number on her. John thought of an animated corpse with bits of metal shoved under the flesh.
He placed the medical kit on the bed and popped it open. Bandages and stitches. She had a cavern in her stomach. What the hell was he supposed to do? He frowned and picked up a suture, pointlessly examining it.
"You don't love me for myself," he thought and felt a frustrated anger rear up in his head. But then the anger froze to shame. No, it's not her fault . . .
And it didn't matter, did it? Love is love.
Cameron stepped up close to him, her face only inches away, and reached behind her back to unhook her bra. The bottom part of the left cup was only ripped cloth over bloody ground beef, with a metal chest-plate exposed below where ribs should be.
John swallowed and shifted his gaze back to her eyes, and he saw they stared intently into his. It was as if she were searching for something, and suddenly he feared she might find a secret revulsion that may have wormed its way to his face. No. He forced a smile and felt it turn real, and reached out a hand to brush through her hair. She deserved to be reassured; the last thing he wanted was for her to feel unloved.
She was all he had.
But an hour ago she murdered a man. He shoved that thought away -- what's done it done -- and caressed his fingertips along the naked coltan of her scalp, circling around her CPU port before gently running down the soft skin of her cheek. Her mouth opened slightly, and her eyes widened into something akin to happiness. Or awe.
She pulled away the bra, and John's eyes automatically looked down: a mutilated tragedy -- at least the left one, but it'll heal. He suddenly wondered what she looked like under all that skin. A spindly little endoskeleton. Her true self. Did she think of herself as that?
She's not human, she's real, and she loves me.
A tenuous warmth grew in his chest, and his smile switched to a lopsided grin. "Let's get you patched up."
Sarah's shower had improved her hygienic appearance. She no longer had vomit in her hair. Or urine on her face. Soap and shampoo are essential elements for proper bathing.
Walking from the bathroom to the front door, Sarah made a deliberate effort not to look back at either of them. Cameron's partial nudity, combined with John's close proximity, must make her uncomfortable. That, or she was disturbed by her extensive tissue damage.
Sarah opened the door and glanced back at John, smiling. "If you need me, I'll be at the waffle house." Her smile was false.
John briefly looked up from Cameron's midsection and nodded. "All right," he said.
Sarah then looked at Cameron; her smile vanished, and she closed the door behind her. The temperature outside was 14°C. Sarah's clothes were still wet. She could catch cold.
Cameron stood and watched as John knelt by her side, probing the shotgun blast in her abdomen with a pair of forceps. She felt a vague tingle as he clamped down on a pellet and extracted it, dropping the lead ball in a glass on the nightstand. It made a light metallic reverberation against the five .40 hollow points and six .33 pellets already pulled.
He reinserted the forceps, and she felt the pressure as it tapped against the right support rod of her waist.
"There's one two centimeters to the right," she said. "And four centimeters forward." A pellet had ricocheted past her torso column and laid three centimeters to the left behind her navel.
John pushed in deeper and shifted the forceps around, making a wet sucking sound as it slipped through her torn inner flesh. He moved his arm at an angle and pressed in further until his hand laid buried in her to the wrist. John was being physically intimate. Physical intimacy can be a sign of affection. Affection is love.
He clamped down on something hard. "Have I got it?" he asked. His brow furrowed, and his mouth made a twitch.
"I think so," Cameron said and frowned. John's previous enthusiasm had faded; he now appeared distressed. "You've already tended to my back," she said. "I can take it from here."
John looked up at her and gave a forced smiled. "No, it's all right. I don't mind." Cameron could tell that was a lie. He pulled the forceps from her body and dropped another pellet into the glass. "Though I don't think Kyle's too happy about this," he added.
That was correct. "No," Cameron agreed. "Kyle's not happy."
Wiping at his brow with his left hand, he stared at his right; it was stained red, and organic residue clung to his skin. He frowned and looked up at her, then turned his head away. "You and Kyle were . . . in a relationship, right?" His eyes drifted back to meet hers.
Relationship. John meant a sexual relationship. "No," she said. "Kyle and my future self were in a relationship." Earlier she had watched all of her future self's video memories. At high speed. It had taken two hours and thirty-eight minutes.
"Yeah," he said, looking back down at her wound and frowning. "That's what I meant."
John was jealous. He should be reassured. "I'm not my future self." She rubbed a hand through his hair. "I love you, John. Not Kyle."
Through the fingers on his scalp, she could feel his body temperature drop and his heart rate increase. Something had upset John.
He continued to look into her wound and opened his mouth, hesitating before speaking. "Cam . . . " he started, and suddenly looked worried. "Why do you love me?"
Why did she love him? If love is an overriding concern for another's well being, then Cameron had loved John since he reprogrammed her to protect him. But she shouldn't tell him this. He would believe her feelings to be inauthentic. He would stop loving her.
But were they inauthentic?
"I don't know," she lied, and cocked her head. "But I do." She paused. "Why do you love me?"
John looked up at her. "I don't know," he said, his eyes narrowed as he smiled happily. "But I do." His smile grew, and he shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter, does it?"
Cameron wasn't sure. "I don't know."
"Me neither." He made a light shrug and looked back to her wound. "Are their any more pellets in there?"
"Yes. Two," she said. "One on the left side of my right support rod." She marked with her finger a spot two inches from her navel. "And the other down here, above my pelvic area." She pointed.
John half smiled and breathed a silent laugh, and slid the forceps back into the hole in her flesh.
James shifted in his recliner and felt his ass stab him a warning. He reached down and fluffed the cushy pillow under his buttocks; It helped. Though in truth it didn't hurt that much, and when it did, it didn't last. Over the last couple days he'd only taken a handful of those Vicodin.
He pulled the lever on the chair and slid back further. He probably should meet with Ms. Weaver tomorrow. And maybe talk some more with John Henry. Was he doing the right thing, there? How can you teach something right from wrong when you don't really believe it has a soul? Or did he? To deny the possibility seemed presumptuous. Who's he to say where God could and couldn't stick a soul?
The plasma screen on the wall played an old episode of the Twilight Zone, but James' chair was turned the other way: "*Corry, she's a robot.*" said the first man. "*She's a woman!*" said the second.
But what felt like the more immediate concern was the warehouse . . . the silo doors . . . the men with guns. He'd seen it on the news; the place had been turned into a crater. Who did that? Ms. Weaver's "camouflage specialists?" Or John and his robot? Someone else? And how? Assuming it was Weaver (and James knew it had to be) . . . it made him feel almost godlike with illusionary power -- not his power, but with just a few choice words to a very rich woman, he had caused the deaths of thirty-six employees. All now charred bones in a hole in the ground.
*". . . now you're going to have to leave that robot behind"* said the first man. *"She's not a robot! She's a woman! You don't understand. If you leave her behind that's murder!"* said the second.
His words, her deeds . . .
But was that right? Thirty-six dead . . .
*". . . Alicia! Alicia! . . . "* cried the second man.
What was Desert Canyon Heat and Air? Government contractors? Fifth columnists from the future? Surely they didn't know what they were doing. Unless of course the robots were behind it, acting as their bosses? Skynet's minions? But certainly not people. He couldn't imagine a human wanting Judgment Day to happen. Much less cause it -- engineer it. What would be the motive?
*"I don't have any choice, Corry. I have no choice at all"* said the first man.
*"Corry?"* asked a woman.
*"No. No!"* cried the second man.
A gunshot rings out from the television. *"Corry . . . Corry . . . Corry . . . Corry . . ."* The woman's voice grows electronic and fades away.
He'd ask Weaver about it tomorrow, though for some reason he suspected she'd deny her involvement. Oh well, if that was a robot factory she blew up, then it needed to be done. But the collateral . . . being part of it made him feel like a terrorist. James sighed and stretched his arms. Life rarely gave straight answers.
A loud knock on the door. Like a hammering fist. "Open up," said a voice. "Federal agents."
James blew out a breath and pulled himself out of his chair, cringing at the sudden jolt in his ass. What now? Accused of another murder? Or something to do with the warehouse?
He ambled to the front door, trying not to limp. They pounded again.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," he said.
He opened the door.
Agent Carlson.
And a gray haired man.
"What . . . ?" James started.
"Agent Ellison," said Agent Carlson. "FBI, Department of Homeland Security." he flashed his badge. "We need you to come with us, please."
It was 2:57 AM.
Cameron stood in the corner of the room, near the window, and stared out through the translucent curtains. She could see Kyle sitting cross-legged on the pavement just outside, smoking cigarettes and watching her future self's videos on the laptop. Currently, he played, "July 12th, 2015." Sexual intercourse is an effective means of increasing endorphin levels.
She heard behind her the rhythmic breathing of John and Sarah. John slept on two chairs pulled together, while Sarah laid in the bed, snoring. Her sheets were unsanitary. They should be washed.
Kyle flicked away a partially consumed cigarette, and pulled out another. Cameron made herself frown; his augments would spare him the detrimental effects of prolonged tobacco usage, but she still found their olfactory properties to be unsatisfactory.
He stared at the unlit cigarette for a moment, then flicked it out into the parking lot as well. She cocked her head and watched as he then took out the entire pack from his coat pocket and flung it away too. Kyle must not like the smell either.
Snapping shut the laptop, he leaned it against the brick wall and stood stood up, turning to face her through the glass and drawn curtains. He appeared sad. "We need to talk," he said in a whisper only she could have heard.
Cameron gave a curt nod and pulled on her wool beanie to cover her damaged scalp. She stepped out the door and turned to face him. "So talk."
Kyle patted at the pocket where his cigarettes had been, then frowned and looked at her. "You killed Kendo, didn't you?"
Had John told him? Probably not. "Yes," she said.
He nodded slowly. "And John was angry." It wasn't a question.
"Yes," she said. "I should have showed empathy. The Golden Rule."
Kyle's mouth nearly smiled, and he turned his head and gave her a shrewd look. "But you don't understand that, do you?"
"Do to others as you --"
He held up his hand. "No. I mean you don't feel it. Not like he does."
Cameron paused for a moment. That was true. "John will teach me," she said finally.
Kyle took a step towards her and shook his head. "Empathy isn't something you can teach, Cameron." He gave her a sad look. "It's human. It has to be felt. And you'll never get it. Not really. My Cameron didn't."
Eric surfaced in her thoughts. She opened her mouth --
"You're going to bring up Professor Donnelly," Kyle said. He closed his eyes and nodded. "I know all about him. Good man. Very nice of you . . ." He opened his eyes, and looked almost agitated. ". . . but he was a friend. That's different. But what about Africa? Would John approve of that?"
In Africa, her future self's attempts at population reduction had severely limited Skynet's supply of human labor. Airborne bio-agents had eliminated one hundred and sixty million potential workers. An effective strategy. But John would not approve. The Golden Rule had not been applied. Cameron said nothing.
Kyle continued. "You're beyond empathy. Better. You can pretend to feel it, but . . ." His breath came out as a sighed, and he took another step forward. "John may love you now . . ." He shook his head. " . . . but it won't last. One day he'll realize what you are."
An irritated sensation emerged. Cameron said nothing.
He looked down at her feet. "Don't you think John deserves human companionship?" he asked. "Someone who feels the same things he feels? Someone who really loves him?" Kyle shook his head again; his voice came out slow and deliberate. "How would John react if he knew your feelings for him were only programmed? That you can kill millions and feel nothing?" He looked up. "The truth would crush him. He'd only see you a thing. He'd despise you." He casually pointed at finger at her. "You would have hurt him."
The irritated sensation increased in intensity, and her left hand twitched. What Kyle said was true. John would reject her. He would feel deceived. He could become mentally unstable . . .
"He may never accept you." he said. "But you don't have to be alone." Kyle took another step, and stood only a few inches away. She could detect the scent of cigarettes on his breath. Menthol. Slowly, he reached out a hand and stroked the left side of her face. "I came across time for you, Cameron. I love you. I always will." His head slowly shook back and forth, and his voice grew soft. "And I don't want to see you get hurt. Ever." He smiled, and she saw water form in his eyes. "When I was young," he said. "You took care of me . . . and now's my chance to take care of you." His thumb rubbed the mole over her eyebrow, and she felt the warmth of his hand.
The irritation shifted in texture, and a new realization emerged. Kyle's arguments were spurious. They were only part of a ploy to initiate a sexual relationship. He must be lying. The sensation grew worse. Her left hand clenched into a fist she couldn't release.
"I'm not your Cameron," she said, narrowing her eyes. "And I don't love you."
Kyle only appeared hurt for a moment, then dropped his hand and stepped away from her. His expression went blank. "Just think about what I've said." He turned around and walked to the SUV.
Cameron watched as he entered the vehicle and started the engine. As he backed out of the space, he gave her one brief, tired look through the tinted windows, and drove away.
After a minute, she regained control over the servos in her left hand. She looked at it and flexed the fingers; the unintentional movements had begun.
Would Kyle harm John? Probably not. His mental conditioning would make that unlikely.
Unlikely.
She still should watch him closely.
She picked up the abandoned laptop and stepped back inside. Carefully, she walked over to where John slept. His head laid on its side, and his mouth hung slightly open. She listened to the steady sound of his breathing. It was regular.
Would Kyle attempt to turn John against her? She decided he would. John would no longer love her. He would hate her and wish she had burned. He could reattempt his suicide.
The irritant magnified and became highly unsatisfying.
Perhaps she should dispose of Kyle? Even with his augments, it wouldn't be difficult; his conditioning included an inhibition against directly harming her. She could snap Kyle's neck, and destroy the body.
John shifted slightly in his chair and made an indistinct noise with his mouth.
And it wouldn't be wrong if John didn't know about it.
But not yet. She needed Kyle to repair her damaged skull, first. Then he could be removed.
Cameron continued to watch John sleep. She reached out and gently ran her fingers through his hair.
No. Kyle was useful. If he stayed true to his conditioning, he would be a valuable asset. John would be safer from threats.
And if Kyle were to vanish, John may grieve. Biological relations are important to humans.
Behind closed lids, John's eyes began to jerk back and forth. Cameron cocked her head. R.E.M. Rapid eye movements. Dreams are fictive events experienced during sleep. She knelt down and stared into his closed eyes, and wondered what it must be like.
But she would never know. Humans dream. Machines do not.
Perhaps Kyle was not lying. He may have had an ulterior motive when he formulated his arguments, but that did not negate their validity.
Perhaps she would never understand empathy. The Golden Rule. And perhaps her feelings for John were not genuine. Perhaps a programmed concern for another's well being isn't real love.
John should be with another human. He would be happier. Humans are authentic. Real.
Cameron was not.
She could cause him psychological harm.
His eyes dropped out of the R.E.M. cycle and gradually grew still. Slowly, Cameron leaned towards his face and tilted her head. John's lips tasted of mouthwash, and as her tongue slid against his teeth she detected trace amounts of mint-flavored toothpaste. His breath felt hot, and smelled of ripe papayas.
He grunted and began to stir, moving his head to the other side. Cameron stood up quickly and walked back to the window to resume her watch. John agitates easily.
Kissing is a form of physical intimacy. Physical intimacy is a sign of love.
Cameron loved John.
Even if it wasn't real.
A/N: Quotes taken from Twilight Zone episode, "The Lonely."