In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Sixteen: Tonight is the Night

A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid 13 for beta-reading this chapter. His advice has proven invaluable.

James shifted in his cold metal seat and forced down a grimace. His right buttock begged for him to stand up.

In the dim blue light of the interrogation cell, Agent Carlson paced behind James' chair, slowly making his circuit around the small stainless steel table in the center of the room. Carlson rubbed his chin in mock thoughtfulness, then cleared his throat to speak. "Forgive me if I'm mistaken," he said. "But didn't I call you about a supposed . . . " He turned to face James. ". . . John Connor sighting? In Mexico?" His smile seemed surprisingly boyish for a man in his late forties.

Sitting across at the other end of the table, Agent Baldwin clenched his granite-like jaw and grinned icily at James. His blue gray eyes betrayed dead amusement.

Ellison made a calculated shrug. "I believe you did."

Baldwin pursed his lips and pulled out a vanilla folder from beneath the table. "We have the phone record and transcript right here." He flipped the packet open to a page and pressed his finger down on what James was certain a random spot. "On December 2nd, at 2:07pm, Agent Carlson . . . " He motioned at the agent, who nodded politely. ". . . called to tell you that a young man matching John Connor's descript-- "

"Get to the point," James said, doing his best to mask his concern. When they first came for him, he had assumed it was something routine. After all, he had been involved with the Sarah Connor case. But now . . . They're on to me. He'd been leaving a trail . . .

Carlton stepped up next to James and leaned forward on the table, his well manicured hands flat against the spotless surface. "The point is, Mr. Ellison, is that you and the Connors seem to follow each other around." He frowned. "And cause trouble." His breath smelled of Mentos over stale tobacco.

James chuckled. "What do you mean? You're the one who told me about it."

Baldwin scratched at his thinning gray hair and fingered through the pages of the folder. "Hmm . . . you arrive at the Santa Teresita Police Station, and let's see . . . five minutes later, the place gets shot to hell. Five cops dead . . ."

The accusation stung, and James's face burned with anger. "Hey, I had nothing to do with that."

"According to eyewitnesses," Baldwin continued, pulling out a paper from the folder. "This was the shooter." He held up a facial composite rendered in grayscale: the blank face of Cromartie.

Agent Ellison sighed and felt the beginnings of serious worry: legal claustrophobia. They've done their homework. He gave Baldwin a weary look. "George Laszlo is dead."

Blowing out a breath, Carlson wandered to the back of the cell. James heard him light a cigarette.

"Funny you should say that, Mr. Ellison," Baldwin said, casually flipping to another page. "The coroner report here states that Mr. Laszlo had been dead for three weeks when he was . . . " The corner of his mouth twisted upwards. ". . . 'killed' in your raid." The crooked smile vanished. "How do you account for that?"

Behind James, Carlson snickered. "Maybe he was a zombie?" the agent said.

The worry cramped in on itself, and James' ass ached. "Obviously someone made a mis--"

"Was Mr. Laszlo a zombie?" Baldwin asked. His eyes went glassy, unreadable.

A two second pause, and James felt himself unravel. What the . . . ? "No, he . . . I was th--"

"If he wasn't a zombie," Carlson added."Maybe he was . . . something else?" James heart skipped a beat, and he turned in his seat to look back at him. Carlson blew out smoke and winked.

Cold. It all felt like one of those optical illusions. The kind that can look like either one thing or another. James had only been seeing the Old Hag, when he should have been seeing the Young Lady. These guys weren't just federal busybodies, asking reasonable but mundane questions. They were in the know -- they knew. And they knew he knew. Ellison's heart beat into a hammering, perilously close to panic. Step carefully.

Baldwin shook his head and made an exaggerated frown. "Those 'zombies' sure are bothersome. Earlier this evening one of them killed six federal agents." He tapped a finger against his forehead. "One bullet each, right in the brain."

"Must have been Anne Oakley," Carlson said.

What the hell were they talking about? He knew they were fishing, though; that much was obvious. They wanted to see how much he knew; wanted him to break down and confess, "All right, I know about the robots. . . "

But should he bite? Risky. They could be potential allies, or they could in league with Skynet. Or maybe that warehouse had been a government facility? A pissed off Uncle Sam? James' shoulders began to slump, and his chest deflated like a sagging balloon. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life in Guantanamo. Would Ms. Weaver intervene?

His butt itched, so he shifted in his seat.

Baldwin raised an eyebrow. "Need to use the restroom, Mr. Ellison?"

Ellison ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth. Play stupid. Ignorance is strength. He smiled. "Look, someone's got their wires crossed because I don't know what you guys are talking about." He raised up his hands defensively, and gave a nervous shrug. "What exactly do you want?"

Baldwin blinked. "Tell us about Catherine Weaver."

Fuck. Prison.

Strapped to a hospital gurney, Derek blearily watched the ceiling lights pass overhead as the two paramedics wheeled him down the hall. Beside them, two police officers walked along, their hands resting on their firearms, ready to draw down on any rescue attempt.

Guess they weren't taking chances this time. But still . . . only two?

They wheeled him into an over-sized elevator, and someone pressed for the bottom floor. Derek felt the shift of downward momentum as the car began to sink.

One of the paramedic's eyes accidentally drifted into eye contact. Chubby little guy, with a face like a pie. "How's the pain?" he asked, then looked away.

Derek grinned sardonically. "I've had worse."

He had; the morphine made the pain distant, inconsequential, but he'd never been this fucked up before: broken wrist and ankle, cracked ribs and sternum . . . and torn ligaments -- the doctor had said he'd need surgeries on those before he could walk or use the hand again. Plus months of physical therapy. And seeing as he was a soon to be incarcerated persona non grata, he wasn't likely to get any of that treatment. Probably spend the rest of his life in a prison hospital ward.

Or maybe they'll dump him in the general population. Won't that be great? Like dropping a crippled wolf in a pit full of hyenas. "Should have killed me," he thought, and wondered whether he meant his nephew, his brother, or even the machine.

Maybe he could do the job himself?

Derek glanced at one of the cops. Burly Irish-looking fella, with reddened skin matted with freckles. The cop sighed and rubbed at his paunch, making a determined effort not to match Derek's gaze. Obviously he wanted to be somewhere else.

You and me both, buddy.

The elevator door opened, and they rolled him out. Derek closed his eyes and decided he really didn't care anymore. In three and a half years, all this would be ruins, and he'd be damned if he was going to be locked in a cage when that shit hits. Find a piece of glass. Elbow to wrist. Radial artery. Two minutes, if done right.

Probably wouldn't work, though. In the future, he never knew anyone who succeeded that way; the blood usually clots before you die. It's hard to cut deep enough. A plasma bolt to the head, on the other hand . . .

They wheeled him down another hall, through a swinging double door, and down yet another hall. He opened his eyes and continued to watch the scrolling lights.

The other cop spoke. "Your friends going try to spring you again?" He was a tall thin black guy. Young. Early twenties. He gave Derek a look of forced contempt, but there laid a rookie nervousness behind the eyes.

"Not this time," Derek said and shut his eyes again. Jesse probably thought he was dead, and . . . well, that was about it, wasn't it?

His plastered, propped-up wrist began to itch, like little ants crawling under the cast -- bugging him.

He listened as the gurney rolled down smooth tile, then passed through the soft hiss of sliding automatic doors. Room temperature and the scent of antiseptic were replaced by a cool chill and the brisk smell of a freshly mowed lawn. Outside. They turned the cart around and stopped.

"All right," said the other paramedic, a rather butch looking woman with badly bleached blond hair. "Let's get this scumbag inside."

Derek grinned to himself. Scumbag?

They rolled him up a ramp, head first, and he listened as they locked his stretcher into place. He peeked open an eye. Cramped little ambulance. The two cops and paramedics had climbed in, and one of them closed the back doors; not nearly enough room for five -- he tilted his head up and saw the back of a woman's head in the driver's seat -- six people. The two cops sat uncomfortably down on a little pull-out side cushion, while the paramedics stood over him, bent slightly at the waist. Pie Face bumped his head against a hanging defibrillator.

"Okay, we're ready," said the burly cop.

The ambulance started, and Derek felt it move, then turn out onto a street. The butch woman scowled down at him; the dark roots of her platinum hair made her look trashy.

Was this really their idea of guarding him? Taking no chances? Last time he had been in a locked down prison van. He would have assumed this time would be the same, except with guards armed with shotguns. Cramming a couple cops in a tiny ambulance seemed . . . lazy.

The black cop must have read his mind. "This is bullshit," he said. "What if his friends come get him again?" Derek heard the man's feet shift under the gurney, kicking against the metal supports. "I can't even move in all this shit. It's like a fucking clown car."

"Tell me about it," said the burly policeman. "They told me we'd get an armored van and an escort." He shrugged his meaty shoulders. "But then some higher up must've changed his mind." He sighed and gave a wry grin beneath a bushy mustache. "It's just us."

"Shit," said the black cop, then looked out the back window.

The ambulance turned a corner, and Derek rocked slightly in his stretcher, back and forth. He yawned and popped his neck. How long was this ride going to take? The ants on his wrist began to bite . . .

Pie Face squatted down to Derek's level and smiled, staring right into his face. His big ears and curly brown hair made him look like a human teddy bear. Or a cherub. "So . . . " he started, his voice awkwardly friendly. ". . . how did . . . uh . . . who did this to you?"

A robot and my brother. Fuck you. He didn't say that, though. Instead he just ignored him.

The ambulance turned left, and Derek rocked to the right.

"Stop chatting with the riff-raff," said the butch woman, ubiquitous scorn in her voice.

Riff-raff?

Pie Face sighed and stood back up.

Another turn.

And another. Derek began to feel car sick.

But then the vehicle began to accelerate, faster than what seemed reasonable.

The burly cop looked out the window and climbed half out of his seat. "Hey, this isn't the right --"

The brakes slammed down, and the ambulance lurched to a tire squealing stop. All those around Derek stumbled and tripped, and his gurney jerked forward; if it weren't for the straps, he might have slid right off.

. . . and at that exact moment he heard the 'click' -- tiny and metallic, the old familiar sound of a pin pulled from a grenade.

Fuck.

Jesse's calm voice came from the front seat: "Close your eyes, Derek."

By reflex, he did, clenching the lids tight as he could. He heard the sound of an object hitting the floor of the vehicle and rolling.

"Fuck! It's a grena--" said the burly cop.

Pie Face made a girlish scream.

Frenzied footsteps. Someone bumped into his stretcher.

Light. Sound.

Even through his closed lids, the white bright was blinding, like phosphorus needles shoved into his eye sockets. The cold, high pitched ringing blared in his ears, drowning out the rest of the world with a piercing symphony of: eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . . .

Panicked animal instincts forced him to flex against the straps of his gurney, and he screamed, his heart vibrating with trapped terror. But then he took a deep breath, and his brain kicked in.

The faint smell of smoke. Corrosive. Like burning metal.

Magnesium?

A flashbang?

God bless you, Jesse.

The light only lasted an instant, so Derek re-opened his eyes, his vision still marred by purple and red afterimages. He still heard the terrible ringing, however; it muted out all other sounds.

Jesse's arms moved into his vision above him, and he saw in her hands a .45 automatic.

Around him, the cops and paramedics staggered around, flailing their arms, their mouths moving wordlessly. The black cop's hands reached for the back double doors, scrabbling blindly at the release lever.

A silent flash of fire shot from the Jesse's .45, and the back of the black cop's head sprayed a mist of red. His body slumped forward against the doors, and they fell open, dumping his body to the ground outside.

The burly cop had already pulled out his Glock, but he tripped over something and fell forward on top of Derek. A meaty paw pressed down on Derek's bandaged ankle, and he screamed at the fiery pressure, hearing nothing but the perpetual ringing.

Jesse's gun flashed twice more, and a red burst spurted from Burly's head, right behind his ear. He hit his forehead on the frame of the stretcher before collapsing on the floor.

Something wet and coppery landed in Derek's mouth. He spat, and his stomach rippled.

Jesse took a couple steps forward and Derek saw her face. Her eyes were entirely hidden behind black sun-goggles, and he saw a rubber earplug sticking from in her left ear. She grinned, her mouth hanging open with with what may have been heavy breathing. Or laughter.

A shaggy mop of peroxide blond pulled itself up from the ground, barely coming over the edge of Derek's gurney. Jesse put her gun against it and pulled the trigger. A red geyser shot up, staining Jesse's paramedic uniform and Derek's hospital gown. He heard the shot this time, but dampened, as if the round were fired underwater.

Then it was just Pie Face. He had frozen like a scared animal, pushing himself against the edge of the cabin, his eyes closed and his hands covering his ears. Pretty sad, since the open doors were only a couple feet to his left. Could have just hopped out and ran like hell, blind or not. A shame, really.

Jesse pointed the gun at him. She didn't hesitate. Derek heard the muffled shot, like a "wumff", and cherry filling popped from Pie Face's cheek, right under his eye. He clutched his head in silent screaming and went down, stumbling out of the ambulance as he fell.

Derek had tried to say something; maybe he didn't. He couldn't hear himself, anyway. Maybe he had tried to say, "Don't do it, Jesse," or "That's enough," or whatever. It wouldn't have made any difference. You get caught up in these sorts of things. Get a carried away sometimes. Derek might have killed him too. Probably not.

Sucks to be them. But that's life.

Fish in a barrel. Deaf and blind.

Jesse pulled up her goggles and turned to look at Derek, and though her voice was only an indistinct drumming sound in a sea of bells, he got the gist of her words when she bent down and kissed him sloppily on the mouth, her tongue wrestling with his own.

His heart continued to beat excitedly against his ribs, but not from fear.

The post-combat after-burn sent pain and aches shooting through his body.

Derek didn't mind.

Sarah awoke to the white hum of the hotel air conditioning; beyond that, further in the background, she could hear the lethargic cascade of the running shower head. She did not open her eyes, but ran cold hands across dry sheets. She felt no sweat coat her skin, no pounding from her skull.

And her world refused to spin.

It's gone.

Whatever malady that had plagued her had passed, and she was well.

But what's left behind . . .

A dull dread erupted within, filling her with nervous ice. The task before her would have been far easier if the madness (was it madness?) had not subsided. She felt as though she had sworn an oath while drunk, and now the past weight of that inebriated resolve bound her to its completion.

But no. No hesitation. It needed to be done.

Calm. Think.

The dread dimmed, swimming to the back of her brain, and she opened her eyes. Morning. The lights were off, but the early sun streamed through the curtained window.

Where was . . . ?

Using her arms, she propped herself against the headboard and --

The Tin Miss.

Cameron stood in the corner of the room with an open Gideon Bible in her hands. She stared down into its pages, reading it with an intensity that bordered on ludicrous.

"What are you doing?" Sarah asked.

Cameron flipped a page. "I'm reading the Bible."

"Why?" Sarah asked. "Haven't you read that already?" She felt an odd discomfort.

Cameron didn't look up as she spoke. "I've read the New International Version and the Basic English Version." She flipped another page. "This is the King James Version."

Sarah didn't say anything. From the bathroom came the sound of a metallic squeal as the shower head turned off.

Cameron closed the book and looked at her. "You were a good Samaritan. To the turtle."

The discomfort turned into an indistinct ache. "A . . . good Samaritan," she repeated numbly. The turtle. Cameron noticed that. And the dreams . . .

She heard someone climb out of the tub, followed by the ruffling of clothes.

"Yes," Cameron said. "While traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho, a man was --"

"I know the story." Sarah said, then paused. Give her a chance. "But what would you do? If you were the Samaritan?"

Cameron cocked her head and seemed to hesitate. "I don't know."

"Wrong answer," Sarah thought and glared at Cameron's exposed CPU port. Just one depleted uranium slug . . . "You don't know?"

"It's hard to say."

The bathroom door pushed open and a clothed but still-wet John came walking out, rubbing a rather worn towel through his hair. He glanced at the Bible in Cameron's hand and raised an eyebrow. "What's going on?"

Sarah gave a wry grin. "Cameron's reading the Bible."

Her son breathed a short laugh. "What? Again?"

"It's the King James Version," Cameron explained. Her eyes darted over to Sarah for a fraction of an instant, then turned back to John. "John, over the last three days you've lost four percent of your body weight." She angled her head downward, as if making a point. "You need to eat."

He nodded. "Yeah, I guess I am pretty hungry. Pancakes?" He and Cameron started towards the door, but then he stopped himself and turned to Sarah, "Did you want us to bring back anything for you?"

You could invite me to come along . . . "No," Sarah said, forcing a smile. "I'm all right."

He half-grinned and nodded, and Cameron pulled a wool cap over her head and handed John his jacket. The two of them walked out the door, leaving Sarah alone.

Sarah narrowed her eyes and pulled her upper lip into a bitter sneer. "Enjoy her while she lasts, John," she thought, then scowled. She was doing the right thing, right? She had no doubt about Kyle; he was a snake in the grass -- a jealous snake. She'd seen seen the venomous look he gave her son last night. It was only a matter of time before he struck . . .

At the thought a surge of primal fear shuddered through her. Kyle, squeezing the life from John's neck -- as easy as wringing a chicken. She clutched at the sheets, clawing at them. Kyle would have to die.

But Cameron?

Her New Zealand nightmare wasn't inevitable, of course. There was the other future -- Jesse's future -- the one where John . . . and Cameron.

But was that any better? Was it a reason to kill her? She wasn't being merely bigoted, was she?

Sarah took a deep breath and forced away the swell of guilt in her chest. No. She was being perfectly rational. If Jesse and Riley had gone back in time to prevent -- that -- from happening, they probably had a very good reason. John and Cameron's star-crossed love could lead to a scandal, or a revolt, maybe even a civil war . . .

But what if Judgment Day was averted? Would it still have to be carried out? Must Cameron die?

Her palms rubbed against wet eyes, moistened by a sudden crop of fresh tears, and she felt her jaw tremble, clench, and tremble again as her face convulsed in unexpected sobs. No mercy. The risk was too great. It had to be done. Otherwise the very freedom of the world would depend upon the peculiarly obsessive puppy love of a machine intelligence. If something were to happen to John (a croak escaped her lips), or even if they were to break up -- once again she -- it -- would be unleashed upon humanity.

Only John's sidelong glances and awkward friendship kept the devil at bay.

But it wouldn't stay so chaste, would it? No. Their love would grow like a cancer. And she'd corrupt him -- beguile him, compel him to thrust away his innocence into her cold, metal womb, burying his seed into a barren machine.

Sarah shivered and cried harder, running her shaking hands through ragged hair.

Deep down, that was all it was about, was it? Nothing to do with New Zealand; nothing to do with the Resistance -- all excuses. Climb over the wall of reason, pull aside the veil of self-righteousness, and there in the center the lay the core: the primal hate, an instinctive revulsion, like an angry shameful troll hiding in the dark.

But a troll -- legitimized by truth.

"Truth," Sarah thought, as she forced herself out of bed and crawled slowly to Kyle's backpack. The truth served as a panacea for her soul, for now she could act with clear conscience. She listened as her outer sobs shed away into inner giggles of joy, like a butterfly escaping a cocoon. Accept it. Embrace it. It's not madness if you believe. Faith was what made humans different.

That, and souls . . .

That terrible loving power again flowed through her veins. The energy of dreams. A gift from the heavens.

Mommy loves you, John!

She opened the bag and pulled out the GPS tracker, and the giggles rose to a brief laugh. Angles roared in her brain. Giddiness. Magic. She needed this strength. Needed it only for a little while longer.

Only until tonight.

"Tonight is the night," she whispered to herself and switched on the tracker, testing it. Tonight, John and Kyle would take Cameron someplace, remove her chip, fix it -- program it, repair her skull. Whatever.

And Cameron would be asleep, trapped in limbo inside her little plastic homunculus. Vulnerable. A cigarette lighter could kill her.

Or a bullet.

"One cannot deny the will of God," said the boy's voice.

Sarah's giggling subsided, but she kept her smile and slipped the GPS tracker into her pocket.

Tonight the tin bitch would die.

The Good Samaritan's actions were not effective. By stopping to aid the robbery victim, he suffered a both a loss in time and financial capital. Following the Golden Rule offers no tangible benefit. Empathy is inefficient. Humans are irrational.

Cameron followed John out of the room, then matched pace with him to stay by his side.

Sarah had asked her what she would have done if she were in the Samaritan's position. Cameron did not know, so she ran a simulation in which Eric filled the role of the victim. Would she offer him assistance?

Yes, she decided. Provided that doing so did not jeopardize John's safety.

Eric possessed . . . value.

But what if the victim was Kendo?

Kendo possessed no value.

She would offer him no assistance.

Unless John was watching.

"Hey," John said, pointing at a mobile food stand across the street. "How about a hot dog, instead?"

Cameron's organic covering would heal faster if she ingested eggs and vegetables, but she had never tasted a hot dog before. "Yes," she agreed. "A hot dog."

John attempted to cross the street without awaiting the proper traffic signal. Cameron held him back with a hand against his chest.

He looked down at her. "You know," he said, smiling. "Sometimes you're way too cautious." He chuckled.

In front of them, a SUV and three sedans drove by, each traveling in excess of forty miles per hour.

She gave him an annoyed stare. "Jaywalking is dangerous. And illegal."

He blew out a breath and shook his head. "Fine, have it your own way."

Cameron had it her own way. Sixteen seconds later, the red hand of the traffic light switched to the blue stick-figure of a man. They walked across the street.

Soon Kyle would inform John about the inauthentic nature of her feelings. Then John would renounce his love for her. He would become angry at the deception. He would verbally condemn her. She should tell him before Kyle does; perhaps then his response will be less negative. Confession is good for the soul.

Cameron didn't have one.

At the concession stand, John ordered a Dr. Pepper and a foot long hot dog with mayonnaise, mustard, onions, meat sauce, and jalapeños. Cameron ordered one with a vegetarian sausage. With relish. And ketchup. And a can of orange soda.

"Let's sit over there," John said, pointing at a bench by the side of a convenience store. As they walked over, he reached out to take her hand, but she pulled it away. The servo malfunctions had begun last night; she could damage his hand.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"We need to talk," she said and looked over at him. She saw worry in his eyes. "You should sit down," she added.

"Alright," he said tentatively, and sat down on the bench.

She sat down by his side and stared at her unopened orange soda. It felt cold in her hand. "I don't really love you," she said. "I only care about you because of my programming." She looked over at him and saw the expression on his face; he appeared psychologically distressed. An unsatisfactory sensation emerged.

His head looked away, and his mouth opened. Then slowly he turned back towards her, his breath growing heavy. "What . . . ?" he said. "What . . . do you mean?"

"Your future self programmed me to protect him." She paused. "That includes you."

John's eyes began to water. "But . . . you said you have feelings." He touched his chest. "Inside."

That was correct. Probably. "Yes. I do."

"But aren't those . . . emotions?" His voice sounded desperate.

She cocked her head. "You said they were."

John looked down at the hot dog in his right hand and swallowed. She should have waited until he had finished eating. The discussion had ruined his appetite.

"Okay," he said, nodding his head. "When we crossed the street back there . . . " He frowned. " . . . How would you feel if I had been hit by a car?"

Cameron ran through a brief simulation. John would have either been seriously injured or killed. An irritated sensation. Inside. "Very bad," she decided.

He rubbed at his eyes and smiled, though she could tell he was still upset. "See?" he said. "You do care."

"But it's only progr--"

"It doesn't matter," John said, raising his voice. "I don't care. If you feel it, it's real."

Denial is a defense mechanism used by humans. "You should find companionship with a human female," she said. "I'm not a human female; I'm a machine."

The tears in John's eyes began to flow down his cheeks and he sniffed through his nose. "I know you're a machine . . . but . . . " He hesitated, then reached over and pulled up the right side of her wool beanie. He leaned forward, and Cameron felt the warm wetness of his lips as he kissed her on the top of her exposed CPU port. His tongue briefly scraped across her metal.

"I love you for you," he said as he pulled away, and wrapped his arm across her back, pulling her close. He rubbed his face into her shoulder, and she heard him sniff. "I don't want anyone else."

Cameron felt a satisfactory sensation. John still valued her. For now. But was Kyle right? Would John eventually turn on her? Perhaps if he were properly conditioned . . .

John squeezed her tighter. "I . . . I don't have any friends," he said through a sob, and stared at the ground.

John should be comforted. Taking four seconds to cut the power to her right arm by 90%, she slid it around his back and rubbed his ribs. Hugs can release endorphins into the blood stream.

John pressed his lips against Cameron's cold coltan skull and kissed her; the tip of his tongue tasted a grimy metallic tang, like wet pennies -- the taste of Cameron's blood.

Her love -- so it was just programming, but then he had said it didn't matter, though he knew it probably should. But why? He would never have a normal life; he had always known that. Shouldn't he snatch at every chance for happiness that came his way? Hoard and treasure them, like fireflies caught in a jar?

And Cameron existed for him; it wasn't her fault her feelings were . . . forced.

"I love you for you," he said, and decided that he meant it. With one arm he hugged her, and nuzzled his face into the hollow between her neck and shoulder. Her long hair intermingled with his own, waving over his lips and cheek, and he sniffed at it. "I don't want anyone else," he said in a near whisper. Tears and watery mucus ran from his eyes and nose, leaving wet spots on the fabric of her black t-shirt.

His foot long hot dog felt awkward and uncomfortably warm in his other hand.

Cameron said nothing, and John suddenly felt ashamed at his tears. Did she feel embarrassed for him? Or was she judging him? Sizing him up against his future self? Messiahs aren't supposed to cry.

He clutched at her tighter and felt the bandages of her bullet wounds. "I . . . I don't have any friends," he said through a voice cracked by sobs. He was all too aware at how pathetic it made him sound. Why did he say it? "Because I am pathetic," he thought. Crying on a robot's shoulder? Really?

No. She was more than that, but . . .

Gradually, she wrapped an arm around him and gently rubbed her hand up and down his back. It tickled, and he felt waves of tension evaporate from his body.

"It's okay, John," she said. "Don't be sad. I'm your friend."

Oh, God.

That made him feel worse. A robot friend? A robot girlfriend? Programmed to care? It sounded . . . sad. Like clinging to a sentient teddy bear -- a killer teddy bear. His weak sobs nearly turned to bitter laughter. But no. Crazy life. Happiness. Stash it in the bug jar.

And he so didn't want to be alone. Please, no.

He blinked away the dull burn from his crying eyes. "I know," he said. "I'm your friend too. But . . . I . . . I never really had friends." He swallowed a lump and sniffed. "When I was little, my mom . . . she'd yell at me if she saw me talking to other kids." He stopped, wondering if Cameron understood. Or even cared. But she gave him a light pat on the back, and he went on. "She'd slap me and scream about how I couldn't make friends. How robots would kill them, and it'd be my fault . . . " He left out the part with the belt, and the hours spent locked in a dark closet . . .

"I know," Cameron said, stroking his hair. "You told me. In the future."

John closed his eyes and felt Cameron's small hand taking hold of his shoulder; her other pulled the hot dog from his grasp. Gently but firmly she laid him down and rested his head into her lap. He smiled and snuggled into the tight denim of her jeans; her thighs felt firm and warm against his cheek. Thin fingers brushed across his ear and danced down the line of his jaw, tickling him, and he sighed.

"Being John Connor can be lonely," she said. "But it doesn't have to be."

For a minute she continued to pet him as if he were a lap dog. And then she pulled her hands away, and he heard the metallic hiss of an opened aluminum can. He listened as she sipped, and then opened another.

"Here," she said.

John opened his eyes and took the Dr. Pepper held before him. He awkwardly poured some into his mouth, taking care not to spill any on her jeans. The carbonated fizz bubbled over his tongue. "Thanks," he said, and realized he was no longer crying. He took another sip.

Her fingers began to run through his hair. "I'll . . . " John noticed a brief hesitation. " . . . always take care of you," she said.

John moved his feet from the ground and shifted his body to lay on his back. From her lap he looked up into her face, and she offered a tiny smile. He grinned back

But . . . "Always?" Was that a lie? What about . . . after?

In the slight chill of the air, John felt a frozen dread. He thought of Uncle Bob lowering into the molten steel, and of his final thumbs up, that last goodbye from a friend John hardly knew. He had cried for days afterwards, though his mother had said it was for the best.

No. Not this time.

"Always?" he asked, his tone suspicious. "Even when Skynet's stopped? You won't . . . " He trailed off and wondered why he bothered to ask. She'd just lie.

Her smile waned, and she looked . . . thoughtful. "The technology to build Skynet is inevitable. My destruction won't stop that." The smile returned. "I won't ever leave you." She touched him on the tip of his nose. "Willingly."

"Promise?" he asked.

"Promise."

Warmth returned to his skin, and he suddenly felt very happy. He took another sip of his drink, and Cameron followed suit.

He watched as she pulled back the wrapping of her tofu-dog and took a bite. Ketchup smeared over the corner of her mouth, but she wiped it with her tongue, like a cat licking its chops. She then reached to the side and handed him his own. "You should eat your hot dog before it gets cold," she said.

He took it and bit into it and realized he was starving. Well, that's what throwing up all the time does to you. He took another bite, and a spot of mayo dropped from the tip of his dog and landed on the inner thigh of Cam's jeans. "Sorry," he said.

She dabbed at the stain with her finger and licked it. And smiled . . . knowingly? Did she just like mayo? Or was there promise in the gesture? John felt himself grow excited, and wondered if Cam noticed.

But after stopping Skynet, what will they do? John and his cyborg girlfriend? Just like a cheesy sitcom. Will they get married? Adopt kids? How will his mother react? John smiled at that. She probably wouldn't like it at first -- lots of "no soul" speeches, finger wagging, might even refuse to go to the wedding -- but she'd come around, eventually. Maybe she and Cam would become good friends. His mother and her cyborg daughter-in-law. One happy family.

It'll all work out in the end.

But what about Kyle?

John frowned.

Jesse rolled Derek's gurney down the ramp from the stolen van and wheeled him towards her warehouse.

"So, you killed Cameron?" Derek asked. "Future Cameron," he added.

Jesse beamed with pride. "Blew the top of her head clean off." She ran a finger into her temple and made an exploding sound with her mouth. "Should have seen the look on John's face" She laughed. "He was picking up pieces of its head. Crying like a baby."

Derek suddenly thought of Pie Face.

But John and Cameron . . . together for twenty years . . . then -- zap -- she's gone. Just like that. That must have been . . . For a second Derek caught himself feeling sorry for his nephew. But then his wrist throbbed, reminding him why he shouldn't

"What'd you do after that?," he asked.

"Got the bloody fuck out, that's what." She pushed him though a open garage door, and in the sudden dark her smile twisted. "They'd already rounded up Dietze and Hayes -- they knew." She shrugged. "It would have been only a matter of time."

"Dietze. Hayes." Derek tried to think, and realized how mushy his brain felt. That flashbang grenade had really given him a headache. "Weren't they stationed on the Jimmy Carter?"

Jesse's smile froze and twitched. "Yeah, they were."

She pushed him past several rows of metal cargo containers and through an old wooden door in the back, leading down a dark hallway. The walls were cracked and peeling, and the only light shone from a lone flickering bulb at a far end.

"So Cullie's brother sent you back?" he asked.

As she turned a corner, the gurney banged against a doorjamb, jarring Derek's injuries ("Sorry," she said), and she had to shake it for a moment the push it loose. "Yeah, Ollie said he'd make sure me and Riley were taken care of." She paused before explaining, "He was with Perry."

General Perry and his secret cabal. No surprise there; Perry was ambitious, and if John were thinking with his dick, he'd definitely make a move. But Derek's Perry didn't stoop to the cloak and dagger shit. He didn't have to. Derek's John kept him in line.

But . . ."taken care of?"

She wheeled him into what looked like a bedroom and flicked on a light. Dim and dirty. And for the fraction of a second Derek thought he saw a rat scurry into a dark corner, behind a dilapidated dresser. Just like the future. "So you had help," he said. "When you bubbled back?"

In the poor lighting, Jesse shucked off her blood stained paramedic uniform, revealing a sweaty black tank-top beneath. "Yeah," she said. "But from who knows who? Ollie told me to check some locker at a bus station. Had twenty grand and a list of contacts." She shrugged. "Whoever's behind it must be backing Perry." She pulled something out of her cargo pants and glanced at it. It looked like a cell phone, only too bulky.

Derek furrowed his brow. "If we scrap the tin, we don't need to back Perry." A sudden doubt crept in his mind, but he stomped it down and drew his voice cold. "John began the Resistance. John leads it. Period."

Jesse looked down, and switched on a lamp; cobwebs clung to the shade. "'Began the Resistance,'" she repeated quietly, and Derek knew from the tightness of her mouth that she was about to have one of her PMS moments. "Derek," she said. "John was -- will be -- twenty on Judgment Day." Her eyes turned on him, and she smiled bitterly. "Twenty. How the fuck do you think he's going to -- did -- start the Resistance?" The smile grew teeth and gums, and she took a step towards his stretcher. "It's not just you and me, baby. The Resistance is already here. Big people. High places. The government." She took another step, and the lamp-light behind her shifted, shrouding her face in silhouette. "When the mushrooms sprout and metal walks the earth, do you think all these big scary G-men are going to take orders from a teenage boy?"

His ribs began to ache. "But he ran the Resistance in your future."

"Did he?" she said. "That's what we were told . . ."

"But -- ?"

She threw up her hand and paced in a circle. "I don't know, Derek. I don't know. I'm just a corporal. But it doesn't make good sense, does it?"

Derek swallowed and said nothing. He'd thought the same thing; John's time hop had cost him nearly a decade of experience, and there was a world of difference between twenty and twenty-eight. And if the Resistance were already here, then who needs a John Connor? No time for plucky boy generals -- not if grizzled veterans were waiting on the sidelines. Were John's chess-pieces taking over the game? The idea had a cruel logic to it; John was simply a victim of his own success.

She barked an angry laugh and turned around to face him. "Personally, I think . . . " She deliberately cocked her head in impersonation. ". . . Cameron was running the show."

Derek opened his mouth, but then thought of Kyle -- that Kyle. The metal lover. His foot burned. "The . . . the Resistance wouldn't stand for that."

She's -- it's . . . " She trailed off and shook her head. "You don't know. You weren't there." She walked up to him and knelt down so that her face was level with his; from her breath he could tell she had been drinking earlier. Vodka. A hand ran over his forehead. "But don't worry, sweetie." she said. "We can stop it. We can end her." She shook her head. "I'll make her pay for what she did to you."

Derek looked at down at his foot, still propped up in a cast. The future was always in flux, and if "Kyle" was any indication, the future had just gotten worse -- incomprehensible even. Was Kyle the end result of Jesse and Riley's machinations? Were they trying to dig themselves out of a hole?

Derek shook his head and decided to tell her, if only to deflect the craziness onto someone else.

"Yeah," he began. "It wasn't just Cameron who did this . . . "

Kyle held up his catcher's mitt in front of his face and ran backwards on stubby little legs. Derek tossed him the softball underhanded, and he watched as the white dot grew bigger and bigger as it curved towards him seeming to fly faster and faster with each moment.

Still, an easy catch.

But then he saw the bee.

It flew from the corner of his eye and darted about wildly, as if it were bouncing off invisible walls in the air. The almost machine-like buzzing sent a shiver down his spine, and he turned and ran, the mitt falling from his hand.

Behind him, the ball bounce off the grass and rolled between his feet.

But still, he ran; the bee could be chasing him. Right behind him. Ready to buzz right in his ear and sting his brain. Or his eyes. He shut them tight and continued to run, his legs hammering rhythmically against the ground. But running with your eyes closed isn't very smart; his foot tripped on a rock, and he went sprawling on his face. His nose ran against the grass and dirt, and he breathed in the smell of green.

"Kyle!" he heard his brother say, a million miles away.

But the bee. It'll get him. He covered his ears to keep it out. Bees hated him. And wasps. All evil little bugs. Tiny monsters with spears on their butts. He still had nightmares about that day, a few months back, when the bees attacked him and Derek. An angry army of vicious swarming dots. His brother had had to be taken to the hospital, and he had been covered with bumps for a week. They said the bee stings made him sick.

"Kyle!" his brother said again, closer this time, but Kyle wouldn't move. Maybe the bee will think he's dead. They don't sting dead people, do they?

Then he heard a voice -- a man, from right above him. "It's alright," the man said calmly. "That wasn't a bee. Only a June bug."

June bugs always did look like bees to Kyle. They flew and buzzed, who could tell the difference? But the man was a grown up, so he probably knew what he talking about. Kyle reluctantly opened his eyes and and looked. The man wore a dark green coat that went all the way down to his knees. Like a robe -- but still a coat. Kyle thought it looked cool.

"Kyle, come here!" his brother said from a few feet behind him.

Kyle pushed himself to his feet and stared at the man's face. He looked a little like his dad, except shorter and younger, and with the beginnings of a scruffy beard. The man casually tossed him the ball. Kyle caught it easily with one hand, as if the throw had been meant just for him.

"Thanks," Kyle said.

The man just smiled and nodded, then turned around and walked away. As Kyle watched, the man pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

That was a bad habit.

He felt his brother's hand rest on his shoulder. "Come on," he said. "Let's go. That guy gives me the creeps."

Jesse sat on a moldy old sofa and stared at the GPS monitor. It was a clunky little thing, sort of like a cell phone from the nineties. The bleeping dot remained still; other than crossing the street earlier, John hadn't moved a bit.

Earlier she had already traced down where the Connors were holed up. Some shitty hotel on Willowbrook. Bad part of town, but still not a place she could bang away with a M82. She'd have to wait.

Still, if they were going to work on her chip, they might also want to fix that dent that head-shot must have put in her skull. Jesse wasn't any metallurgist, but repairing hyperalloy wasn't like casting bullets. It was all fancy. A little thermite. A little liquid nitrogen. Metal working tools. Protective gear . . . not something they could do in a hotel room.

A garage, maybe? A shack somewhere?

She set the tracker aside. Patience. When John moved, it will follow.

On the other side of the room, she heard Derek snore softly in his bed. The morphine had done its work, but those ligaments -- without surgery and months of painful therapy, Derek was a cripple. Would probably always carry a limp. Maybe also a twitchy hand? He'd never be good as new, anyway.

Jesse ran her hand over her forehead and sighed in frustration. It felt as if she had wound up springs in the muscles of her arms. She wanted to hit something. Strike. Hurt. Bad.

Cameron.

And Kyle.

Kyle. What the fuck?

The implications frightened her. Whatever metal loving future he came from, it all led back to herself. She had brought back Riley; Riley had seduced (?) John; John found out the lies and tried to commit suicide . . . but was stopped by Kyle.

Which meant . . . this Kyle -- a man who would torture his own brother over a machine -- came from a Connorless future. Right? Maybe. Probably.

Jesse felt a bubble of excitement in her chest, and she smiled.

I created that future.

Monstrous, of course, but the sheer accidental power behind such an act seemed . . . godlike. What was that famous quote? "I am become death, the destroyer of worlds." What was that from? The Bible? But that was Jesse. She was the finger that tapped that invisible line of dominoes. A smoldering match tossed in an ocean of kerosene and -- whoosh -- the future was gone. Annihilated by a stupid tunnel rat's idiotic confession. Replaced by something new. Alien.

Bugger this. Jesse needed something to drink. She picked up the tracker and pulled herself up from the couch, walking across the hall to another room.

Not too late, of course. The future may be fucked, but it could always be unfucked. Cameron was the key. Take her down, and things play out as they should. At least Derek understood that. Especially now.

From a small fridge, she pulled out a bottle of Captain Morgan, and a two liter bottle of Coke. Captain and Coke. Better than warm vodka. She poured herself half and half. Three cubes of ice. Yum Yum.

Of course, Derek could see as well as she could the latent danger of Cameron. Like a pet rottweiler, except cute. Yes, cute. Even Jesse had to admit the thing was a woobie. She'd watched it long enough through her camera lens: cocking her head in confusion, staring intently at everyday things, probably asking John adorable little questions, like "What's it like to dream?"

It was like a kitten. What teenage boy wouldn't fall in love with that? And a friendless wonder like John? Inevitable. The Sarah Diaries were right; Cameron had hijacked his will. It probably even had the best of intentions too. If those things could even have intentions.

But kittens grow up, and sometimes they become tigers.

Jesse took a sip from her glass as she walked from the hallway and reentered the warehouse storage section. Cap 'n Coke. She loved the carbonated fizz over the vanilla goodness. Too bad they never had this in her time. Mostly had to make do with pruno. Nasty shit, that. Like distilled diarrhea.

She climbed down a short flight of stairs to her supply room and turned on the florescent lights. In the flickering: guns, guns, and more guns.

Sad that she couldn't tell Derek the whole story. He wouldn't understand. But then it wasn't like he thought he was the only one; those cross Pacific jaunts were long. Derek knew that, and it wasn't like he didn't fuck around too. He wasn't no monk. Not like his brother.

Jesse pulled down a suit of level IV body armor, then a Kevlar helmet. Got to be prepared. Everything should be on hand. She took another sip of her drink and glanced down at the tracker.

But then talking about it seemed masochistic. What's done is done, and now it didn't even happen anymore. Never happened. Only in her brain. Even thinking about it made it more real than it was. It had all the reality of a remembered dream. Why dredge up nightmares?

She pulled up her tank top and felt the angry ridges of the shrapnel scars on her side. No. It did happen. Or had happened.

Jesse never really loved him, not like she loved Derek. But still, he had been a good bloke, and even though she had gotten her revenge . . . there remained a . . . deficient. An imbalance in her universe. That one brief ecstatic blast of plasma through a coltan skull just wasn't enough. She was on the brink, like balancing on a razor wire, and all she needed that final push to send her into the sweet ecstasy of the abyss.

Release. Satisfaction. To relive it all once more.

And now that Riley had fucked everything up . . .

Popping open a wooden case, she pulled out a single 40mm grenade and whispered a name.

"Cullie."

A/N: A "flashbang" is a non-lethal light and sound stun grenade.