Chapter Seventeen: Good Intentions

A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid13 for beta-reading this chapter.

July 12, 2027

Osprey Oil Platform, Gulf of Alaska

She idly touched a hand to her stomach. Two weeks late.

Nearly huddling together in the freezing air, Jesse, Dietze and Bird stepped carefully along the rust-eaten grating of the platform's outer walkway. A northern wind billowed through the night, spraying them in a constant arctic mist. Despite her heavy coat and wool leggings, Jesse's teeth chattered, and a shiver shook through her limbs. She sniffled, and felt like a cold, wet rat.

As they walked, their flashlight beams shifted in front of them in wide, sweeping arcs. The lights blurred and refracted from the ocean fog, limiting their vision to the inside of a cloudy bubble ending twenty paces ahead of them. From what little Jesse could make out, she marveled that the oil rig hadn't sunk to the ocean floor. It was all rotted scrap, rusted and worn, barely clung together through a dilapidated network of oxidized bolts and girders. Fifteen years of saltwater and neglect had taken its toll.

The wind picked up into a low whistle, and she heard the sad moan of stressed metal.

The three of them stopped for a moment, and Lieutenant Bird sniffed the air. He pointed down a causeway to their left. "This way," he said. Wordlessly, Jesse and Dietze followed.

Private Dietze nearly tripped over a ripped hole in the grating; Jesse stared at him. Could he be the . . . ? No. Dietze had pulled out. Shot on her belly. It had to be Derek. Or Cullie. Not that it mattered, in the end; it wasn't like she was going to keep the bloody thing, anyway.

"Up there," Bird said, pointing at large balcony jutting from a crumbled concrete refinery.

The message had explicitly stated no weapons, so they had left their plasma rifles with Goodnow and the others by the dock. But as they began to the climb a metal stairway, Jesse slid cold fingers across the back of her trousers and felt the cold weight of her .45 nestled to her back. For all the good it'd do. But at least she could herself keep from being captured. 230 grain hollow point. Roof of the mouth. Instant exit strategy.

Assuming this was an ambush, of course. But then, it was hard not to.

Their boots made hollow metallic taps against the gridded steps. Jesse looked over edge; they couldn't have gone more fifteen or twenty feet up, but the fog shrouded drop below seemed bottomless.

"So we're meeting metal?" Dietze asked, not for the first time. He swung his flashlight around in a frantic circle, briefly illuminating a rust pitted bulkhead by the side of the steps.

Bird sighed. "That's what Cullie said. Queeg told him."

Jesse's nose snorted through a clog of snot. "The metal's on our side, right?"

The Lieutenant turned to look at her. "They better be, Corporal," he said. The cold mist had extenuated his already thinning blond hair, making him appear nearly bald.

Dietze halted his progress up the steps. "Scrubbed metal, right?"

"What else?" Bird said.

The Private shone his light at Bird's chest. "Then why can't we take guns?"

"They said we couldn't," Bird said.

"'They?'" Dietze repeated and turned to look at balcony above them. "You mean scrubbed metal told us no?"

"Look," the Lieutenant began, pushing up his little round glasses, "I don't like this anymore than-"

"Bloody hell, Dietze," Jesse interrupted. "You think Skynet arranged all this just to kill three nobodies on a floating pile of rust? Grow a scrot, Private." She shook her head in disgust and continued climbing the stairs. After a moment, she heard them follow.

It was amazing the amount of sheer insubordination Bird would put up with. Still, Dietze was right. This all felt like a trap. But then, it must be a real shitty one. The Carter's launch floated below by the dock, and the nine marines left guarding it were all armed with plasma. If it looked like the shit was about to hit, they had orders from Cullie to submerge and get back to the Carter. Skynet had really nothing to gain.

But even still, something didn't sit right. Was Queeg still working for Skynet? Or was Skynet making deals with the Resistance? That idea turned her already cold skin to ice, and as she started to climb another flight of steps, Jesse suddenly felt just how small she truly was. "Three nobodies," she thought. "and I'mone of them!"

Out there, beyond the mundane fog of her life, there played a global chess match between giants. Armies were sacrificed, pacts forged, unspoken rules followed . . . but Jesse remained a pawn in all that; she would never even see the board, much less make the moves that shaped it. That privilege belonged only to the Kings: Skynet and Connor. And maybe that metal Witch-Queen, Cameron.

But Jesse. Just a pawn.

Her hand moved across her belly again. Maybe she should keep it. Be a mommy. At least then she'd be the center of someone's world. How did that saying go? "Mother is the name for God . . ." . . . something, something. But yeah. A good idea. Assuming she survived all this. She smiled.

Being in the lead, she made it first to the balcony. Metal grating gave way to splintered pavement, and to the right, past the balcony's railing, stood a great pock-marked wall of brown steel, rising at least twenty feet above her; it blocked most of the wind and rain.

Across the balcony, she saw them.

Well, they had brought guns.

Three stood together at the far end, about fifteen yards away. Endos. Two aimed plasma at her, but held their fire. Behind them sat a line of (she counted) seven . . . monoliths? Coffins? It was hard to tell in all the fog and darkness, but she swore she saw the reflection of glass on the front of each.

Next to the unarmed center endo sat a large metal crate, about knee high. The left-hand machines gradually lowered its weapon and scanned the area with a turn of its head. The right one followed suit.

At the far corner she noticed a fourth. Even through the fog she could see it was an infiltrator unit. It sat in a booth at the controls of what looked like a huge mechanical crane. The crane's rusty boom jutted out from the balcony at an odd angle, disappearing into the mist beyond; no doubt pre-war it functioned as a means to load and unload supplies. She squinted at the metal's skin. Unnatural. Waxy. Probably a rubber-head. Either that, or an 800 with skin-rot.

Jesse took a couple steps forward. She knew these couldn't be scrubs. No one in there right mind would let reprogrammed metal go around unsupervised. Not even Cameron was allowed that degree of autonomy. But still, she didn't feel nervous anymore. Just cold and irritable. After all, if they wanted her dead, she wouldn't still be standing now. And she wasn't important enough to capture. Made no sense. Fuck it.

But then, pawns weren't supposed to see the layout of the game. If they could, they might not move where they're told.

Behind her Dietze and Bird stepped up.

The private stopped next to her and blew out a breath. "Shit," he said to no one in particular and ran a hand through his wet buzz-cut.

The center endo - the unarmed one - glanced at one of its companions, then began to walk across the balcony towards them. Jesse frowned. It wasn't a 888. Not a 850. Nor a 800. Nor a skinless 600. It was . . . bigger, yet sleeker in design, with heavier armor plating, and an almost muscular chassis. If it had skin, it'd be terrible at infiltration - not skeletal enough. But for straight combat . . . she swallowed a sudden surge of fear. It's not here to kill me . . .

"What is that?" she asked.

"A nine-hundred series," Bird said, nearly whispering. "Anti-metal metal" He looked at her and smiled bitterly. "Even if we brought guns, it wouldn't do any good. Plasma's like lead bullets to them."

The 900 stopped in the center of the pavement and stared at them expectantly. In its upturned palm it held a small gray metal case, as if it were offering a present.

"All right," Bird said. "Let's go."

Together the three of them walked out to meet the metal. Though the steel bulkhead to her right acted as a windbreaker, droplets of water still found their way to her skin. Some of it was sweat. No. Calm down. Nothing to fear. Though the very idea that there was nothing to fear seemed unsettling somehow, like a lobotimization of what it meant to be human. When you stop fearing monsters - when you meet to make shady deals on rusty old oil derricks - doesn't that mean you're on the same footing? That you've become one of them?

Bird took the lead by a couple steps, and stopped four or five paces from the machine. The thing stood a good half a hand taller than the Lieutenant, and he was tall. Almost without thinking, Jesse and the others had lowered their flashlights to the machine's feet and legs, as if it would seem rude to shine them in its face. The absurdity and submissiveness of that gesture pounded in her head, but she restrained an impulse to raise her beam in defiance.

The wind shifted, and Jesse heard the vague metallic taps of rain against the thick coltan armor.

Bird took another step forward and nodded curtly.

After a brief flash of its red eyes, the 900 spoke, its jaw remaining still. "We will load the cargo onto your craft," it said. "You will take them back to your ship."

The machine's voice sounded roughly like that of a human male, but electronically distorted and tainted with a ghostly resonance. Jesse shivered and glanced at the Lieutenant. He slowly nodded to the machine. "All right," he said, almost meekly.

It held up the gray metal case. Close up, Jesse thought it looked like a shiny tackle box. "I will deliver this package to your captain," it said.

Bird hesitated. "I'll take it," he said and held out a hand.

There followed an awkward pause, as if the machine were annoyed at a breach of etiquette. Its red pupils shrunk down to glowing pinpricks. "No," it said, raising its voice imperceptibly. "I will deliver it."

The Lieutenant made a shrugging gesture and nodded, pushing up his glasses. "Okay. Sure."

Jesse tightened her jaw and swallowed a throat full of mucus. Brow beaten by metal. And letting that thing on board?

And what was the "cargo?"

Well, why not ask? Not every day you get to chat with Skynet's metal.

"What do you have in those coffins?" she asked, pointing across the balcony. She received a nervous look from Bird, and Deitze glanced at her from the corner of his eye, trying to mask fear from his face.

The 900's heavy, skull-like visage regarded her for a full two seconds, then it lowered its head in not-quite a nod. She heard the servos in its neck whir faintly over the low howl of the wind.

"Those are a gift," it said.

December 17, 2007

Los Angeles

In the vacant lot behind the hotel, Cameron sat on the pavement and leaned back against the brick wall. Next to her, John ate his third hotdog.

John was very different from General Connor. Her General Connor.

While John agitated easily, General Connor had possessed adequate stress management skills. John cried often; General Connor had maintained a stoic demeanor. John frequently behaved irrationally; General Connor had practiced sound judgment.

The differences were many, but he was still only sixteen years old. Humans mature with age.

Licking mustard off his lips, John finished his hotdog and began to pick his nose.

Usually.

But he could never be her General Connor. Her General Connor had not known her as an adolescent, and John would be eight years younger in 2027. She had changed the past.

But that had been the right thing to do. General Connor had been assassinated.

She had failed him. An irritated sensation.

She couldn't let anything happen to him. Not again.

John sat with his knees bent to his chest and stared out into the flat grass a few feet ahead of them. A squirrel ran through the recently mowed lawn and climbed a nearby tree. California Ground Squirrel. Spermophilus beecheyi. Or Spermophilus beldingi. It was hard to say.

John took a drink from his can of Dr. Pepper. His second one. "What do you want to do?" he asked suddenly. "After we stop Skynet, I mean."

Do? Cameron cocked her head. "I don't know. What do you want to do?"

John found her response amusing; his laugh came out in a single breath. "I guess I should stick with what I'm good at. Computer programming? I could make good money in that." He chuckled. "Mom won't like that though."

Do. Referring to occupation. "You won't need a job," she said. "I can access money through my chip." She tapped her CPU port through her wool beanie.

"Yeah," he said frowning. "I keep forgetting Future You became a bajillionaire." His head shook. "I'm not sure I want all that. Being super-rich and everything." He took another sip of his drink. "I just want a normal life. You know, a nice house, a couple kids . . . " He laid his hand over hers and smiled. ". . . a loving wife. That sort of thing."

Was that a marriage proposal? "I can't have children," she said.

John shrugged. "We can adopt."

Cameron nodded. Raising children is important to humans. So is money. "Abundant financial resources would greatly broaden your field of life options. This would also apply to your adopted children." He looked at her. "Our adopted children," she corrected.

His mouth twisted in thought. "You're right, I guess. But it doesn't mean we have to run some big multinational corporation." He smirked. "Or invade New Zealand." He finished the Dr. Pepper and crushed the can in his hand. "I just don't want things to get too complex. A simple life; that's all I want." He threw it in an over-handed toss. The can bounced off the pavement and rolled into the grass. Littering is illegal.

Without access to tens of millions of dollars, she would be unable to augment John. The procedure involved a series of delicate operations and expensive materials. Great wealth was a prerequisite. She should convince him. "John, my chip will degrade in fifteen to twenty years." His eyes widened, and she quickly added, "Before then I'll need to create a new one for a transfer." She paused. "Manufacturing the replacement will require substantial monetary assets."

John's brow furrowed, and he stared at the ground between his knees. "You mean your chip will . . . die?"

"Yes, but my programming will be on the new chip."

He looked at her. Dilated pupils. Worry. "But would that still be you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and wondered why he would think otherwise. "I am my programming."

John frowned; he didn't seem to like that. "I guess so," he said, frowning. "That must be nice, being able to switch . . . brains like that. Too bad people - I mean humans - can't do that."

It was too bad. "My future self experimented with human mind transfer." John winced slightly at the word "experimented," but she went on. "She wasn't successful, but she did learn much about genetic manipulation." She smiled slightly, for better effectiveness. "With periodic gene therapy, you could have an unlimited lifespan."

His mouth opened for a second, and he stared off into the distance. But then he looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "But only if we're stinking rich, right?"

"Yes," Cameron agreed, smiling wider. "We should be stinking rich."

"I don't know," he said, hesitantly. "I don't think I want to live forever."

Her smile faded. That was untrue. Even if they weren't touching hands, she'd still know he was lying. Humans fear death. She slipped an arm over his shoulders and gave him a severe look. "The Greek philosopher Epicurus calls death the 'the most awful of evils.' Life is existence. Death is nonexistence. Life is better than death." She ruffled his hair playfully. "I don't want you to die."

John's heart rate increased, and he inched towards her, half chuckling. "I don't want me to die either," he said. Then, "Not anymore, anyway. But I don't want to be a . . . I don't want to be . . . changed. Like Kyle."

The was unfortunate. Hyperalloy augments would significantly increase John's resistance to physical trauma. But . . . "You don't have undergo that if you don't want to," she lied. "But the gene therapy would be enough. You won't grow old. You'll be immune to all diseases. And any injury you sustain will fully regenerate."

He pushed himself closer until their shoulders touched. John liked physical affection. Physical affection produces endorphins. "You know," he said, his eyes turning thoughtful. "That 'gene therapy' sounds like it could help a lot of people. Save a lot of lives. Paraplegics. Amputees. Cancer. AIDS." His smile was slightly lopsided. "And everyone would be immortal . . . I don't see anything wrong with that."

A good sensation. Cameron's smiled again. "So, that would make you happy?"

He sniffed a brief laugh. "It certainly beats Judgment Day." His hand moved up and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "But yeah, it'd make me happy. We can do more than just save the world, we can make it a better place."

Committing acts of altruism makes John happy. "It'd make me happy too," she decided.

There was a silence for two and a half seconds. John moved his head towards hers, tilting it slightly, but stopped himself an inch from her nose.

"You want to kiss me," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah." His smile was subtle, and his breath smelled like onions and sausage.

Cameron touched John on the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair. Physical intimacy can relieve stress.

She kissed him.

Last night had been her first kiss - that she could remember. This was her second. Not being certain of the proper procedure, she licked traces of mustard from John's lips before tentatively inserting her tongue slightly into his mouth. His sudden exhalation of air felt warm as she made slow, weaving contact, sampling the hotdog residue that coated the inside of his lips. His own probing tongue pressed against hers, and his pulse and perspiration levels increased; he closed his eyes. Sliding along the contours of his front teeth, Cameron detected a mild build-up of calculus. John should improve his brushing techniques.

Through the black cotton of her t-shirt, she felt his hands clumsily feel over her body, exploring with light padding gestures. Physical intimacy should be reciprocated. She slid her hands into the insides of his jacket and up under his sweater, gently tickling his stomach with her nails before moving on to his back; her fingers sensed a high apocrine content in his sweat.

He broke away for a second, then kissed her again, breathing steadily through his nose. Cameron attempted to mimic his respiratory patterns, but her internal air compressor remained far inferior to human lungs. Her breaths came out only as a weak stream of air, alternating repeatably between inhaling and exhaling.

One of John's hands moved up to her neck, feeling where her carotid artery would be, if she had one. He pulled away from her lips and placed light kisses on her right cheek. As he did this, she removed a hand from under his shirt and rubbed fingers affectionately through his hair. He shifted his weight partially onto his knees, and Cameron saw the crotch of his jeans bulge visibly.

This was another difference between John and General Connor. General Connor had not approved of sexual intimacy between humans and machines. He considered such acts to be perverse. And pathetic. Machines had no free will. They weren't people.

John kissed at her throat, and slid his left hand under the hem of her shirt, hesitating slightly when his fingers rubbed against her bandaged abdomen. Cameron pulled his head over and licked at his nose. Nasal sebum. Blackheads. John should wash his face more often.

"I love you, Cam," he whispered into her still-regenerating ear.

General Connor had not loved her. He had enjoyed talking with her, but he did not believe she was real. Not like a human. Only humans could love.

Cameron's influence had altered John's opinion of machines.

Was this an improvement?

She decided it must be.

"I love you too, John."

To love is to value.

To be valued is a preferable state of being. A radiant sensation.

From the front of the hotel, carrying around the corner, came the sound of a vehicle pulling up and parking.

John kissed her on the hollow between her neck and shoulder. The hand under her shirt began to grope at the right cup of her bra.

Cameron boosted her audio detection and heard footsteps, followed by the jingling of keys. Then, a door opening. She ran an acoustic analysis: the sounds came from their room.

There is a time and a place for everything.

John's kisses migrated down to her upper chest, strategically avoiding the bandaged bullet wounds.

Now was not the time for sexual intimacy. Or the place.

She grabbed John firmly by the shoulders and pushed him away from her, holding him out at arms' length. "Kyle's back," she whispered.

Taking deep breaths, John's eyes widened with confusion. Then disappointment.

"We can finish this later," she added and gave him a small smile.

As the shower beat down upon her head, Sarah rubbed scented shampoo into her hair with a methodical repetition that bordered on robotic. It was Cameron's: "Fruit-Tree Peach" or something like that. Something pretty - what any teenage girl would like. But . . . why? Manipulation, probably. Make her hair smell nice for John. That had to be it. Hopefully. The alternative crushed at Sarah's heart.

But with the mental sweep of an invisible arm, she brushed the thought from her mind.

And it hopped right back, like a determined flea.

Sarah stared down into the drain and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Cool shampoo slothed from her hair; it smelled good enough to drink.

She'd never been good at meditation. She had delved into it, of course, as part of her training, but the exercise never really took hold. The fundamental concept behind it, no thought - an empty mind, seemed like such an useless accomplishment to her, counter productive even, like absolute pacifism. It might help you relax better, but Sarah had never been about inner peace. Just discipline, training, preparation for a coming storm . . .

And now a storm had come. In her head.

Doubts caught against her idle thoughts, like wind on sails, blowing them deep into the harbor of her mind, an invading armada of scrutiny.

With twisting fingers, she rung her hair clean. The running hot water cooled to lukewarm.

This mission, the mandate from heaven, the God in her brain - whatever - all depended upon an awfully flimsy tower of proof - no, more like an inverted pyramid, with a tiny, pointed foundation, liable to flop over at the slightest gust of skepticism. If the three dots, the dreams, the voices . . . all turned out to be bunk, then shouldn't she be in Pescadero now?

No, not really. The truth had survived in her; deep down, she had known it to be fake, like a child on the cusp of early adolescence, clinging in fear to the dying make-believe of Santa Claus. It was all just wishful thinking, a security blanket for a premeditated murder - now stripped away.

She made a final rinse of her body, then turned the faucet until the water died. She dried herself off with a worn white towel.

And the sad part was that she knew was going to go through with it anyway. The act would be cruel and selfish, but undeniably human.

But what about Uncle Bob? What about, "In an insane world . . . ?"

No, this was different. No robot daughter-in-laws, thank you very much. Sarah barked a sad laugh, full of bitter and bite.

From outside the bathroom, she heard the front door open. Kyle's voice cried out in a mock Cuban accent, "Lucy, I'm home!"

Kyle made a funny? And he'd seen I Love Lucy? Somehow that struck Sarah as . . . monstrous absurd. Like Hitler guffawing at a Marx Brothers movie. Stepping out of the tub, she pulled up her her panties and slipped on her jeans. She'll enjoy killing him tonight . . .

"Where's Cameron?" asked his voice. The "and John?" addendum remained unspoken.

"They went out," she answered, pulling on her bra. "Where were you?"

"I went out too."

Smart ass. Her hand brushed the GPS tracker in her pocket. Tonight.

She slipped on her white shirt and pushed open the lockless door, catching the tail end of Kyle zipping up a red duffel bag on the bed - a bag she'd hadn't seen before.

He glanced at her, blank faced.

Silence.

"So, you're going to fix Cameron tonight," she said, feeling she should say something to break the hostile ice. Her attempt felt like a moral defeat.

"Yes," he replied, and blinked. Whatever latent good humor he had when he first came in had now vanished. The hostile ice remained steadfast.

Her eyes shot to the bag. She still had to hide the tracker somewhere; if he'd only turn around . . .

Kyle frowned at her and picked up the duffel, slinging it over his shoulder.

Damn. She offered him a flat grin, but his cold blue eyes bored into her with thinly disguised malice. More silence. He knows. An image of Kyle crushing her throat sailed through her mind. Cold panic.

No. He knows nothing.

The front door opened once more, and John and Cameron filed in. At a glance she knew what they had been up to. John's hair stuck out from affectionate rubbing, and his crinkled shirt twisted half-tucked into his pants. Cameron's face looked even more blank than usual, which could only mean she was hiding something.

Sarah swallowed the disgust. It didn't matter. Soon, it'll all be over. "I hope you enjoyed your final goodbye, John," she thought, and gave them both a forced warm smile. "Where've you two been?" she asked, resting her hands on her hips.

"We ate hot dogs," Cameron said, with a vague hint of enthusiasm. John smiled.

Murder. Sarah nodded quietly and sat down on the bed. She suddenly felt tired, like lead weights hung from her bones.

Kyle glared at John, then pursed his lips and picked up the supply backpack from the ground. At least he was leaving the gun duffel . . . "Right," he said. "We should start heading out."

"Where are we going?" John asked.

Kyle tilted his head up slightly as he spoke. "A warehouse down in East Basin. It has what we need."

Cameron's eyes quickly moved to Kyle, then away. Sarah almost didn't catch it. A lie.

Kyle carried his bags outside. Before he left, he glanced at Cameron with pained eyes, like a confused lapdog hurt by a suddenly cold and indifferent master. She must have blown him off. Good for her. Not that it'll matter now.

Cameron looked at Sarah for a moment, then picked up the laptop and followed Kyle out of the door.

"Are you coming, mom?" John asked, standing near the door.

She could just stay in the room. Do nothing. Let the opportunity pass by like a hitchhiker on a freeway. Hesitate, think about it, and he's gone, slipped down the road, shrinking into the past.

From her pocket, she pulled out the GPS tracker, about the size of a dime.

"No." She shook her head and smiled. "I think I need some rest."

John nodded, "Okay." He turned towards the door.

The hitchhiker. His thumb's out . . . She stood up. "Wait." John looked back at her, and she walked over to him, the tracker laying snug between her middle and ring finger. Careful. Only one chance. John cocked his head, and frowned slightly. Sarah sighed and licked her finger. "Your hair's sticking up," she explained.

He sniffed a chuckle. "Alright, Mom, but I'm sixteen, and we've got things to do . . . "

Sarah ignored him with a smile and rubbed down a bit of hair on his scalp. The flap of his jacket's breast pocket hung open. "I just want you to look nice," she said, and as she lowered her hand, she brushed it against his collar and . . . "I love you, John."

Now. She separated her fingers and let the tracker fall. With split second glance she saw if roll down a groove of the corduroy and slip right into the pocket. Bingo.

John didn't notice, but raised an eyebrow at her. "Yeah . . . I love you too, Mom. But we're going to be alright. Don't worry about it."

She nodded. "You better go."

Waiting until she heard their SUV drive away, she pulled out the GPS monitor. Southeast, a hundred and twenty meters, a hundred and thirty, a hundred and forty . . . Sarah smiled, but she didn't feel it. The invisible lead weights grew heavier, and her insides felt hulled out. Hollow.

Still, regardless of her motive, this was for the best.

And this was war. Bad things had to be done, sometimes.

She picked up the gun duffel bag.

Too light.

Sarah knew what she'd see before unzipping it, and the precognitive reflection drew a fresh crop of sweat from her skin. She pulled it open: magazines and boxes of ammunition . . . but the guns: the M4, the Remington, the MP5 . . .

All gone.

Jesse tightened the straps of her level IV body armor and watched the bleeping dot on the GPS monitor.

Three miles northeast. Traveling south down the Santa Ana Freeway.

The morphine had put Derek to sleep earlier. He needed his rest, and this way there'll be no questions. Despite everything, Derek might have second thoughts. He wasn't like Jesse; he lacked her energy, her reckless abandon, her unquenchable resolve. It was like comparing a summer rain to a tornado. Derek's winds might falter, and he might try to change her mind.

And even if he didn't, why worry him?

Over her shoulder she slung her M16A1 and then picked up the silver rifle case containing the M82. She rapped her knuckles against ceramic plate inside her vest and smiled. Always be prepared.

Now, it was all just a matter of tracking them down, scrapping the metal, and hauling ass back to give Derek a late night fuck. Assuming he was up to it, of course.

She left the supply room and walked out to her Dodge Ram. If everything went right, Derek would never even know she was gone, and no one would know who did it. Tonight would be a singular secret, known only by her. And even after Derek finds out what happened and gets all snippy, she could always point the blame at Agent Carlson and his ilk, whoever they were.

Yes, whoever they were . . . As Jesse tossed the M16 and rifle case into the bed of the truck, she felt in her head the pounding, suggestive stomps of that old, treasonous elephant. It emerged from the heated jungle of her mind as merely a simple question: Why John Connor?

She'd brought it up with Derek, earlier and the very act of mentioning those doubts seemed to have punched a hole in her mind, allowing new ideas to swarm in like spores, embedding themselves to grow and fester. "He's just a figurehead," she realized. Or knew all along. Maybe "John Connor Mk I" had been a force to be reckoned with, but now . . .

Why stop at Cameron? And if Derek's not going to know anyway, she had a free hand.

She climbed into the driver's seat and smiled. Smash Cameron's chip in front of John's eyes? Then slit his throat? Watch him bleed out like a stuck pig?

The heavens won't judge her, and the stars will still shine. It's not evil if no one sees it. Just preemptive revenge. A frozen hate boiled into an act.

And who knows? Maybe Derek can end up as Leader of the Resistance?

And Mrs. Jesse Reese?

She started the engine and laughed.

July 16, 2027

USS Jimmy Carter, North Pacific Ocean

Jesse had always assumed she was barren. Not an uncommon affliction, to be sure, although Australia had been spared the worst of the fallout. But then she had also come down with that bout of chlamydia a few years back. Wasn't that supposed to gum up the plumbing? She laid on the bunk, naked, and circled her belly button with a tickling finger. Evidently not.

Of course, maybe she wasn't pregnant. It could be something else, couldn't it? She hadn't seen the doc yet, but then she didn't really want to. In her uncertainty laid a curious breed of hope. Not knowing - and not even telling - somehow made things more bearable, like sticking your head in the sand. Really, it didn't make much sense, but then few of her decisions did. Reckless. Irrational. She had grown to accept it. Not that she had a choice.

Jesse frowned and sat up on the bed, taking care not to bang her head on the low hung ceiling. She hopped off the top bunk and landed in a crouch, her bare feet impacting the steel floor with two light thumps.

Sitting within arm's reach in the cramped captain's quarters, a naked Commander Cullen Boyle glanced up from the book on his desk and looked her over with an appreciative grin. He scratched at his bare chest, rubbing at a mat of dark curls.

Jesse didn't find Cullie to be particularly attractive. She didn't like fatties, and he was shaped a little too much like a bear for her tastes: grizzly, with a round woolly gut. But somehow he managed to avoid the ugly stick. Under his coat of blubber, there stood a tall, broad shouldered man, with a gruff, chiseled jaw that looked like it had been carved from a block of granite.

"What's wrong?" he asked, turning back to his book.

He could always read her so easily, what with those pale blue-gray eyes of his; it unsettled her, like a subtle rape. The man was a monster at poker. But should she tell him? It could be his . . .

Derek's face swam through her mind. No.

"Nothing," she said and stepped up behind him, wrapping her arms across his thick chest. She nestled her head against his shoulder, and the hairs on his back tickled her breasts. "What are you reading?" she asked.

Jesse felt his muscles stiffen for a moment, but he then shrugged and handed her the book, reluctantly.

She stood up and examined it. An old book, pre-war, of course. Hardback, with black leather binding. She turned it over to read the spine: Moby Dick.

She laughed. "You're reading Mob-?"

"Look inside."

She pursed her lips and thumbed through it. The print read uneven and blocky across the crude paper, and the pages were bound half-haphazardly, zig-zag like, as if the original leafs had been cut out with a knife and new ones amateurishly glued in their place. She pulled the spine to his nose and sniffed; the paper radiated a faint chemical odor of rubber cement. She turned to a page at random and read:

June 20, 2011

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I've misjudged Cameron. I used to believe she harbored a hidden agenda, or that Skynet's core programming still tugged at her actions, compelling her to lead my son astray. But I now think the truth is far less sinister. More basic. Cameron is what she is: a programmed bodyguard. Nothing more. To protect John is her only function. Her only motive. That's all.

In her simple, soulless way, I believe she truly cares for my son. Even loves him.

I've been replaced.

My strength is gone. I have only a few months left. I don't know if I'll live to see Judgment Day, or if it'll even happen now. But I know things have changed, and not for the better. I don't like the way he responds to her. He clings to her for strength. He lives in her shadow like a sapling under a great oak.

I fear he'll never grow to be the man that he should have been. She's stunted him.

If anyone is to lead the Resistance, it'll probably be her. From the shadows.

Deep down, I know this is my fault.

Forgive me, John.

June 22, 2011

Agent Baldwin contacted me again today. He said the Quorum's prepared . . .

The page ended, and she shut the book, scowling. "This is the . . . Sarah Diaries," she said. Her scalp began to tingle.

"The Sarah Connor Chronicles," Cullie corrected.

The tingling grew hot. "How could you be so bloody stupid? You could get court marshaled for just looking at this!"

Cullie breathed a laugh. "Says the bootlegging, drug smuggling, war profiteer."

Jesse smiled; he had a point there. But . . . "At least my vices are productive." She giggled at that absurdity, and then waved the book in his face. "But risking you life over this is just stupid. Time machines? Alternate timelines? Government conspiracies?" She raised her hands in exasperation; she'd never read it, of course, but everyone had heard the stories. "It's all drivel. All . . . science fiction."

He smirked. "We're fighting robots, dear." With a slight tug, he pulled the book from her grasp and casually half-tossed it onto the desk. "Anyway, Admiral Stirling gave it to me a few years back." He shrugged. "I guess he thought I might be a 'fellow traveler.'"

That surprised her. Stirling was one of the big pieces in the game, but she had no idea he was such a woo-woo. "Connor's mother didn't write it," she said firmly. "It's all a hoax. Just some coo-coo bullshit cooked up to stir trouble." She turned around and leaned back against his desk; the cold flat stainless steel surface spread goosebumps along the skin of her bottom.

"But it does explain where Cameron came from," he said defensively. "Anyway, 'time travel' makes about as much sense as that 'early prototype' nonsense that's been going around." His mouth narrowed to a line, and he shook his head. "But yeah, I never said I believed any of it."

She propped herself all the way onto the desktop and spread her legs slightly; her dangling feet bumped against the desk drawers, and her toes drew circles on the floor. "Burn it," she said. "It's dangerous." Early in the war, General Connor had outlawed the book as Skynet propaganda. Owning it was punishable by death.

"I guess I should." Cullie said. His eyes drifted to the naked furriness of her neither regions, and she smiled. But he then looked away and stood up from his stool. "But you have to admit there's something very fishy going on here. Like what about all that fancy metal we're hauling? Those . . . 'gifts'." He sniffed.

Very fishy indeed. The metal coffins had contained deactivated 900s - and one of them a 990, whatever the hell that was. It had been eerie, watching the crew wheel them down to the cargo hold; the coffins' clear glass windows made them look like museum exhibits. Come see Skynet's Lost Robot Mummies!

And what about that giant steel crate? Too early for Christmas, don't you think?

Beware of metal bearing gifts.

"You have to know something about all this," Jesse said. "You're the bleeding XO, for shit's sake."

Cullie shook his head. "Queeg won't say a word about it. Except that we're delivering them to Serrano Point."

Serrano Point? Skynet would just love to sink its metal dick into that honey pot. Lights out for the Resistance.

A previously conjured fear climbed back in her mind. "Are we sure those nine-hundreds aren't . . . " She twisted her mouth. ". . . alive?"

Cullie nodded. "I had the men check before we secured them." He slid open a cabinet and pulled out a pair of underwear. Fun's over. Duty calls. "Their ports are empty," he added. "No brains." The white briefs crinkled up his hairy thighs and snugged too-tightly against loins.

Jesse hopped down from the desk and frowned. "And Queeg has the chips? That's what the metal gave him, right?"

He shrugged. "Probably." From the closet he pulled out a light blue shirt and slipped it on; thick fingers quickly threaded upwards, sliding buttons through holes. "You're going to ask about that crate now, right?" He smiled at her, but his eyes betrayed unease.

"Yeah," she said and squatted down, snatching at her bra and panties. The things that could be in that metal box . . . Suddenly she envisioned the twin concrete steam towers of Serrano Point silhouetted against a glowing mushroom cloud. "How do we know it's not a nuke?" she asked.

"I had Garvin run a bunch of scans on it. X-rays, sonar, MRI . . . all that." He picked up a pair of slacks off the floor and hunched down on the stool. "He couldn't detect any radiation. No bio-agents . . . " He stopped with his foot half-way down a pant leg and looked at her. ". . . but whatever's in there, it's solid. It's frozen." His mouth tightened. "And it's metal."

An aberration in his voice, like tiny, hidden barbs, rubbed against the back of her spine. She swallowed and felt prickles on her skin. "You mean it's another machine?" How? Curled into a fetal position, maybe?

He swiveled in his seat and flipped open the book. "No," he said, thumbing deliberately through the pages. "I mean it's solid. Like a big block of ice. Except metal. Garvin doesn't know what it is, but he said the sonar shows the inside's slowly moving. Swirling." He paused and looked at her before adding, "Like liquid."

He suddenly stopped his flipping and handed her the book, holding it to an opened page. "Read this."

She slipped on her bra and sat cross legged on the floor with the book in her lap. The spine tickled her pubic hair.

August 28, 2010

Last night I dreamed about the T-1000 again . . .

December 17, 2007

Los Angeles

The SUV sped down a highway.

No one had spoken for at least fifteen minutes.

From the backseat, John watched as Kyle shifted onto a turnpike ramp, and for a split instant his father's eyes locked with his own through the rear-view mirror. Both quickly looked away.

Cameron sat next to John in awkward silence. Understandable, given Kyle's quiet brooding.

"My dad, the cockblock," John thought bitterly. There was something viciously fucked up about all this, that his pseudo-father from a Future New Zealand Cyborg Empire was jealous over his own son's robot girlfriend. John sighed and strangled a sad inner laugh. No normal life for me - ever.

Kyle wove in and out between vehicles. Probably speeding. Cameron stared out her window, thinking who knows what.

Making out with Cam had been weird. He loved doing it - he loved her. It'd been addictive, intoxicating, and he so wanted to "finish" it, but the bandaged bullet holes, the complete lack of a pulse, and those unnaturally shallow breaths she had faked half-way into the kissing . . .

It was . . . John decided to go with the word, "unique."

Not that he had much experience with this sort of thing. There was that Kate Brewster girl back in junior high and . . .

. . . and Riley.

He tightened his jaw, trying very hard not to think of that night in the truck. Lying bitch. More fake that Cameron ever was.

Kyle took an exit, and John made a note of the sign. Santa Ana Freeway?

He leaned forward towards the driver's seat. "I thought we're going to East Basin."

"No, we're not," Kyle said without looking back.

"But . . . " he was about to ask, "Why did you tell my Mom we were?" but he suddenly feared the answer. She may hate Cam, but surely she wouldn't . . . ?

"We're going to the Hillside Auto Salvage," Cameron said.

It took a moment for the name to materialize into a place. "Isn't that . . . ?"

"Yes," she said, and went back to looking out the window.

John's stomach clenched.

He hadn't been there since his birthday.

"I thought we were going to East Basin." John asked.

Kyle licked his teeth. "No, we're not."

He glanced down at the passenger's side floorboard, where the red duffel bag laid - chock full of guns. Sarah probably wouldn't try anything, but this was going to be a long, delicate operation, and Kyle didn't want to deal with any Luddite shenanigans.

"We're going to the Hillside Auto Salvage," Cameron explained.

"Isn't that . . . ?" John asked from the backseat.

"Yes," she said.

That had been her idea, a last minute order on her part. She said she had some spare parts stored there, and she needed a new right audio-detector installed. Kyle frowned and sighed. Compatibilizing 888 hardware for a TOK? Smelting hyperalloy? Nervous work, and John certainly wasn't going to do any of that. And all I'll get for thanks is her dead icy stare.

Kyle looked at John and Cameron through the rear-view mirror. He just knew what they'd been up to when he showed up. How could she? The muscles around his eyes twitched with irritated heat, and suddenly he felt helpless, like a hooded falcon, tethered to an unloving huntress.

He'd made a mistake last night, trying to seduce her like that. There was no way he could compete with John. There really wasn't anything to compete with. For Cameron, it had nothing to do with personality or masculine charm or mutual compatibility or anything like that. There was no courtship with her. No sex appeal. No wooing.

He tightened a corner of his mouth. No love?

Kyle wasn't John, and John came first. To Cameron, that's all that mattered.

But now that he'd lost the loving spotlight of her obsessive dedication, now that he stood alone in the dark outside, he finally understood why his peers in the Academy had spoken ill of him behind his back. He could see the levers being pulled, the rolling of the gears. The mechanism behind her love was mindless, iron-rigid and absolute, with all the protective warmth of a padlocked cage. Programmed.

And he'd do anything to win her back.

Shifting across a lane, Kyle took an exit onto Highway 241.

But hope still remained. He didn't really know what was on that "patch" he'd brought back with him, nor did he really know what would happen once he installed it - he knew only what she'd told him. But could it . . . ?

No, it couldn't be a copy of his Cameron; neural engram transference was too invasive a process to allow back-up copying; the act itself destroyed the original. But maybe it could be a slight tinkering with her programming? Make her a little more predisposed towards caring about him? He knew Souji could have programmed something like that. It'd be like a neural love potion. Or a roofie.

Maybe. His back was against the wall on this one; on the bottom line, he'd be willing to share her if that's what it took for her to hold him again while he slept, make love to him, tell him he's a good boy . . . A happy warmth crawled through his chest at the flash of memories. They seemed so long ago . . .

But sharing Cameron with John? How would that work out? Nightly rotation? Ménage à trois? Kyle frowned. He wouldn't like it, but he could live with such an arrangement. Better than nothing. Maybe they'd be like a family. John was his son, after all. Sort of.

Behind him, he heard John yawn.

Of course, that's assuming the patch would do that little "re-write" on her soul. But it seemed a reasonable assumption. Cameron - his Cameron - had always been good about contingency plans.

She wouldn't have left him out to dry. Not like this.

Cameron had always taken care of him.

He pulled onto a gravelly maintenance road. Only five minutes away now.

And even that patch didn't work, there were always the alternatives . . .

"Is that a Norinco NHM 91?" Sarah asked. Her eyes shot to the rifle mounted on the wall. A Kalashnikov variant. Semiautomatic.

The gun shop owner rubbed his two-day beard and chuckled. "Lady, you know your guns!" He turned around stood for a moment on his tippy-toes, gingerly taking the rifle down from the particle board. "It's not on the Assault Weapon Ban list, so it's California legal."

She nodded appreciatively and shifted her hips, feeling the fist-sized metal weight pull on her front pocket. "You have a scope for it?" she asked.

"Sure do." He glanced down behind the counter and knelt down, rummaging through some unseen bin. "Here," he said finally, and laid on the glass counter a long, oversized black tube, funneling out at one end. "Six point five twenty by fifty Burris Fullfield." He beamed. "Slides right on."

Give a calculated smile. A little teeth. "What you got for magazines? Anything . . . big?"

His grin grew broader, making the lines on his face crinkle like a series of fleshy canyons. "You're in luck, lady. I got myself some nice hundred-round drums here." He walked over and rifled through a drawer a few feet away and then came back up with two flat, squat cylinders in his hands. He laid them on the counter next to the scope. They looked like a couple wheels of cheese, but made of tin.

She hummed. "I think I'll take it all."

The gun dealer's eyes turned to smiles. Obviously he got paid on commission. Or he owned the place. Sarah felt a cold guilt, but she ignored it. This was war. The icy fire of adrenalin replaced the remorse, winding up her reflexes like springs.

"Great!" the man said. "There's the ten day waiting period, of course, and I'll need a valid driver's license . . . "

Kyle hadn't taken all the guns. He must have forgotten that little snub-nosed .38 he'd had from the start. For Sarah, a convenient oversight. Her left hand reached out and grabbed a fistful of the man's curly, pepper-gray hair; her right whipped out the revolver and shoved it under his nose, the barrel poking into his left nostril. She cocked back the hammer. "Hands up!" she said. "Up! Now!"

"Fuck," the man said, throwing his hands around his head. "Pl-please don't kill me! Oh, God!" His eyes rolled around, goggling.

With a yank, she bend him over and pulled his head down to the counter, hard, with a smack. The crown of his head clipped against the scope, knocking it aside a bit. She moved the muzzle to his bald spot and dug it into his scalp. His right hand began to migrate to the small of his back. "Keep your hands where I can see them!" she said with a snarl. He complied, laying them flat against the clear glass.

Now was the hard part. She de-cocked the gun and reversed it in her hand, wielding it like a hammer. Swinging her arm in quick hard snaps, she swung the butt of the revolver down upon the back of his head. Again and again. The blows felt like hitting a rock against a leather wrapped coconut. The man's legs seemed to give out, and he began to slump, sliding from the counter. She held him firm and gave him another whack, just to be sure. He went limp like a meaty rag.

Pocketing her .38 and still holding his head by his hair, she leaned over and pulled from his back holster the small semiautomatic handgun he'd been reaching for: a 9mm AMT Backup. She tossed it on the floor and checked his pulse. Regular. Probably not a concussion. Hopefully. Wet redness lightly matted the back of his hair, and a splash of bile climbed up her gorge. She swallowed it.

After locking the front doors of the shop and tying the man up in the back office, she pulled down a duffel bag and chose her arsenal.

The Norinco, for starters. She slid the scope onto the rifle and tossed it and the hundred round drums into the bag. She eyed a Remington 700. In the bag. Next, a Glock 22 . . .

Kyle taking the guns had changed the landscape of her ambition. If Kyle suspected, then when the shooting starts Sarah knew she'd take the blame. Even if she managed to kill Cameron and Kyle . . . she'd still die alone. A Pyrrhic victory. But the very idea came across only as remote, muted, irrelevant. Buried in the sand.

In war there were always sacrifices.

Of course, this wasn't so much war as it was murder.

Miles Dyson's face bubbled in her mind. She scowled.

So be it.

She pulled a set of level III body armor from a shelf and strapped it on. The heat behind her eyes glowed with the sensational specter of weeping, but no tears came. She sniffed, and her breaths grew ragged.

As she left the gun shop, the bag slung over her shoulder, she glanced down to check the GPS tracker.

Santa Ana Freeway?

Kyle said they needed a place to work metal, so . . . the Hillside Junkyard?

If it weren't for the lead weights in her soul, she'd laugh. A fitting place for Cameron's demise.

If only she had died there a month ago.

July 19, 2027

USS Jimmy Carter, Pacific Ocean

Sergeant Goodnow blew out a cloud of burnt marijuana and erupted into another fit of giggles. Passing the joint left to Seaman Hayes, she clawed at the air lazily with her hand, sending wispy tendrils of musky smoke twisting and spiraling away. She then grabbed her mug and downed the warm Bundy with two quick gulps.

Jesse winced inwardly. Bundaberg Rum. My rum. Might as well be liquid gold now days. If Jesse were smart - and she knew she wasn't - she wouldn't even be drinking her supply, much less sharing it with her mates. The rum was pre-war, and therefore irreplaceable. Her small stash of three bottles could be a golden ticket in a barter. A dozen power cells, a few pounds of tobacco leaf, a kilo of jet, and who knew what else . . . all for some surgery booze that could be drunk away in an afternoon among friends.

Private Dietze held out his tin cup expectantly. Rather presumptuous, Jesse thought, but . . . fuck it. She topped him off with a tilt of her bottle.

"This is good shit, Flores," Hayes said to her right. "You the best." He took a light drag off the joint. More of a puff, really. Jesse could tell he hadn't drawn any into his lungs. He smoked the thing like a cigar.

The seaman tried to hand it Jesse, but she forced a smile and shook her head. Cannabis reeked of dead skunks to her. And it always went straight to her head, anyway. Embarrassing, the few times she tried it.

The four of them sat on the bulkhead in a cramped nook behind a wall of metal crates. The cargo hold was always a good place to have these little R&Rs, and since the crew numbered less than half of its pre-war compliment, huge sections of the ship remained mostly abandoned . . .

In the distance she heard the plip-plob of water dripping from a rusted pipe. Far behind her, a florescent bulb flickered out and fizzled in the now near-dark.

. . . and poorly maintained too. She marveled sometimes that the Carter hadn't imploded yet.

Dietze quaffed down the rum and sighed with satisfaction. "So . . . " he said, staring at Jesse with already-bleary eyes. ". . . did Boyle have anything to say about Skynet's 'gifts?'"

"Not a word," she said, and upended her bottle over her mouth, drinking deep of the sweet burn. She managed not to gag; after all, she had an image to maintain. But Cullie. And that diary. It all still bothered her, even though she knew it had to be nonsense. Time traveling metal jelly monsters? Did Cullie really believe all that. Really? Sad, she had thought him to be a smart guy.

But then, what else could be in the crate?

Goodnow snorted and reached out as Hayes handed her the joint again. "Don't be stupid, Dietze," she said, her blue eyes smiling in the dim light. "They had to be ours. Why would Skynet give us presents?"

"It's a trap," Hayes said. "One of them . . . Trojan thingies." He suddenly scratched at his woolly hair, as if he had lice. Probably did.

Goodnow cocked her head and grinned; a short auburn bang fell over her left eye. "Condoms?"

Dietze blew out a breathy chuckle, like a hiss. "Yeah, well, I'm just glad that nine-hundred thing didn't ride back with us." He looked at Jesse. "What the fuck was up with that voice, anyway?"

"Screw that," Hayes said. "How about them metal in there?" He pointed through the wall of crates, out towards the starboard hold area.

Jesse stared at the ground. Frozen solid metal . . . gold, maybe? No . . . She took another swig from her bottle and wondered if she shouldn't stop. She was pregnant, after all. Oh, well. "They don't have their chips," she said blankly. "Queeg's got them."

Hayes solemnly nodded his head in mock agreement. "Ah, well, if Queeg's got them, I guess we're all safe then. Queeg's one of us, right?" He held out his hand to Goodnow, but she bogarted the joint.

"Shut the fuck up," the sergeant said and took a huge drag. It 'd been sucked to a nub now. "There's nothing in Queeg to be on anyone's side. He's tin. An it."

Dietze frowned. "You haven't even seen those things, Goodnow," he said and shook his head. "They're . . . big. And Bird said they can eat plasma like lead. If they did wake up . . . " He trailed off and tossed his tin cup across the floor. It clattered like a crumpled bell.

Jesse sipped half a mouthful from the bottle, and her mind fixedly revolved around the crate. Cullie had said the metal moved inside. What could that be? She sighed and felt dizzy; mysteries always pissed her off.

"All right," Goodnow said, tossing the spent roach on the ground. "I want to see them." She stood up and wavered on her feet for a moment, then added. "You guys worry too much. Chipless metal is about as dangerous as scrap."

Hayes pushed himself off the crate he'd been sitting on and toed the still-smoldering remnants of the joint. "And there's that metal box too, you know."

"Yes," Jesse thought. The idea - no, the need - rose up as a vibrating surge in the skull - another one of her hare-brained ideas. But she knew Cullie just had to be pulling her leg. Either that or he was just stupid. Or . . . he was right. Either way she needed to know. Peace of mind, and all that.

Sitting cross-legged for so long had shoved pins and needles into her calves; when she stood up (whee!), all her brain-blood scrambled down to her feet, and she teetered. "I'm stoned!" she realized with lucid absurdity. And drunk (she felt her cheeks: numb), but . . . she squinted and looked accusingly at the smoke around her, dissipating in the air.

A second hand high? Wonderful. Make her baby a retard. She snorted a laugh.

The pins and needles tickled up her legs, up her spine, into her brain, then shot back down to her feet again. Her Achilles tendons felt as if tiny hooked wires laid embedded in them, jerking, pulling, - compelling - her to act.

"Okay, people," she said, forcing herself not to giggle. "Let's go take a look-see at our robots, shall we?"

The four of them ambled across the hold, weaving through a maze of metal crates and boxes. Jesse took the lead. Behind her she heard Hayes complaining.

"Man, Queeg would kill us if he knew we were sneaking around down here."

"Fuck that," Goodnow said. "Boyle would kill us."

"Somehow I doubt that," Dietze muttered under his breath. Yeah, he knew about her and Cullie's friends-with-benefits status. Always good to be fucking the XO.

Jesse took another two swallows of the rum but didn't really taste it. Like guzzling tainted water, at this point. She eyeballed the bottle: about three-fourths finished. Damn.

When they came to the rust-browned wheel-door of the starboard storage compartment, Jesse found herself almost wishing it was locked. This was stupid. You don't pull the pin on a grenade to see if it works. What the fuck was she doing?

Dietze stepped around her and spun the loose wheel. The locking mechanism released with a hard "click," and he pushed it open.

They went on in.

A knobby florescent bulb flickered from a fixture above them. Adjacent to that spun a small ceiling air-shaft fan, gently stirring the room with a lukewarm stagnance. Along the walls stood the seven metal coffins. More like big tubes, really, with the front half a curved plane of glass. A dead metal skull grinned out from each.

In the center of the room sat the crate. Four pressure seals jutted out, one to a side. Maybe it was locked. Hell, something had to stop her.

"Fuck," Goodnow said. "I have to admit, these are scarier than triple-eights."

"They'd suck as skin-jobs, though" Dietze said. "Bulkier than Rossbachs."

Jesse stepped up to the one at the end of the room. The 990. It stood over six feet tall, and, unlike it's brethren, had the approximation of a female form. Svelte and insect-like, the machine had an almost aquatic sleekness to its design. Its slightly over-sized skull laid set with horizontally slitted eyes and a narrow delicate jaw. She found it nearly sexy, in a sinister metal Amazon way. Alien.

Along the pane of the coffin's glass door ran a series of numbers, stamped into the metal by a press. She idly ran her index finger along their grooves with stoned fascination: T-990-715.

"Hello, Seven-one-five," she whispered.

From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw metallic movement. She spun on her heel and glared around her. No. Just the flickering of the lights. Her forehead and neck ran moist with sweat.

"I wonder what's in here," Dietze said behind her, kicking the metal box.

Jesse's smile crawled across her face, stretching until it ached. "Let''s find out," she said, licking her teeth. Stupid.

From somewhere in the bowels of the ship, the hull creaked, moaning like a dying whale.

"You sure that's a good idea?" Hayes asked.

"No," Jesse said angrily, "But we're going to do it anyway." She squatted down by the box and examined the pressure seals; not really locks at all. Just twist and pull, and the lid should pop right off. Damn. She took another swig of the rum, then upended it into her mouth. Might as well polish it off. Glug. Glug. Glug.

Goodnow stepped up next to her and glanced casually at the door. "How do we know it's not a bomb or something?"

Jesse pulled the bottle away and waved it in a dismissive gesture. "Gavin ran some tests or something." But then, had he? She never corroborated this with him - Gavin wasn't exactly a people person. All she had to go on was Cullie's word. Could this all be a practical joke? Not the XO's style, but . . .

Dietze knelt by her side. "Probably spare parts or something," he said, running a hand along the metal edge of the crate.

"Probably," Jesse said, resting her near-empty bottle on the top of the box. Her hand touched the first wheel-like seal and turned. A vent of frigid air hissed in her face, tickling her cheeks and making her mole tingle.

"That's one," Dietze said.

Ludicrous anticipation stirred in her chest, like a small child on the verge of uncovering hidden Christmas presents. She squat waddled to the next seal and twisted: sssssssssssssssss.

"That's two," Goodnow said.

The seaman backed towards the door, staring at the box with evident dread. "I have a bad feeling about this," he said. "It's probably sealed for a reason."

Dietze shrugged. "Whatever, man."

Goodnow pursed her lips. "Hold on a moment," she said, and turned to step out of the room.

Hayes and Goodnow . . . chickens? The adrenalin in Jesse's head spun to fevered anger. "Pussy-ing out, are we, Good?" she shouted at the sergeant's back. She didn't want her audience leaving before the final act. Bad for morale.

Outside the room came the sound of a locker door opening. Metal scraped against metal, and a moment later Goodnow returned with a Westinghouse Plasma Rifle in her hands. The sergeant smirked. "Pussy-ing out?" The rifle charged up with an electric whir. "Not a chance."

Anger danced to cool joy. "Good girl," Jesse said, beaming. Better safe than sorry, right? And the diary had said liquid metal could be killed by extreme heat. Nothing hotter than plasma.

She hopped to the next seal. Twist. Hiss.

"That's three," Dietze said next to her. Jesse glanced over at him; he looked as excited as she felt, and suddenly she had an urge to kiss him, suck his tongue down her throat. Chew on it till it bled. But not yet.

"Last one," Jesse said, moving to the next seal. She hesitated, then gave Hayes a glare and a smirk; he had inched himself back to the door-jamb, primed to bolt at the first sign of trouble. He did have the right idea, but for Jesse it was far too late. Already the rhythmic drums pounded in her skull, and that same old rabid monkey hid in the back of her brain, gnawing away at her reason.

Jesse's mouth twitched, and she twisted the seal. Air hissed. With a lift and a shove, Dietze and her slid the box's lid off, and it clanked to the floor. Her bottle of rum fell with it, flipping over and shattering. A cloud of freezing fog flooded the room; Jesse's bare arms shivered, and her nipples hardened. After a couple seconds the fan above banished the mist out to the walls and corners.

She leaned over and looked into the box.

Just a big block of ice. It fizzed and steamed in the sudden warmth.

No one spoke.

Jesse looked harder: no. Not ice. The substance was solidly opaque. Reflective.

Frozen metal.

She heard an icy crack, and her heart pounded with the thrill of danger . . . but an inner worry marred the sensation. Danger. As in dying. Why the fuck did these idiots let her do this? What kind of friends were they?

Of course, they hadn't read the diary.

"What is it?" Dietze asked.

Goodnow knelt down and stared down into it, her face inches from the surface. "I don't know," she said. "It looks like . . . solid metal."

Another icy crack. And another. More steam vapored from the opening, and Goodnow stood up, taking a step back. Her rifle hung uselessly from the strap on her shoulder, her hand not even on the pistol grip.

"What the . . . ?" Dietze started, stepping backwards.

The remnants of the surface ice melted away and, quickly and without ceremony, the solid metal turned gelatinous and lifted itself from the center of the crate, like a miniature mountain of silver rising up higher and higher.

Jesse's skin crawled and her clothes grew clammy with terror sweat. The musk of panic and exhilaration reeked from her skin.

It's all real . . . Everything!

Shimmering and shifting, the mountain of metal bulged about like a metallic lava lamp, each movement accompanied by the sound of oozing goop. Two heartbeats later, it began to solidify into a living statue, gradually morphing into the form of a woman.

All real. Everything. Time travel. Alternate realities. Government conspiracies . . . Jesse felt her mouth gape open and twist into an inappropriate, savage grin.

Pale faced and still, Goodnow and Dietze stood staring at the liquid metal like a couple of frightened zombies. Behind her, Jesse heard panicked footsteps leaving the room behind, fading away into depths of the cargo hold. Smart guy, Hayes.

The silver female took on color and focused into impossible detail and texture. She became a redheaded woman with pale skin, wearing a tight white dress. With light green eyes the woman - the creature - regarded the three of them with cool indifference, as if she were a metal god, vaguely annoyed at having been prematurely awakened from her slumber.

"Fuck," Dietze managed, leaning against one of the coffins. His mouth hung slack-jawed.

"I could die . . ." Jesse thought with a frantic fear that flowed like liquid ice. But she forced her mind to action. Now was her chance to shine; even pawns can take down queens. Her frenzied eyes darted to Goodnow. "Shoot it!" she cried in a voice rasped with panic. "Shoot it!"

The sergeant turned to stare at Jesse as if she were speaking gibberish, but she then blinked twice and raised the gun . . .

It happened very fast.

The redheaded woman didn't so much as attack as simply react. Flow. Her - its - right arm flicked out, stretching like quicksilver taffy and swinging upwards in a blurred uppercut swipe.

All in a blink, the sound of snapping plastic and metal mixed with the wet sucking slice of a sharp knife through moist ham - like a meaty zipper pulled undone. A brief spat of sparks sprayed from the center of the Westinghouse rifle, and it fell into two halves from Goodnow's twitching hands. A red line emerged from her uniform, extending from neck to navel, and the welling blood widened the stripe into a thick gush of crimson; she opened up like a vertical mouth, and wet, snaky intestines pushed out from her belly as if they were struggling to escape from a cut open bag. Sergeant Goodnow's mouth worked wordlessly, and she fell over face first onto the steel floor. Dead.

The creature's scimitar arm, recoiled back into its original shape and size. It looked at the remaining two of them blank irritation. Then it's eyes rested on Jesse, staring balefully.

A second passed.

Jesse's had an animal urge to flee, to belatedly follow Hayes' hasty retreat. But she knew the gesture would be futile, and anyway it felt as if her feet had been nailed to the floor with icicles. From the corner of her eye, she registered that Dietze did nothing; a wide wet stain grew on the front of his khakis.

The creature - the T-1000 - lifted its arm and (Jesse cringed) slowly wagged a finger at her.

Scolding.

Naughty human.

Jesse blinked.

With a silver stretching leap, the T-1000 slid upwards like a gray gooey snake and slithered through the ceiling air vent, smashing aside the sheet-metal fan with a metallic crunch. Alone with Dietze, Jesse stood in place and listened as the creature crawled its way through the bowels of the ship. After a few seconds the sound faded into a dim tapping and scraping.

A cold moment passed, and Private Dietze stepped away from the coffin he had leaning against and stiffly staggered over to Goodnow's prone body. Blood pooled from under her, expanding out onto the metal floor. "Good's dead" he said stupidly and then bent over at the waist and became sick. His vomit mingled with her blood.

Yes. Goodnow. Dead. Shame, that. But . . .

"What have I done?" The realization hit like a hammer of ice. Numb. Bruising. Her breath grew hoarse, and her face twitched. Goodnow. Dead. My fault. Stupid. Tears swelled in her eyes.

But no. Calm down. Focus. Bigger things afoot here. Things had changed; her world had shifted. What had been mere fairy tales only minutes before were now promoted to desolate fact. The curtains of her mind had drawn back, revealing illumination.

A pawn. In the know.

Her enveloping fear and guilt stripped away like skinned flesh, leaving a hard, skeletal core of awe and elation. The monkey in her skull danced an estatic jig, and Jesse felt herself smile.