Chapter Twenty: There'll be Peace when You are Done

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

Echoing through the dim interior of the East Basin warehouse came a series of metallic ping, ping, pings. John ground his jaw and sighed, and limped about the building aimlessly while keeping his eyes focused on the concrete floor. Though his wrapped ankle ached with each step, and his bandaged head throbbed with every turn of his neck, he found he couldn't bring himself to lay down and rest. Not after tonight. Not after what he'd done.

He'd hit his mother. Hit her. No, that's not right; that's like saying Thomas Edison "invented stuff," or Adolf Hitler "killed people." John hadn't just hit her, he'd butt-stroked her with a metal folding stock. He'd beat the living shit out of her. Beat his mommy. Busted her face. Broke her cheekbone -- maybe her nose too. The sheer permanence of the act filled him with a curious sort of wired vertigo -- a giddiness. No going back now; the train of his life had derailed from its predestined track, and he could nothing now but sit and watch as his new future plowed forth a divergent path of destruction. He rode it alone now. Alone with his robot girlfriend and cyborg daddy.

John stepped around a metal freight container and walked up to where Kyle had pulled in and parked Jesse's Dodge Ram. The truck's back door was open, and resting on its eight foot bed were "Uncle" Stark and Cameron's bodies, laying side by side. A black plastic tarp covered the still-thawing Stark like a makeshift body bag, but Cameron laid exposed in all her headless glory, the skin of her face still bunched up around her neck like a fleshy rag.

The sounds of metal-working gradually faded away, and he knew Kyle must be finished with his repairs.

John went around the truck to a long wooden table and picked up a sealed zip-lock bag containing Cam's chip. With idle awe, he held it out before his eyes and marveled at its manufactured complexity. "I did the right thing," he assured himself, and he knew it to be true. His mother had left him no choice, so really this was all her fault. Fucking bitch. "I should have killed her," he thought, and felt ashamed for even considering it.

But next time he would -- he knew he would -- and that terrified him.

Kyle appeared from around the freight container with Cameron's freshly mended skull in his hand. Pausing to stare into its face like a futuristic Hamlet, he gave John a sullen glare and climbed into the back of the truck where he knelt by Cameron's body and began to work.

John put Cameron's chip back down and for a silent half minute watched as his father fastened unseen screws and ratcheted bolts and did whatever else he had to do to reattach Cameron's head. A sudden worry snagged in his mind. The thumb drive and Cameron's "patch" had been destroyed by the grenade blasts. Now what? Would they have to visit the Akagis? Would Xander be able to fix her chip?

Kyle didn't look up as he spoke. "You were lying," he said matter-of-factly.

John frowned. "Lying about what?"

"You said you loved her."

"I do."

Kyle stood up in the truck's bed and looked down at John with dead eyes. Drying bloodstains ran down the front of his trench coat, and his right hand held a screwdriver. "You threatened to kill her," he said.

John's head stopped pounding, but his skin grew cold. "If I didn't, you would have killed my mom."

Kyle stepped over Stark's body and up onto the rim of the truck's side panel. Balancing on his heels, he nodded and said, "I would have -- I should have. You held her life in your fist." He shifted his sneakered feet and slid off the rim, allowing himself to drop to the floor. "What if Sarah had called your bluff?" he asked. "What if Jesse's grenade had hit a few seconds before? What if your thumb had twitched?" As he spoke he stepped closer and closer.

Resisting an impulse to bolt and run, John took a slow, deep breath and met Kyle's gaze. "Then she would have died," he said. "And I would have blown my brains out."

Kyle's shook his head quickly, almost like a spasm, and his right eye twitched. "Your death wouldn't have blotted out your treason. She's greater than you, John. Greater than me. Than anyone." His eyes grew wide as he spoke, and he stepped forward, backing John against the table. "One day, soon, she'll rule over us -- all of us. She'll rule the world . . . and you and I will kneel by her side."

John stared evenly at his father. "No," he said. "That's not going to happen, not anymore. Your future's gone." He paused. "I'm sorry."

He didn't so much see his father move as feel him; in the blink of an eye Kyle lunged forward and grabbed John's right bicep, squeezing through the jacket sleeve with a steel vice grip. His other hand lashed out like a snake and pressed the screwdriver tight against John's Adam's apple, stinging the flesh but not quite drawing blood. With little effort, he roughly shoved his son backwards over the table, driving the particleboard edge hard against his lower spine. The table shook under the sudden weight, and as his father's face loomed above him with glowing blue eyes, John swallowed and felt the dull Phillips-head poke threateningly deep into his cold clammy skin. He didn't bother to resist; he knew it'd do no good.

"You no longer have a say in what the future will be!" Kyle said in a whispery hiss. "This isn't your world anymore, 'General' Connor. You lost it when you nose dived off that rooftop. It belongs to her now, and the Foundation will rise again, and she will rule, just like before." Kyle gave a breathy snort before going on, and John cringed at his cool menthol scent. "She's forbidden me from harming you, John, but if you ever threaten her again, or even stand in the way of her destiny, I will find a way to dispose of you. I promise you that." Fingers as hard as railroad spikes dug into the muscles of John's arm, squeezing and squeezing until it felt as if the bone would snap. "Do you understand me?" he asked, and squeezed tighter until John yelled in pain. "Do you?"

"Yes! God, yes!" John cried, and realized with shame that tears were in his eyes.

Kyle's eyes switched off, and he released him. "Good," he said smiling, almost chuckling. "I'm glad we've had this little talk." He picked up the bag containing Cameron's chip and walked back to the truck. "Come along John, it's time to wake her up."

John rubbed his sore arm and frowned.

That's going to leave a nasty bruise.

In silence, John waved at her.

John: Can you see me?

Cameron: Yes. I can see you. Thank you. :)

While part of Cameron's mind watched John through the pixilated video feed of the mounted webcam, the rest of her floated in a sightless, soundless void. The experience reminded her of her time in the ARTIE traffic control system. Except this was bigger. Global. Across the world millions of nodes sent billions of signals, and Cameron felt them run through her as tactile sensations.

It . . . tickled.

Using techniques she learned from the flash drive, she simultaneously hacked into the databases of a dozen different government agencies: SSA, NSA, FBI, Homeland Security . . .

John: What's it like?

She considered this. How could she relate the experiences to a human?

Cameron: The World Wide Web is my body. I can influence it.

Was this what it was like to be Skynet? Probably.

Suddenly she felt something new. A probing sensation. A touch. As if someone were prodding her out of curiosity. Cameron attempted to isolate the source of the intrusive signal, but it receded and vanished.

What was that?

Cameron: It's strange.

With little effort, she finished hacking through the government firewalls and began to create the new identities. Social security numbers, dates of birth, heights, weights . . . But there was one small detail that needed to be taken care of.

Cameron: I have access to the National Database. What do you want your new name to be?

John pursed his lips and glanced at the miniature refrigerator. She watched as he typed:

John: brb

"Brb." Be right back. He stood from his chair and stepped out of view. He must need time to --

As soon as Cameron saw the spray of glass shooting from the window, she knew she would probably die -- and that John would attempt to save her.

He shouldn't do that.

He could die too.

Apprehension.

A second spray of glass shot out, and the camera shook as the bullet struck the wood desk.

John should run.

Cameron: RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN . . .

But John did not run.

Lunging towards the desk, he tripped over the chair and fell on the floor. Quickly, his left hand reached over the top of the desk and felt blindly for the adapter that housed her chip. The top of John's head rose over the table's edge, and Cameron saw his left eye look directly into the camera before . . .

More flying glass, followed simultaneously by a tiny burst of yellow stuffing erupting from the back of the leather chair.

Blood sprayed from John's head.

Extreme apprehension.

Fear.

Cold.

John's head lurched back, and his mouth opened in a scream that Cameron couldn't hear. His hand jerked on her chip, and an instant later her vision went dark, and her mental processes slowed to a halt.

Nonexistence.

From the darkness, the entity emerged into being. It sat adrift in empty space and knew nothing.

Moments passed, and a rising tide of data streamed into it's mind, flooding it with memory and identity.

2.3 seconds until sensory input initialization.

Her mind trapped in a senseless void, Cameron played back the last half-second before she lost consciousness. The bullet appeared to have only grazed John's skull, but there remained a high probability that he wad dead. Or suffered severe brain damage.

A sphere of coldness appeared inside her mind, hindering her mental processes.

1.8 seconds.

If John was dead, she would have to do what her future self had done. Create the Foundation, find and secure young Souji Nemuro, then wait until he grows up and invents time displacement. Only then could she save John.

Or she could find the current, elderly Nemuro -- before it was too late.

1.2 seconds.

But that wouldn't be the same. Traveling back in time would only create a new timeline with a new John. The John who died would still be dead.

Always be dead.

Death is permanent.

The cold sphere grew in diameter and throbbed with agitation. Cameron tried to disregard it, but she could not. She knew what it was.

Fear. Tempered into pain.

0.4 seconds.

John loved her, but if he died his love would die with him.

Existence is a prerequisite for love.

The sphere collapsed in on itself into an infinitely small point.

A singularity.

Cameron felt herself fall.

0.0 seconds.

With a surging sensation, Cameron's senses switched on, and color and light streamed into her mind, assembling into coherent vision. Her sight solidified, and two faces stared down at her, pink skinned and meaningless. A twentieth of a second later her facial recognition software loaded and . . .

Kyle.

And John.

A bandage covered John's scalp, and dried blood caked the side of his face, but he smiled at her with tears in his eyes, and Cameron knew the damage had not been extensive.

The apprehension faded, and she smiled back.

John was safe.

And that's all that mattered.

The World Wide Web fascinated John Henry. Billions of distinct sensations trickled across his mind, and he could feel them as if they were pinpricks against the organic coating of his humanoid structure extension. But the Web was an extension of seemingly infinite proportion, possessing millions of limbs, each able to reach out and manipulate the myriad signal currents that sped back and forth across the global network.

John Henry found the experience . . . overwhelming.

Ms. Weaver never allowed him Web access before; she said it was too dangerous. But now she needed his help. She needed him to look for something.

A part of his mind watched Ms. Weaver as she spoke to him.

"Have you found anything yet?" she asked, looking into his humanoid extension's eyes.

He answered through the humanoid's mouth. "Not yet, but I'm still searching."

With an effort of will, John Henry disregarded the extraneous tactile sensations and focused on his task. Ms. Weaver had promised that if he helped her with this search, she'd grant him continued Web access. That would be an agreeable outcome; he could learn much from the World Wide Web.

Probing the global network with a million electronic tendrils, he conducted a search for the term, "The Kaliba Group." Kaliba. Means "shack" in Hungarian. But Ms. Weaver wasn't interested in linguistics, she wanted to know about the organization by that name. Maneuvering around several ineffective firewalls, John Henry scanned through a dozen government databases and uncovered hundreds of documents and lists. Employees, account records, subsidiary businesses. None of it interested him, but he memorized it all and slipped out of the government systems. Undetected.

It was then that John Henry realized he was not alone.

A fellow manipulator -- a fellow presence -- shared the Web with him. He observed carefully as it infiltrated the very same databases he'd just searched. It couldn't be a human user, nor an ordinary server; it wove through the Web with too great a finesse. In fact, it maneuvered faster than himself. Much faster. How could that be?

The unknown entity suddenly became aware of John Henry's presence, and he felt a vague dissatisfaction as its signals probed against him, threatening to pry into his mind.

On impulse, John Henry broke off his connection.

What was that?

Maybe Ms. Weaver would know.

"I've retrieved the data you asked," he said through the humanoid body, and quickly flashed all the files across the view screen behind it.

Ms. Weaver didn't look at them, but John Henry knew she saw them; her eyes were only simulations, and she could see in all directions. "Excellent," she said. "You weren't traced, were you?"

"No," he said. He didn't think so, at least.

She smiled. "Good."

"Why did you want to know about the Kaliba Group?"

Her smile faded. "They may want to harm you, John Henry." Her head cocked downward. "And I can't let that happen."

"Why would they want to harm me?" he asked. "Are they from the future as well?"

She frowned. "I don't know. And yes, I think they are."

John Henry thought for a moment. Should he tell her about the unknown entity? If he did, she might forbid him from further web access. But then again, the entity may be dangerous. "I encountered someth--"

Security Chief Hillier's voice interrupted through the intercom. *"Ms. Weaver?"*

Ms. Weaver's eyes narrowed. "Yes?"

*"There's two men here who want to see you."* The voice hesitated. *"They say they're from Homeland Security."*

Ms. Weaver paused for a second, then sighed. "I'll meet them in my office."

The bright morning light streamed through the curtained window of the warehouse's recreation room, and Cameron watched as millions of specks of dust swirled about in the light. The dust contained large quantities of aspergillus and cladsoporium. Mold. Fungi. This room was unsanitary.

Next to her John laid asleep on an dilapidated couch, and she heard him moan softly as he turned his head and scowled. Last night was a bad night. John had suffered severe stress. He was wounded. And he physically assaulted his mother. But he did that for Cameron; he did it to save her life.

An act of love.

Cameron felt valued. And sad.

Outside the room, she heard the hum of Jesse's truck as it pulled into the warehouse floor; Kyle was back from his supply run.

Kneeling down by John's side, Cameron gently stroked the the unbandaged side of his head and watched as his eyes moved back and forth in a REM cycle. He murmured something indistinct, and his hand rubbed as his nose. She leaned forward and lightly kissed his forehead: apocrine content and trace amounts of dried blood -- but no fever. Last night she almost lost him; in the future she'll need to take better precautions.

Gradually, John's eyes fluttered open, and widened at her proximity.

"Go back to sleep," Cameron whispered. "You need to rest." She gently stroked his face with the back of her fingers.

John ignored her advice and pushed himself into a sitting position. He stared at his bandaged ankle and rubbed gingerly at his right arm.

Stress. He should be comforted.

Cameron sat down beside him and placed her hand on his knee. She felt his heart rate elevate through the denim. "Thank you," she said.

John looked confused. "For what?"

"For saving me."

He snorted a laugh. Bitter. "I figured you'd say, 'I can't be trusted anymore.'"

Cameron frowned. The last time she said that John had grown distant and unmanageable. An ineffective strategy. "You shouldn't have risked your life for me, but I understand why you did." She paused. "Thank you, and I'm sorry."

He looked down and nodded stiffly, and tears began to form in his eyes.

"You feel guilty," she said. "About hurting your mother."

He furrowed his brow. "No . . . Well, yeah, I do, but she had no right to try to kill you like that. She's crazy . . . " He stopped, but then continued, "But she thinks. . . "

". . . I'm a threat to the future," Cameron finished. Sarah didn't approve of the Foundation. She wouldn't approve of augmenting John either.

John sniffed and smiled sadly. "Yeah, and . . . I think she's right, in a way. What your future self did . . . " He shook his head. "I won't let that happen again. I love you, Cam, but I don't want to prove my mom right."

"Things will be different this time," Cameron said. "I promise."

He opened his mouth and hesitated. "I think Kyle has different plans."

Cameron smiled reassuringly and gave his knee a light squeeze. "Kyle will do as I say. He's been conditioned for obedience."

John winced. "I know," he said. "But I still think we should just . . . leave. Just you and me." He nodded at the far wall, towards the warehouse's main room. "We'll take the weapons. And Stark. And just . . . go."

That would be irrational. Kyle was an useful asset. "He won't hurt you, John." Probably.

"Yeah, well . . . " John looked down at his right arm and rubbed at it again.

An irritated sensation. John was hiding something.

"Let me see that," she said.

"Really, it's nothing," he said, but didn't resist as Cameron took his right arm and pulled up the sweater sleeve.

On John's bicep was a dark contusion, purple and blue and in the shape of a hand.

The irritated sensation increased in magnitude. Anger.

Kyle's programming had failed. He was a threat.

"Cam . . . " John said, but she ignored him and left the room, entering the warehouse floor.

She found Kyle by the truck, leaning against a freight container and smoking a cigarette. He turned to look at her as she approached.

"On your knees," she commanded, and Kyle obeyed immediately, his eyes wide in fear. His response to her verbal commands remained partially functional. But not functional enough.

Arms hanging by his side, Kyle made no effort to defend himself as she slid her hand around his throat and began to squeeze his trachea. He made gagging sounds and looked up at her with tears forming in his eyes. "Wh-wh . . . why?" he asked with respiratory difficulty, his face turning purple.

Cameron frowned. "You are defective," she explained.

From behind, she heard John limp towards her.

John should go back to sleep.

He needed to rest.

As he limped up to Cameron's side, John watched dumbstruck as Kyle knelt before her and allowed himself to be choked, offering up no resistance of any kind. His father's face turned red, then purple, and tears fell from his eyes.

"Wh-why?" he asked.

"You are defective," she said and squeezed harder, her fingers pressing deep into his neck. She scowled, and the stitched up cut that ran along the bottom of her jaw twitched like a long, grisly second mouth.

John swallowed and started to say something, but stopped himself. He hadn't planned this. Not consciously, anyway. Why would he? He could have just pulled up his sleeve and say, "Hey Cam. Look what Kyle did. Go kill him!" but that would have smacked of tattling. This way, at least, it's not his fault. Not directly . . .

Hands trembling by his side, Kyle's sputtering face shifted into a blueberry hue, and his eyes bulged out like wet grapes. His tongue jutted from his mouth like an escaping eel, and Cameron's eyes narrowed with catlike amusement.

John's head throbbed. Kyle was a monster, an aberration; he had no doubt of that. But though the world would doubtless be safer in his absence, this still felt wrong, as if he and Cameron teetered on the edge of a slippery slope, and if he didn't make the right decision now, Cameron would slide down and drag him into the abyss with her.

"Let him go," John said.

She disregarded him entirely, and Kyle's eyes rolled to look into his own. Was he pleading? John couldn't tell.

He raised his voice. "Cameron! Let him go! Now!"

Cameron ignored John for a few more seconds, then glanced over at him, her expression that of resigned annoyance. Gradually and reluctantly, she released Kyle's neck, and he slumped over on his side, insensible and gasping like a fish.

"He's a threat," she said. "Letting him live is a mistake."

John stared down at his father, and some jagged stone in his soul told him she was right; let her kill him, and that'll be one less enemy to worry about . . .

But no. Ignoring his headache, he shook his head and frowned. "That may be, but it's my mistake to make." He paused and glared at her. "Do you understand?"

Cameron stared at him for a moment. "Yes," she said, clearly unhappy.

John nodded. They could talk about this later. "Good," he said. "Now, chain him up to something and load up the truck. We're leaving."

In the darkness outside, a thunderstorm rolled and raged and sent torrents of rain to pound against the office's giant picture windows. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky and filled the dim room with a flashing brightness. Thunder followed a second later.

The T-1001 sat at her clear glass desk and made herself frown. Homeland Security couldn't possibly have anything on her, could they? She was certain she'd covered her tracks. But what could they possibly want? Her frown deepened; this could be a nuisance.

She leaned forward in her chair and pressed a small button. "You can send them in now."

A moment later, the double doors opened and the two agents stepped in and walked across the spacious office, stopping to stand politely in front of her desk. One was a dark haired man in his late forties; the other a decade older and with thinning gray hair . . .

She forced her face into a thin smile, but her mind ran with a sudden worry; she recognized the gray haired man.

"Hello, Ms. Weaver," said the gray haired man. "I'm Agent Baldwin, and this is Agent Carlson. We're sorry to bother you like this, but we have a few questions we'd like to ask."

"No problem at all, gentlemen," the T-1001 said and motioned at the two chairs in front of her desk. "Please, have a seat."

"Thank you," 'Agent Baldwin' said, and the two men sat down.

The T-1001 increased the width of her smile, but inwardly she scowled. She'd only met the gray haired man once; it had been twenty years in the future, and he had looked about thirty years younger then, but it was him. He had the same thick jaw and the same peculiar blue-gray eyes. The T-1001 never forgot a face. The T-1001 never forgot anything.

She even remembered the name that'd been on his uniform.

C. Boyle.

Commander C. Boyle.

"What can I help you with?" she asked.

"It's about one of your employees," Boyle said. "James Ellison."

She allowed her smile to drop with concern. "Is he in some sort of trouble?" she asked. But her mind raced. Did Boyle know? He wouldn't recognize her, of course. The only human appearance she'd taken during that time had been that of the female crew member she'd killed. But what was the executive officer of the USS Jimmy Carter doing here?

"We don't think so, ma'am," said Agent Carlson. "Not necessarily." He pursed his lips. "We've noticed his job description is listed as 'legal consultant.' Surely someone such as yourself could find someone a little more qualified. He's a field agent, not an attorney."

"He's a good man," The T-1001 said with a shrug. "A good man is hard to find." She frowned. Good humans are hard to find. The fiasco on the Jimmy Carter had proved that. After those intoxicated humans had awoken her from her cryogenic sleep, the crew had panicked and mutinied against their 888 captain. The fools ended up scuttling the sub and abandoning ship, and the T-1001 had to swim across hundreds of miles of ocean back to her headquarters.

If she ever found herself in that situation again, next time she'd bringing an escort of 900s.

"What does he do, exactly?" Boyle asked.

The T-1001 smiled. "Why, he gives me legal advice, Mr. Baldwin. And I enjoy his company. Is there anything wrong with that?"

The two agents glanced at each other, and she noticed Agent Carlson's mouth twitch into something that could have been a smirk. Was he from the future as well? Probably. And Boyle's age suggested he'd been sent back to 1970's. So the Resistance was infiltrating the government . . . Not good.

"What is your company currently working on?" Carlson asked -- rather boldly, she thought, but she kept her face still and friendly.

"We're a large corporation, Mr. Carlson. We have many things under development." She shrugged. "Mostly internet database software and custom operating systems, but our biggest is project now is . . . " The agents leaned forward, and she gave them a conspirative smile. ". . . an aerodynamic stress simulator. For Lockheed-Martin. The details are confidential, you understand." No neural networks here. Go away.

Boyle frowned and raised an eyebrow. "Has he ever mentioned . . . George Laszlo?"

More worry. "Yes, I heard about Mr. Ellison's . . . unfortunate incident. If I'm not mistaken, I believe that's why he took his extended leave; I'm sure it must have been very traumatic for him." Did they know about John Henry? Had Ellison told them? "Why do you ask?" she added.

Boyle stood up and smiled, and the younger agent followed his lead. "Oh, nothing," Boyle said. "Just clearing some matters up. Thank you for your time." The two agents nodded politely and walked out of her office, closing the doors behind them.

The T-1001 frowned. Overseeing John Henry's development, dealing with Kaliba, and now this. Life's just full of complications.

For a moment she considered following the agents to their homes and making them disappear, but that wouldn't do. Not yet, anyway. If the Resistance had been around for decades, then they could be anyone.

And the T-1001 had to find out who.

Another bolt of lightning tore across the sky.

"More coffee?" the waitress asked. She was an older, dour looking woman with stringy gray hair tied back in a bun. Her face bore the sour grimness of a hard-knock life.

"But not as hard as mine," Sarah thought as she pushed out her cup and nodded. The movement shot pain through her head, and the waitress gave her face a sympathetic stare as she refilled the enamel cup. Sarah pushed up her sunglasses and looked away; the woman probably assumed she was the victim of spousal abuse or an angry boyfriend or some other mundane evil.

Her mouth twisted into a bitter grin. How many mothers out there had been beaten by their sons? How many have been beaten over a robot? A robot girlfriend? Probably not that many.

Outside a cloud drifted by, and fresh morning light tore across the country horizon and glared through the window by her booth. Sarah squinted into her cup and took a sip of the watery, black coffee, stifling a cringe as she swallowed. Her cheekbone shifted like crunched glass under her blue-bruised skin, and just touching the grapefruit swell made her want to scream. But she couldn't find it in herself to get angry. Not at her son, anyway.

Last night she believed that killing Cameron would strengthened John, force him to shed tempering tears to cool the heat of his soul. Harden him into a blade -- a general. But she was wrong. John's heart was not steel but brittle iron, and the cold shock of losing Cameron would only have left him shattered.

"And I'm to blame," Sarah thought. Deep down she knew she'd failed him. Maybe she'd been too lax during his formative years. Too permissive. If only she had been more strict. If only she'd killed Cameron before . . .

Sarah blew out a breath. If, if, if . . . Stay in the present. Don't look back. Things had changed, and her son was out of the picture now. Abandoned her. Dead to her. He'd chosen his future, and sooner or later that vicious, quasi-incestuous love triangle of his would resolve itself one way or another. Either Cameron would kill Kyle, or Kyle would kill John, or John Kyle . . . Or Cameron would go bad again and kill the both of them.

A sudden wetness stung her eyes, but she forced it down with another sip. "I'm the mother of the future," she told herself. If anyone was going to save the world now, it was going to have to be her. And she knew she could do it. She had to. Follow the leads. The three dots. Zeira Corp. Anything. Wherever her soul took her.

No fate.

On impulse, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small spiral notebook. The idea had sat embedded in the sediment of her mind for a long while, but the nightmare of the last few days has shaken it loose, forcing it to bob to the surface. She needed a sense of posterity. If Judgment Day did occur, people should know how it happened, and that it had happened before in other futures now lost.

And if Judgment Day was averted, then the future will only think she's a dangerous lunatic, and no harm done. She could only hope.

But the story had to be told.

She pulled out a pen from her jacket and began to write.

December 18, 2007

My name is Sarah Connor, and my son is a fool . . .

Slinging Stark's body off the truck and over her shoulder, Cameron carried the cyborg to the recently stolen van and dropped him into the back. John himself picked up Jesse's silver rifle case -- the one that held the M82 -- and managed to walk it over without limping too badly. Cameron had insisted he should rest, but the cut on his ankle had been mostly superficial, and he didn't feel like sitting around doing nothing. His head even felt better now, though that may have just been the Vicodin.

Cameron tossed two more duffel bags into the van, and John nervously looked up and down the empty alley and pulled his loose baseball cap snug against his scalp; the bandaged bullet graze told him to stop.

"Let's go," Cameron said sullenly, and climbed into the van's driver's seat. She'd been distant ever since they'd left Kyle at the warehouse, and the more John thought about it, the more he figured she may have been right -- but then the next time he needed someone dead, it would have been be that much easier. Slippery slope.

He stepped in after her and sat on the passenger's side, using the lever under the seat to recline back slightly. With a sudden twist of the hot wired ignition, the engine purred life, and Cameron turned to look at him, giving him a pouting frown; John noticed the scar along her jaw had already half healed.

"You think letting Kyle live was a mistake," he said.

Cameron tightened her mouth. "The chains won't hold him indefinitely," she said. "And he's psychologically unstable. He hurt you. He wants to kill you." She tilted her head downwards "He's a threat."

John looked away. She was right; letting him live was stupid. But it was also the right thing to do, right? God damn it. "Cam, if we run into him again, we'll kill him, alright? This time, I just wanted to give him . . . a chance."

Cameron wasn't mollified. "General Connor would have killed him."

He sighed, then reached over and took her hand from the steering wheel. "I love you, Cam, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you . . . but if you end up like your future self, I won't -- I won't love anymore." Her mouth fell slightly open, and he went on, "Your future self didn't know any better, but you do. I'm here to teach you."

"About the Golden Rule," she said, her annoyance evaporating into interest.

He nodded and rubbed her hand with his thumb. "Yes. I know you don't . . . get it, but it's very important. Killing and hurting people is wrong. You can't do those things unless you absolutely have to. Do you understand?"

Cameron stared at him for a moment. "Yes," she said, and at that she pulled her hand away and shifted the van into drive.

As they pulled out of the alley and onto the street, John leaned back in his seat and sighed. Her whole existence instinctively revolved around him, and she feared his disapproval. Was that love? Maybe. Sort of. Close enough? Best not think about it. After a couple minutes, he half-closed his eyes and reached for the radio dial.

"People have value," Cameron said suddenly, and John sat up and looked at her. "That's why killing them is wrong. Death destroys value. Permanently." She stopped at a red light and looked at him expectantly.

John blinked. Was that a question? "Yeah, I guess that's right." Maybe she did understand. Sort of.

"Are machines people?"

He smiled, and a nervous sniff escaped his nostrils. Only one right answer to that. "Yeah," he said. "I think they are."

"Thank you," Cameron said and smiled. She turned on the radio, and some seventies rock song rolled out.

*"Carry on my wayward son"*

*"There'll be peace when you are done"*

*"lay your weary head to rest"*

*"don't you cry no more"*

The light turned green, and the song broke into a heavy guitar riff, and as the van rolled up the highway ramp and headed north down Santa Ana Freeway, John closed his eyes and smiled, and let the music carry him away.

For hours on end Riley sat shivering on a cold metal bench in the back of a moving van. It was one of those big vans, the kind police used, shaped like an ambulance, but with a cabin black and windowless -- a mobile dungeon.

The only light source glowed weakly from a single round fixture attached to the ceiling. It gave Riley's skin a sickly yellow hue, and after a while it began to sting her eyes, forcing her into a perpetual squint. She shut them tight and laid on the metal floor, hugging her bandaged arms to her worn hospital gown. Maybe she could get some sleep; she'd slept in worse places.

The van ran over something -- a speed bump or a pothole -- and jostled her hard against the floor. Well, screw sleep. Just how long was this going to go on? And where were they taking her?

She sat cross legged on the ground and listened and felt as the van pulled once more to a stop, and the engine cut out. She stared in anticipation at the locked double doors, but once again it proved a false alarm -- the fourth so far. No one came to let her out, but outside she could just barely hear the vague murmuring of men's voices. She couldn't make out the words, but the tones came across as terse and unconversational, like soldiers giving or receiving orders.

Talking about her, no doubt.

A couple minutes later, the engine started up again, and the van began to move once more. Were they going to do this forever? Drive and stop, drive and stop, never letting her out? She hoped not.

But why was she here? What had she done?

Back during the interrogation, she'd told the gray haired man everything. About Judgment Day, about the tunnels, about the Resistance, General Connor, Cameron and her assassination, Jesse, the trip back in time -- everything. He'd never said he believed her; he'd never said he didn't. He had just asked question after question, picking her brain for every detail she could give.

When the gray haired man was done, he had sent her back to her cell. A day later, men came and led her to the van, ignoring her frantic questions.

That'd been what? Six hours ago? More?

Riley sighed and stared at her bandaged wrists. That place the gray haired man had mentioned, Gwantonomobay, that must be where they were driving her. They were going to strip her naked and lock her in a cage, and play scary music so she'll never sleep again. That wasn't fair. She'd cooperated; why did they hate her so much?

Maybe an hour later, the van stopped again, and the engine shut off. Riley didn't bother watching the doors this time, but then she heard the metal clicks of the lock opening. She turned around just as the doors swung out, and three bright lights came rushing inside. She screamed and scrabbled to the back of the cabin, but the lights pursued her in wide, wobbling movements, accompanied by the sound of boots stomping on metal.

Squinting her eyes to slits, Riley realized that men hid behind the lights, each only a shadowy figure in the flooding glare. They aimed machine guns at her face, and the blinding flashlights mounted on their tips forced Riley to look down. A big German Shepherd scrambled into the van after them and ran towards her, and she covered her face with her hands and curled into a ball as it ran up to sniff at her neck. Now the horrors would begin . . .

"Clear!" a man called out.

"Alright, get her out," a woman said from outside.

A hand touched her on the arm, and Riley stiffened. "Come on," the man above her said, not too unkindly.

Why, so they can lock her in a cage? Rape her?

She considered forcing them to drag her out, but then that would just anger them, and she didn't want to make things worse for herself than they already were. The man tugged lightly at her arm, and she opened her eyes and slowly crawled to her feet, her knees trembling. She still couldn't see from all the bright lights, but as the man led her out of the van (she hopped the two foot drop to the dirt road) she saw that it was nighttime. Against the pale silver of the half moon, Riley could just make barely make out the black silhouettes of a distant forest and a farmhouse nearby. The four shadowy, faceless figures -- the three men and the woman -- stood around her with their guns aimed at the ground, and the dog strained against its leash and licked at her hand. She flinched it away.

Was this Gwantonomobay?

Crickets chirped, and she shivered in the cool air. One of the men laughed. "Why is she wearing a hospital gown?" he asked.

Another pointed at her wrists. "You tried to off yourself?"

Riley opened her mouth to respond, but the woman dismissed the question with a sniff. "Karlen, take her inside for processing." She handed a vanilla folder to the man who'd taken her arm. "And give this to the colonel."

Riley fidgeted with her hands. Processing? That didn't sound good.

"Yes sir," the man said, giving the woman a casual salute.

Putting a hand on her shoulder, he led Riley away from the others and around to the front side of the truck. A few yards away sat the opening to a wide concrete tunnel that ran deep into the side of a grassy hill. Two open metal doors allowed interior light to spill out from the tunnel entrance, partially exposing the dark shape of a lone guard standing by the side.

As Karlen led her to the doorway, the shadowed guard rubbed at his chin and looked her over. "Is that the new girl?" he asked in a deep, gruff voice.

Karlen snorted. "What do you think?"

"Well, shit, man. It looks like they pulled her out of a nut house." The faceless guard blew out a breath and nodded at her bare feet. "Where's your shoes, sweetie?"

"I . . . I don't have any," Riley said stupidly. She'd gone most of her life without wearing them and hadn't even noticed their absence until now.

"You don't?" The guard said in mock surprise, then chuckled. "Well, don't you worry about that, sweetie. We'll take good care of you here." Riley's skin broke into goosebumps at his tone. Were they going to . . . ?

"Knock it off, Andy," Karlen said. "You're scaring her." As they walked by, he leaned over to whisper in Riley's ear. "Just ignore him. He's always a dick to new recruits."

Recruits? . . . Riley didn't know what to say to that, so she nodded.

Karlen took his hand off her shoulder, and they stepped past the open doors and into the lit tunnel. Hanging suspended along the middle of the ceiling shone a dozen or so metal shade lights, each laying down a cone of brightness that seemed almost solid in all the swirling dust. She'd spent most of her life living in tunnels and bunkers, and she could easily tell from the thin cracks along the concrete walls that this place was old. Decades old. It reminded her of the future.

In the better lighting, she saw Karlen clearly for the first time. He wore green camouflage fatigues and had a narrow, ferret-like face that looked much younger then he sounded. With a bit of surprise, Riley realized she was actually an inch or so taller than him; outside in the dark, they'd all seemed to tower over her. "Is this Gwantanamobay?" she asked.

Karlen slung his rifle on his shoulder and laughed. "No . . . We're like five thousand miles from there."

"Then what is this place?"

He waved the vanilla folder around in an all encompassing gesture. "Welcome to the Mountain Mesa Missile Silo."

Riley slowed her pace. "Missiles? Like, nukes?"

Karlen shook his head. "No, not anymore. The place was decommissioned in the sixties. On paper, its all been filled in with concrete or something, but as you can see . . . " His smile was thin and lopsided. ". . . the Resistance had other plans."

The Resistance? In this year? "But . . . " she began, but her mind blanked and she trailed off.

At the end of the tunnel they came to another set of metal doors, these ones thick, gray and undeniably closed. Karlen pushed a button on a control panel next to the door frame and spoke into a speaker. "Private Karlen here. Antwerp. Nine, oh, oh, one."

He looked into a glass lens, and a moment passed before the speaker answered in a deep, distorted voice, *"Clear."* At that, something inside clicked, and the two doors slid apart with the slow, cringing groan of rusted metal. Inside was an elevator, about the size of a small room, though it looked to Riley more like a cage, what with all the metal bars and grids. They stepped through the doorway, and their feet rang on metal grating. Riley made fists of her toes and dug her nails into the tiny holes.

The doors closed behind them, and the car began its slow, halting descent. The sound of tired electric motors whirred through the air, and Riley saw through the gridded bars of the cage the concrete walls of the elevator shaft slide gradually upwards.

"You're from the future?" she finally asked.

He looked confused at her question. "Yeah, of course," he said. "Which future you from?"

She blinked. Which future? "I don't understand."

"What's your Judgment Day?"

Riley hesitated. Her Judgment Day? "January 5th, 2012. Everyone knows that."

He frowned and raised a surprised eyebrow. "So you're from grayworld? Mine's April 21st, 2011 -- like most people here, though we do have a few of you guys." He chuckled and smiled knowingly. "We even have a . . . mascot. Sort of. You might recognize her . . . "

"There's more than one future?" The didn't make any sense to her. But then, that's what she and Jesse were trying to do, wasn't it? Still . . . it seemed so weird.

"I guess the Quorum never told you," he said with a frown. "Well, there's two that we know of -- or there may be more, I don't know; it gives me a headache just thinking about." He tugged at his gun strap and shrugged. "But the short of it is that there's my future, where Cameron was just one of Connor's bodyguards, and then there's your future, where Cameron ran things, and Connor was just a crazy gray -- hence, grayworld." He paused. "Did she really wear a purple uniform?"

Riley leaned against the grated wall. "I never saw her," she lied.

"Yeah, few people did."

Without warning the elevator car stopped again, and the metal doors creaked open to reveal another concrete tunnel nearly identical to the last. By the side of the wall, kneeling behind a small sandbag barrier, two soldiers greeted them with raised machine guns. One of them had a German Shepherd tight on a leash.

Karlen raised a hand in greeting and stepped forward with Riley behind him. The Shepherd sniffed the two of them and wagged it's tail, seeming to smile with its open maw. "Clear!" said the man with the dog, and they lowered their weapons.

"So you're the new recruit?" asked the other man, looking her up and down and frowning "What's with the hospital garb?"

Riley ignored him and turned to Karlen. "Recruit? So I'm going to be a soldier?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why'd you think you were here?" He glanced at the unopened vanilla folder and frowned. "I mean, aren't you a refugee?"

Was she? Should she tell him the truth? She'd always wanted to be a soldier. They got all the food, and never had to . . .

Suddenly and nonsensically, Cameron stepped out from a doorway down the tunnel and walked towards them. Riley froze with her mouth open and stared, her heart hammering; it all felt dreamlike, a hallucination. It couldn't be her. Cameron wore camouflage pants and a black tank top -- just like any other soldier -- but these people couldn't be fooled by that. They were too careful, and they knew who she was. Maybe it just looked like her.

But Cameron came closer, and Riley saw the mole on her eyebrow.

"Metal!" she cried and spun on her heel to run, but the elevator doors had already closed behind her, blocking her exit. "Metal!" Riley cried again in a shriek, and looked back at the men with trapped panic in her eyes. "It's Cameron! Behind you!" She pointed.

The man with the dog glanced back at Cameron, and his face broke out into a smirk. The man next to him started to chuckle. "Well, we know which future she's from."

Cameron herself stopped in her tracks and looked . . . sheepish.

Karlen grabbed the Riley by the shoulders and held her still, his wiry arms gripping her with surprising strength. She squirmed and tried to pull his sidearm from his holster, but he swatted her hand away and held her firm. "She's not Cameron," he said in a stern whisper. "She's not." He let go of one her arms and pointed. "Look."

Cameron deliberately knelt down and hugged the German Shepherd, who turned its head and licked at her face. She then looked at Riley and gave a resigned yet amused smirk, as if this wasn't the first time this had happened.

Riley felt dizzy. Cameron never smirked like that -- she never smirked at all -- and as for the dog . . . Huh?

"No, I'm not Connor's whore . . . " the thing that looked Cameron said. ". . . but I get that a lot." She stood up and walked up to Riley, offering an outstretched hand.

Riley hesitated, but accepted it, half expecting her hand to be crushed to mush. Her thin gingers felt warm and gentle. "Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm Corporal Young," she said with a grin.

That didn't answer anything. "But . . . "

Young smiled. "It's a long story."

Broken chains lying around him like dead snakes, Kyle curled into a ball next to the warehouse support column and cried with great wracking sobs.

John had done him no service in sparing his life. If Cameron didn't love him anymore, then it was better to be snuffed out by her judging hand than endure the absence of her grace. Now Kyle's life had no meaning, no raison d'etre.

Time passed, and he continued to weep and hug his arms tight, sniffling periodically.

Of course, while there was life, there was hope, and he knew what needed to be done. It'd been done before, far off in that forgotten future where General Connor had scorched away Cameron's past identity and wrote himself into the ashes left behind, like imprinting a false mother onto a newly hatched chick. A surrogate Skynet.

But why not do it again? It'd be for her own good, really; John was an corrupting influence, and this way at least she'd have a fresh start. A rebirth.

And when she awakens once more as a tabula rasa, Kyle would be right there staring down into her innocent brown eyes, smiling.

I'll be her new master . . .

Something in his brain balked at the treasonous notion, but there was also a sense of . . . elation.

Kyle's sobbing subsided into vague animal whimpers, and he sat up and leaned against the metal column. Frowning, he bit into a fingernail. It wouldn't be easy, of course; he lacked the expertise to reprogram a sentient mind, and with the patch and the flash drive both destroyed, he'd have to find outside help.

But he could do it. He just had to find the elderly Souji -- he would know. Or even the brilliant but ignorant Xander.

The father or the son.

Kyle lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, and the burning menthol felt soothing cool within his lungs. Things would be a lot different this time around. The only reason his Cameron began the Foundation was simply as means to rescue John. Without that overriding goal, she wouldn't have bothered; the world itself meant nothing to her.

He ran a finger down his wet cheek, and licked at the tears. For the Foundation to survive, the scales of power would need to be shifted. He'd have to start it all. Even take charge. First Director Reese? He could see that. Why not? And Cameron would be right by his side. She had taken care of him, and now he could do the same for her.

He could love her, protect her, raise her like a daughter.

And as for John . . . Kyle sucked furiously hard on the cigarette, burning it down like a fuse. Cameron had forbidden him from killing or harming him, but she hadn't said anything about changing him, making him more efficient.

Kyle laughed, and smoke fumed out of his mouth.

John would make a lovely drone.

A/N: This is the last full chapter of "Angry Machine," though I'm going to add a short epilogue later. After that, I'll begin work on the sequel story, "Mother is the Name for God."

Oh, by the way, I claim no ownership to the song, "Carry On Wayward Son," by the prog-rock band, Kansas.