"Hey! Are you Connor!" an old, gravelly voice blurted into John's ear as he was simultaneously shaken out of his slumber.
John slowly rose from the fetal position he had curled himself into over two chairs in the hospital's waiting area. Rubbing his eyes as if it would help him focus, he took in the form of his erstwhile alarm clock—an old man with a neatly trimmed, gray beard, dressed in army fatigues with three stars on his collar.
"Yeah, John Connor," he answered, trying to get his bearings.
"General Hoth," he said, offering John his hand.
John arose and gripped the other man's hand. "General," he said, uncertain of the newcomer's agenda. "What time is it?"
"It's nearly 1300 hours," Hoth answered. "They're still working on your friends."
John knew that they had arrived at Serrano around 10 a.m., meaning three hours had passed. Allison, I hope everything is okay. He absently walked towards the emergency room and peered through the windows.
"That was some battle plan you drew up there, son," Hoth said. "Where did you learn tactics?"
John wanted to tell him the truth, all of it. But he wasn't sure who he could trust, regardless of rank. Besides, the military isn't likely to be happy with him once he started questioning their motivation.
"It just seemed like the thing to do," John said, still hoping to see a glimpse of Allison. "They were practically begging to be bushwacked, so we gave them a bloody nose."
"A little more than a bloody nose," Hoth answered. "Twenty 600s, give or take, three ogres and two HKs. With only 10 of you and limited resources. Pretty impressive."
"Well, somebody had to do it," John said, accusingly, turning back to the older man. "With 'command' too busy to bother, we had to defend our home."
So there it was. No more pleasantries. No more flattery, genuine or placatory. John was drawing first blood, purposely.
"I take it by your tone that you're dissatisfied with our military efforts thus far into the war," Hoth said, with a surprisingly level tone.
John nodded. "Ten years and civilians in fear for their very lives every day," he said. "Doesn't seem like any progress has been made."
"I happen to agree with you," Hoth said, forcing John to lower his guard a little. "C'mon, we'll talk in my office."
John was apprehensive, though. He didn't want to leave Allison.
"I'll have them call when they come out of surgery," Hoth insisted. "They couldn't be in better hands."
With that, John accepted the invitation and the two walked off to Hoth's office, which was the next building over. In spite of himself, John couldn't help but marvel at the remarkably intact status of the base.
Soldiers, airmen, nurses and doctors marched purposely around the base. There were guards posted at the various entrance points, one of which saluted Hoth as he and John exited the hospital. Another copied the gesture as they entered the adjacent building.
The contents of building were surprisingly plain, John thought. It was eerily quiet, with only the hum of the overhead fluorescent lighting breaking the silence. There were no rooms, just a long hallway that apparently led to an elevator. In front of the elevator were two more guards—one standing with a slung rifle and a German Sheppard, the other seated by a computer terminal. As John and Hoth approached the seated guard stood and joined his partner in saluting their commander.
"Welcome back, sir," one said, as he re-took his seat. "Would you place any firearms in the tray and please step through the metal detector."
The dog sniffed at the new arrivals as John and Hoth placed pistols in the tray.
"No one is armed in the CIC—combat information center," Hoth explained.
Both the dog and the detector were satisfied with their respective searches.
"You may proceed, sir," the guard announced.
"Thank you, sergeant," Hoth said.
John and Hoth advanced into the elevator. The latter pressed the lone button on the control panel and down they went.
John felt his stomach take leave of his body. "Wow!" he said. "How far down we going?"
"About 20 stories," Hoth answered. "This was built during the Cold War, in case you were wondering. No missile can burrow this deep."
When they finally reached the end of the ride, the two stepped into a room unlike John had ever seen. Hundreds of men and women milled about between row after row of computer terminals, maps, tables, charts and other equipment John didn't recognize. One thing he did know—this was a command bunker.
John and Hoth navigated through the labyrinth of people and devices until reaching a glass door roughly in the middle of the bunker. They walked in only to find another serviceman sorting through a file cabinet.
"Sir!," he said, after abruptly looking up from his work to see and salute his commander.
"Sergeant," Hoth said saluting back, opening the door to yet another room. "Make sure we're not disturbed, except by the one I sent for."
"Of course, sir," he answered.
Hoth's office was like everything else—more plush than should be expected for the times. He had a large computer terminal, an enormous desk, a reasonably extensive collection of books on several shelves, wall-to-wall carpeting, a number of comfortable looking chairs and even a leather couch. To top it off, there were portraits of people on his desk, just like nothing had ever changed.
As far as John could tell, he had just walked into some lawyer's office, circa 2009, ready to discuss some silly lawsuit over too-hot coffee or whiplash from a traffic accident. It was almost as surreal as the apocalyptic nightmare he had witnessed in his two days of 2021.
"What is this place?" John found himself asking, incredulously. "How could you spare all of the amenities?"
"Serrano Point was captured from Skynet after many fierce battles in 2017 and 2018," Hoth explained, as he sat at his desk. "The other portions of the base—the hospital, barracks, airfield, and so forth—were built since then. This is HQ for the Third Corps."
"But wasn't everything destroyed by Skynet on Judgment Day?" John asked, grabbing a seat himself.
"Judgment Day?" Hoth countered. "What's that?"
"You know—the day the machines become self aware and trigger this war," John answered frustratingly.
"Right—I just never heard it called that," Hoth admitted. "Fitting name though. As far as everything being destroyed—well, the Earth is a pretty big place, John. They couldn't hit every square-meter of the planet. But some places were pummeled."
"Such as?" John asked, hungry for information.
"The big world capitals—Bejing, London, Paris, Moscow, New Dehli, Tokyo, Washington—were obliterated," Hoth explained. "Actually, the east coast of the U.S., northern and western Europe, coastal China, South-east Asia, and the Indian sub-continent were heavily targeted. We estimate as many as 10,000 warheads hit these areas alone. Skynet was going directly at the leadership and the inner military circles."
"Los Angeles wasn't spared either, of course," he added. "At least six warheads hit in the general vicinity, including one dud that we found in Lakewood. That explains why this base is relatively intact."
John listened in stunned silence as the general explained the facts to him. The scope of armageddon was numbing.
"Of course, some of the strikes specifically targeted missle bases and silos, a lot of which were in remote regions in North America, Russia and China," Hoth continued. "Many—if not most—of the warheads were on boomers, the ballistic missle submarines of the big five. We think they were targeted as well, although we can't be completely sure about those. Certainly, we haven't heard from or seen any of them in 10 years."
"So, the nuclear portion of the war is over," John concluded.
"For the most part, yes," Hoth said, sadly nodding. "We've actually been able to negotiate a tentative truce in that respect with them."
John frowned at this response. "How is that possible?" he asked.
"I guess it's sort of a more modern version of the old MAD policy," Hoth answered. "Mutally Assured Destruction—just like in the Cold War. Frankly, we don't know what's left as far as nukes are concerned, but the bomb factories like Hanford, Oak Ridge and Los Alomos were all destoyed in the first wave. Apparently, those overseas were knocked out as well."
"But there's a reactor right here," John countered. "We can build more bombs right here."
"That's MAD for you," Hoth said. "Skynet's initial attack, although highly successful, did not guarantee victory. It merely leveled the playing field."
"For a war without end," John added.
"Exactly," Hoth said. "And while we may have them at a standstill—more or less—here in southern California, other locales weren't so lucky."
John had been contemplating the floor, but Hoth's last statement forced him to look up. "Where?" he asked.
"The Middle East and the oil producing regions of Russia are completely sealed off by the machines," Hoth explained. "That region was their primary focus in the first five or six years. They control vast quantities of the world's energy supply."
The scope was almost beyond comprehension, but Skynet was slowly taking command of the planet from its former masters. John did have some doubts, however.
"Where do you fit in on all this?" John asked. "How can I possibly know if you're telling me the truth or just leading me on?"
"General Eric Hoth, US Air Force, retired, Chairman Joint Chiefs of Staff from 2009 to 2010," he said, matter-of-factly. "I can only tell you what I know, what I've been able to glean from various, scattered reports I've collected from former colleagues and opponents from all over the globe. None of it is fabricated, as far as I can tell."
"So, you're actually in contact with other regions—other parts of the resistance?" John asked, hopeful.
"It's hit-and-miss," Hoth answered. "Satellite communications have been unreliable and even dangerous because Skynet can track and destroy the relay stations. But we've been able to jury-rig some alternatives with submarines and drone aircraft. They're not uninterupted signals, but we can get messages back and forth."
"Okay, but what I don't get is why you're telling me all this now," John said, shrugging his shoulders. "What I am to you?"
"You're John Connor," Hoth explained. "We've been expecting you."
"We?" John asked, standing up, surprised.
With almost impeccable timing, the door to Hoth's office burst open. An older man came through, out of breath, apparently from running a great distance. John spun around, defensively, but lowered his guard once he realized who it was.
The man was African-American, tall, large frame, bald, with a neatly trimmed, if slightly gray, goatee, and sharply defined features, especially his eyes—they seemed to look right through John.
There was no mistaking him, even 12 years later. James Ellison.
"John!" he exclaimed, lunging forward to greet him.
John backed off slightly, unsure what to make of him. After all, his betrayal with the Cromartie endoskeleton ultimately led him to this place. And cost Cameron her life, if that was what to call it.
But then it occurred to John that this was the way it was supposed to happen. Weaver, of course, was instrumental in saving his life twice, so this tightly woven web was slowly revealing itself to him. He just wished it would go a bit faster, so the bitterness over Cameron still stung and would continue to do so for a while.
Finally, John took Ellison's hand. James brought him in for a hug.
"We've been waiting so long," James explained. "When did you arrive?"
"Just yesterday," John said, releasing from the embrace.
"Of course," James said. "You don't look a day older than how I remember you."
But now John had a thousand questions again. All these reunions were giving him a headache as he tried to sort through the history. But two very important issues loomed.
"Where's my mom?" John asked anxiously.
James glanced at Hoth and then back to John. "What do you mean?" he said. "She was supposed to join you. Didn't she come through the time portal as well?"
"Well, no," John answered. "Where and when was it set for?"
"I don't know," James answered. "It seemed like the John Henry AI was expecting her to follow you, so the settings must have been pre-determined. I never thought to ask John Henry about it because I assumed she would be wherever you went. I'm sorry."
John was speechless for a moment, while he considered Ellison's answer. Why would Weaver want my mother and I separated?
"What about Cameron?" John asked, thinking they could still use her endoskeleton once he recovered her chip. "Where's her body?"
"It didn't go through with you?" James asked. "We thought you had it."
This proved to be too much for John, who closed his eyes and slumped back in the chair. The office was quiet for a few awkward moments while John tried to sort it out.
"No, of course she didn't come through," John finally said, swallowing hard, fighting back tears. "Nothing inanimate goes through time. Cameron wasn't 'alive' when the time displacement bubble formed. I should have pushed her outside the sphere."
So that was it. Cameron only existed on the chip now. The chip she had given to John Henry. Her body, identical in appearance to his newfound love, Allison, would have to be created by the enemy.
So what did that mean for Allison? Would it mean he would have to sacrifice Allison to help create Cameron? Cameron, after all, was as instrumental in his development as anything else. What kind of choice is that to make?
"If your little reunion is over, we still have business to discuss, Connor," Hoth interjected. "There are larger issues at stake than what we've already highlighted."
John refocused on Hoth, while Ellison took a seat. "Go on," John said.
"Well, I told you before that I'm also dissatisfied with the progress of the war so far," Hoth said. "What you do not know and must now be told is that, even now, despite humans losing a grip on this planet, there is profiteering ocurring at unprecedented levels."
"Profiteering?" John asked, confused. "By who? Why?"
"When resources are scarce, the ultimate capitalists appear," Hoth explained. "Now, the southern hemisphere was relatively untouched—save for Australia and some of the big cities and military bases like Rio, Buenos Aires and Cape Town. But their agricultural and production capabilities were unscathed. And with nuclear winter not as devastating as predicted, the Pampas, the Amazon, and the grasslands of Africa have turned into the new breadbaskets of the world."
"They're also producing other commodities—clothing, rugs, furniture, ammunition, weapons, whatever—and selling it to the waring factions," Hoth continued. "They're the arsenals of freedom and oppression. Skynet pays them in oil and natural resources. We're paying with gold, with whatever resources we can dig up and….with human servants."
"What—slavery!" John said, shocked.
"That's right," Ellison explained. "Helps them keep costs down, profits up."
"But they do know that Skynet will come for them too," John said. "Once they've defeated us."
"Which is why they're supplying both sides," Hoth explained. "Control both ends of the equation and live like kings. It's been said that truth is the first casualty of war. That adage has never been more appropriate."
John was beyond shocked. This made him angry.
"Well everyone needs to know about this," he exclaimed. "We have to stop it! Whatever it takes!"
Hoth and Ellison exchanged glances and nods. "Which is why we were expecting you," Hoth said.
"What can I possibly do?" John uttered, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm just one man and I only arrived yesterday!"
"You know and have worked with the machines," Hoth said. "They seem to trust you."
John hesitated. He was torn about divulging information about Weaver, uncertain how much Hoth knew about Ellison's former boss.
"I've worked with re-programmed machines," John corrected, choosing his words carefully. "They had already been issued new orders by….my future self and sent back in time to assist me."
"It's okay, John," Ellison said, reassuredly. "The general has been fully versed on you, your mother, time displacement, terminators and especially Ms. Weaver. I told him everything I know."
"We need to be able to negotiate a peace settlement with Skynet and focus on the real enemy—the profiteers," Hoth interjected. "Ms. Weaver—this shape-shifting terminator—seems to be the key."
John was shocked by the boldness of the general's statement. For years, he had been conditioned to think that Skynet was the enemy. In fact, it was only yesterday that he had become aware that the machines were actually in two camps, one of which was already interested in an alliance. He wasn't aware that anyone else had figured it out.
"You do realize that the machines themselves have divided," John said, finally letting his guard down. "Weaver told me that not all AI want humanity exterminated, so some have splintered off and formed a new nation. But I don't know how to contact her. She said she would find me."
"Then contacting her becomes our most important priority," Hoth said. "And then, we must convince the population about our new cause."
"But will people want this?" John asked. "They've been fighting Skynet for 10 years. We can't just expect them to change their minds overnight."
"It's all about information," Hoth explained. "People, in general, are in the dark. They need to find out about it and believe what they see, hear and read. Their own senses of decency and moraility will guide them from there. We may have to nudge them a little, but I think they'll come around."
"So where do we start?" Ellison asked.
"Some form of newspaper, pamphlet or bulletin would seem to be in order, even if we just use simple copy machines," John said, recalling his impromptu speech from the day before. "That's what newspapers were supposed to be anyway, before they became perverted into mindless advertisement implements. We'll just re-invent them."
Just then, the phone on Hoth's desk rang. The general answered it and hanged it up after a few terse comments.
"You're friend, Allison, is awake and asking to see you," he said to John.
With that the four of them departed the office, heading back to the hospital.