Thanks to gypsy069 and kageokami-kogo (among many others) for the kind reviews. They help a lot!
I'm sorry, John," Derek said defiantly, "but there's no way in hell that's going to happen. Ever."
Meeting in the Reese's apartment in the Zeira building, John had been seeking the compliance of Derek, Kyle and Carol regarding their transfer of residence to the safety of the command bunker. Derek and Varol sat together on the couch, hand-in-hand, while Kyle sat in the recliner and John paced around the room, trying to convince them of his plan's solvency.
The conversation had not gone well. Their survival, with Kyle's being paramount, was obviously crucial to John's existence, but without the ability to tell them why, his argument seemed to lack substance.
Still, John thought he had to try.
"Please," John pleaded. "Try to look at it from my point of view."
"Well, I'm sorry John," Derek added, standing up to confront him face-to-face. "But you're not making a lot of sense here."
Derek paused and stole glances at his wife first, and then at his brother. Carol had a confused but intent expression, but Kyle appeared to be merely contemplating his feet.
"We've survived here for the better part of five years," Derek said. "It's not paradise, but we're making due. You've been here, what—three days—and now you know what's better for us? I don't think so!"
"I just think everyone will be safer there," John added.
"How do you know that?" Derek challenged, now growing angry. "It's a military base—a military target. How can that be safe? Besides, I thought you didn't trust the military!"
"General Hoth admits the problems with the war," John said. "He wants to change the way things are going. He knows we can do better."
"Hoth is the problem, John," Derek said adamantly. "He and all his general and admiral cronies are why we're in this mess. How else do you explain last night's disaster?"
John seized the opportunity to explain the global situation to them—war profiteering, the movement of goods and munitions from the southern hemisphere, slavery—everything. It calmed Derek down, but didn't ease his mistrust.
"How do you know that's the truth?" Derek asked. "It could be just more lies."
"I know what it sounds like," John confessed. "But we have to take a leap of faith somewhere. If we want to continue—humanity, that is—we have to start trusting each other again."
"What about all the other families?" Carol asked. "What about the children? We can't just abandon them!"
Derek took a long breath as Carol awaited another counter. John appeared contemplative, considering factors he had not before. Kyle recognized his opportunity to weigh in.
"We all have to live our lives as best we can," Kyle said, as the others all turned to give their attention to he who had only been a silent observer thus far. "If we choose not to follow you John, you should respect our choices."
John nodded in understanding. He now realized that he was asking Derek the impossible, to abandon his people and his castle, even if the latter was a decrepit and decaying basement complex.
"Alright, okay, I get it," John conceded. "I just want you to know it's an open invitation. You just say the word. Anytime."
"You know it," Derek said, smiling.
"Well, I gotta go," John said. "I just want to grab that chip from your room, if you don't mind."
"Of course," Carol replied.
John emerged from the bedroom, chip in hand. Before leaving he turned to Carol.
"I'd like to make sure that the children all get and understand copies of our newspaper," John said. "Can I count on you for that?"
"Absolutely!" Carol responded enthusiastically. "I even have some ideas for articles or editorials."
"That's terrific!" John said. "We can use all the help you can give us. You should see all the work Ally's done already!"
"Ally?" Kyle asked. "Isn't she in the hospital?"
"She has amazing stamina and imagination," John said, gleaming with pride. "In spite of her injuries, just based on a few of the things I said, she conjured up the whole design and content of our newspaper—last night. She called it, 'The Resistance Today.'"
"That's gotta nice ring to it," Derek said, smiling. "Amazing kid that Ally. Is it gonna have a sports section? I wanna see how the Dodgers are doing!"
Carol responded by standing and punching her husband on the bicep. Derek pretended he was mortally wounded.
"It sounds beautiful," Carol added. "I can't wait to see it."
"How are you going to produce it?" Kyle asked. "Did Skynet abandon their printing press?"
"We managed to piece together some odds an ends—you know—old computers, printers, copiers," John explained. "I think it'll work."
"It sounds great, John," Derek admitted. "But if you want repeat customers, you better have some box scores."
This time Carol slapped Derek on the side of the head. Derek responded with a tickling attack on Carol's abdomen that immediately had her reeling. They tumbled back into the bedroom, out of sight, almost certainly on purpose.
Kyle smiled faintly at the scene. Turning back to John, he said, "It was nice to see you, John. I want you to know that the idea of being safe in the bunker—away from all the death and destruction—has its appeal, of course. There may be a day when we take you up on your offer."
"The door is always open for your family," John said, looking him square in the eyes.
"We appreciate your concern," Kyle said. "You understand that my place is by my brother's side. I owe him my life a dozen times over. I can't leave him."
John took his father's hand and pulled him in for a hug. "Of course. But you take care of yourself, Kyle," he said. "Don't be a stranger."
John departed the Zeira building only to find an annoyed Benes waiting by their convoy.
"Lieutenant," John said, trying to suppress a smile. "Whenever you're ready."
Benes slammed shut the door of her car, a little harder than was necessary and breathed a heavy sigh. The convoy sped off with nary a word exchanged between the two.
For the next several weeks, John and Ally, along with a seemingly endless supply of helpers, got the newspaper up and running. John had the equipment moved out of the bunker into a half-vacant building on the base. The other half was used for storage, so the fledgling publication did not interfere with day-to-day military operations.
Pulling off a daily appearance of "The Resistance Today" was a bit too ambitious, but certainly three times a week was within their reach. And John's broadcasts were held evey night at 8 p.m. sharp.
Hoth was an inexhaustible supply of information, particularly on the battles with Skynet around the globe. There were at least 14 strongholds at various points in the northern hemisphere. Not suprisingly, most were near old Cold War installations.
At Petropavlovsk, the old Russian naval base on the remote peninsula of Kamchatka in the northern Pacific, the dogged terrain and impossible weather allowed the humans to give the machines fits. Similar situations prevailed near Irkutsk in central Siberia, where the Russians combined with the Mongolians to carve out an existence, and near St. Petersberg, where the Russians worked with old allies—the Finns and Generals January and February, who were now year-long companions.
Rough terrain seemed to be a common theme for resistance outposts, so it was no surprise to find two more tough cells in the northern latitudes—one in the mountians of Norway, another in the Scottish Highlands. The machines found, much like countless warriors in uncounted wars since the beginning of recorded history, that mountain passes were easily defended and booby-trapped. The fact that the Scots never lost their sense of humor—the bagpipes would typically blare "Scotland the Brave" to draw the terminators into traps—made for some particularly interesting reading.
The Chinese were also weighing in on the battle, although their losses in the opening nuclear salvos were egregious. With much of their 1.3 billion souls concentrated along the cost, it was estimated that 800 million perished in the atomic inferno. Still, a massive cell fought hard and well in the mountainous province of Chongqing, while another combined with the oft-oppressed peoples of Southeast Asia fighting a desperate battle in the ruins of Hanoi.
Not to be outdone, the Japanese used their uneven terrain and ancient cunning to barricade thmeselves against Skynet. Their losses were severe, however, with much of their population perishing in the crowded cities on Judgment Day.
To be sure, the second hardest hit region on the planet was the Indian subcontinent, which counted approximately 700 million dead on the first day of the war. They too found an ally in the Himalayas, combining with the Nepalese and Tibetans to make the machines' presence there most unpleasant.
Another common theme amongst resistance camps was that locales that persisted against would-be conquerers in the past were once again popular. So, much like Marshall Tito and his followers in the 1940s, the rugged peoples of the Balkans—be they Serb, Bosnian, Hungarian, Czech, Romanian or Greek—took to the hills and survived agianst the enemy.
In North America, much of the east coast was bombed into submission and was, by all accounts, uninhabitable. Many survivors congregated on the Canadian Shield in the remote regions of Quebec and fought along the lines of those in Siberia. The Pacific Northwest told a similar story near Seattle and Vancouver, while many Mexicans and Texans dismissed their long-standing fued to create a large cell near Houston.
Finally, the Australians, no strangers to environmental hardships, used guile and determination to hold Skynet at bay with one large resistance cell near the mostly destroyed major cities in the southeastern corner of the continent. Using their indigenous knowledge of the bush and the outback gave the lone human combatants in the southern hemisphere a distinct advantage over their machine foe.
John and Allison carefully presented the story of each cell as accurately as they could. John felt it was important to highlight each of the areas in different editions, on different days. If the readers could see the scope of the resistance—truly a global effort—they would truly feel they were not alone.
Also sprinkled in with the combat accounts were stories about the South American and African betrayal to humanity. It was difficult for John, Allison and the staff to keep bias and propoganda out of these editorials, but the simple fact was that no one from thoise regions was around to present their side of the story. All they could really do was offer an open invitation for anyone to challenge their accusations.
Allison, creative as ever, enlisted the help of as many nationalities as she could find. Fortunately, the melting pot that was Los Angeles never really vanished in the apocalypse, so translating the paper into Spanish, Chinese, Cyrillic, Hindi or Japanese, among others, was not a problem.
Distribution was something of an issue. The kids in Carol's class became delivery people overnight, so the local management was hardly a concern. Overseas issues relied on ancient fax machines using Hoth's juryrigged satellite networks on the good days; on the bad ones, The Resistance Today would use the profiteers—the very ones it was badmouthing—for delivery, hardly an ideal situation.
Still, in spite of the hardships, John and Allison became household names around the globe, as did some of the other writers and commentators. John already knew that he would become famous, but he was taken aback by Allison's celebrity. This led to a short, but lively, exchange between the two regarding the use of their portraits in the publication.
"I don't like the idea of using your picture in the Resistance," John said. "I think it makes you a target."
"But it's okay to use yours?" Allison snapped. "How that for chauvanism?"
"Hey, I'm talking about your safety, here, missy," John chided, looking up from his terminal. "This has nothing to do with men and women."
"Your safety's at stake too, buster," Allison replied, hopping over next to him on her crutches. She pointed the left crutch at him, as if that solidified her argument. "You know I'm right. Just admit you're wrong and move on."
John had to suppress a smile, knowing she was only half serious and that she had a good point. On the other hand, he knew that he was going to survive the war and that Allison would be captured and most likely killed. What if they identify her through a seemingly harmless photograph?
Eventually, he decided—somberly—that Allison's fate was also decided and that the time was best served enjoying each other's company, not dreading the future. John also felt that the morale boost—soldiers and citizens alike were known to carry their likenesses around for inspiration—was more important than anything.
"Of course you're right, Ally," John answered, smiling. "I'm just worried one of those lonely soldiers will lure you away with some sappy love letter or something."
"Oh, that's so thoughtful of you, John," Allison said, mockingly, batting her eyes. "I guess I'm supposed to ignore your daily shipment of marriage proposals."
John was getting a lot of them to be sure, mostly due to his nightly broadcasts, he supposed. He lowered his head for a moment to hide his blushing response.
"You're just so damn beautiful, Ally," John responded, grinning slyly. "You're the only woman for me. You know that. All those guys out there are pining for you. I'm jealous."
John reached for her with his left hand and Allison feigned resisting before succumbing to an awkward embrace, crutches still in her hands.
"You're jealous?" Allison exclaimed. "Geez, half the world wants to marry him and he's jealous! Sorry, he's taken, ladies!"
Allison bent down and kissed John on top of his head before moving over toward the printer to fetch her latest musings. John took the occasion to exchange a quick glance with one of the other workers, an attractive young red-headed woman named Stacey.
"I'm taken!" John exclaimed, enthusiastically. Stacey merely shrugged and went back to typing.
The other good news was that Allison's leg was healing fast. The nurse, of course, insisted that more bedrest would expedite the process even more, but they simply couldn't keep Allison out of the newsroom. John had never seen such devotion, except perhaps from his mother.
Six weeks had passed since they started publishing and broadcasting. More and more survivors from the battle in the valley had trickled in until the final casualty report was listed at a shade over 5,000. It was still a distastrous loss, but at least the Los Angeles cell was not devoid of defenders.
Minor skirmeshes marked the period as Skynet probed the resistance for weaknesses. They apparently had suffered high losses in the battle as well and needed to rebuild.
Also making strides were Zimmer and his cryptologists, who were now working in concert with Barnes, Williams and a considerable team of civilian computer experts. They were so successful, in fact, that SN-5—the Skynet commuincations code Zimmer had referred to before—had been completely cracked.
Now, it was a waiting game. The Resistance needed to wait for a large Skynet operation and use the information to ambush them.
There was only one problem, though: Skynet wasn't cooperating. For a war, things were relatively quiet.
John and Allison decided that the best use of editorial space in this dormant period was a series of pieces about the re-establishment of a representative government. This was met mostly with cheers and encouragement, but, as with everything else, there were naysayers.
And the opponents had good arguments. The principal counter-point was the decades-old debate about term limits: representatives that served too long became stale, useless and, most importantly, obsessed with re-election.
Another item of contention was the so-called "too many chiefs and not enough Indians" theory. In the past, important resolutions were dragged down by bureaucracy and petty concerns in endless debates and worthless committee sessions. Now, the goal was to have a few enlightened individuals making decisions instead of many dimwits dragging their feet.
Accordingly, it was decided: election of three council members for the greater Los Angeles area would be held on June 30. Terms would be one year and, once a term was completed, that individual could not hold that post again. It was late May, so roughly one month of campaigning was in store.
John and Allison weren't sure what to expect, but the response was considerable. More than 50 people expressed an interest for the three seats in the first week alone, so they decided that the search for candidates had to be more refined. In the very next issue of The Resistance, they included a small questionairre which asked poignant questions about the state of current society: What are society's most pressing needs? What initiatives will help insure our survial and growth? Can the military be trusted to run this war without civilian oversight?
Clearly, the last question was more specific than the others and John made sure that General Hoth was aware of the question's existence before he published it. Hoth had no qualms whatsoever about it. In fact, he invited scutiny, which, in retrospect, John should have expected.
The Resistance's editors intended to publish the best 10 or 15 answers. Lively debates raged in the newsroom on a daily basis, but the group finally narrowed them down and began printing them in early June. There would be one per issue for the next 13 prints.
"You really created a shit storm with this idea, John Connor," Allison said, somewhat derisively. "But it's pretty exciting."
"Hopefully, we help create a better society," John conceded. "One thing's for sure, though."
"What's that?" Allison aksed.
"This got a whole lot more interesting when James Ellison threw his hat into the ring," John responded.