Livin' In The Future

by Ottovw

John Connor is in the future. He came to find Cameron's Chip. He must deal with uncertain and unlikely allies. Cope with unknown, and unforeseen enemies. Fight the War Against The Machine. AND if that wasn't enough he STILL has to save the World.

13. Chapter 13

Livin' In The Future

By Ottovw

2010

Chapter 13

June 22, 1997. Veracruz, Mexico.

-John

John ran. He could hear himself breathing. His legs were pumping.

Run, John. Cameron said in his head. They are coming.

He could hear the squeal of brakes, the angry honking of horns. John ran. The alley was long, narrow and clean. There were no doors even the down spouts offered little in the way of cover. There weren't even piles of garbage.

Keep running. They are behind you.

Something hit him low in the back of the head on the right side. The blow twisted his neck to the left. Then he heard the pistol's report loud in the confined space of the alley. "Wait," a male voice called.

His leg disobeyed him, it would not come back up to finish its step.

Its ok John. You can fall down now. Cameron said in his head. They got you.

He hit the ground hard. His arms wouldn't even come up to take the impact of his fall. He could feel the uneven pavement biting into his face. He could taste the sand and grit in his mouth.

Los Angeles

-John

The wind settled. The only sound was the creak, crack and pop of cooling cement. The silver shape looked down at the hole, and wondered why the world wasn't pock marked with them. Something was wrong. Silence. It had become so accustomed to satellite feeds that the lack of it was deafening. It looked up at the starry sky disappointed by the lack of signals.

John.

The silver figure turned to look behind itself, nothing, to be certain it widened its visual spectrum. There was, still, nothing there.

John. Pick a form.

"Oh."

The figure shifted and became a pretty dark haired girl. She was wearing black SWAT style fatigues, a bright blue bra strap was visible.

"Somethings wrong. I'm too short. Oh."

The girl became a taller, broader built young man. He was wearing baggy darkly colored pants a t-shirt that looked like it had been spattered with paint and a loose fitting dark grey hoodie. His boots were only laced half way up.

"Where are you?" John asked glancing around him.

You don't have to talk.

Oh.

John. We need to know the date.

John walked out of the alley, he looked at the cars that drove past. It struck him then that there were many advantages to being metal. No discomfort. No need to look for clothes, or weapons. Across the street was a newspaper box. He looked at it and zoomed in. Wednesday, June 18, 1997.

Good?

Perfect. John?

Yes?

Breath.

Oh. Right. Where are we?

Pull up your HUD.

Do you have to do that? Thought John as he turned and walked up the street. He had to remember to walk slowly.

No my HUD is always up.

Why isn't mine?

You don't have a HUD.

Oh.

We are heading east, on Pico.

How do you know? I can't find a satellite.

I read the street sign.

Oh.

Pay attention John.

Right. Between steps John created a character that made his body imitate breathing. Another character took over control of his clothing, Now it would hang naturally and act like clothing without conscious effort on his part. Two others began to rifle through databases to find what he knew about 'Miles Dyson' and 'James Ellison'. They sorted that data to by relevance to this time and his 'mission'. By the time he had taken his next step. He had what, were in his time, current addresses for Dyson and Ellison.

Wait. I thought we were only rescuing Dyson?

John we will locate James Ellison as well. We want to do a dry run first. Time is not so critical here.

John nodded to himself.

Ellison lives here in LA. Does everybody live in North Hollywood? Dyson lived up in hills north of us. Ahead beside the street corner was a pay phone. He picked up the phone and mimed putting change into it. He detached a thumb sized portion of himself into the receiver. He hung the phone up and walked away.

John turned the street corner.

We need to find a car.

Ahead was a volvo. His new eyes scanned across its exterior.

Its burning oil.

It will do, John.

He walked around the side of the car, and lifted his hand to smash the window. He looked at his hand. He put his hand down and lined up his finger with the doors lock, and pushed his finger into the lock. He turned his hand, there was a dull thump as the car doors unlocked. He sat down, the cars suspension creaked under his weight.

The drive was painfully slow. Until this moment he hadn't understood the differences between 'subjective' time within Leviathan, in his 'head', and 'objective' time in the 'real' world. At residential speeds he thought he could get out and run faster. Catherine Weaver agreed.

He was watching street numbers, when Cameron 'said': Keep driving.

Something's wrong, that was John Henry. John could feel his right ear swivel and stretch, a third arm protruded from his waist and lowered the cars passenger side window. The windows motor, the wind noise didn't bother him, their/his ambient noise filters were excellent. Then he heard it, four heart beats. One was much faster. John skimmed John Henry's data. Ellison didn't have children.

No, agreed John Henry, not in our time.

When did he buy this house?

FBI record indicate this house as his permanent address beginning 1997. The Researcher chimed in.

Two heartbeats, upstairs. Two downstairs.

Ellison had a dog?

Cameron: A cat.

John thought. Researcher? Property tax records. Who owns this house?

I will first caution you that, in this time not all county records are available online. Then: this domicile is owned by Franklin Baker, purchased May 1995.

Ellison hasn't bought the...

Right, John.

Researcher, FBI databases contact information on Ellison?

Cell phone, and radio phone. Perhaps not all information is online.

Email?

Yes.

Check for contact...

Yes, no information. Perhaps not all information...

Right... is online. John thought to himself.

The entire exchange took place in the time it took the car to pass, what in 4 months, would be James Ellison's mail box.

Researcher? What's the quickest route to the Federal building from here?

They were standing, on the center island, with the pilings, under the freeway overpass, at the corner of Wilshire and Sepulveda. John had parked the car about 3 miles away, near the Santa Monica Airport, almost due south. They walked. To their east was the 'federal' building. The building was surrounded by a large cleared area much of it parking, some of it just landscaped open space. Which provided an unobstructed view, thought John.

Yes, both Cameron, and Weaver agreed.

Across the street to their left was the Los Angeles National Cemetery. Catty corner to, and across the freeway from, the cemetery was the VA Hospital. It was behind them, more or less.

They kept to the deeper shadows beneath the overpass. There were going to be cameras. How do we even get across the parking lot?

I'll show you. Came Weaver's response.

John felt himself slip back.

It's ok. John. Weaver is good at this. That had been Cameron.

The first thing he noticed was the change in his field of view. It went from about 60 degrees and a 100 degrees peripheral to about 280 degrees. Woah.

It can be disorienting John.

Their head poked around the pillar. There was still traffic on Sepulveda, and behind them on Wilshire. The cars were moving at 40-45 mph, they were crawling past. As the car behind them passed, Weaver shot them across the road, as they accelerated they approached 80 mph. It was only when they slowed down at the retaining wall that John realized they were no longer shaped like John or anything remotely human.

They were snake shaped. They had coiled themselves around one of the bridge pilings and used the friction to brake themselves. They skipped off the bridge facing powdering the concrete as they went and shot up into the spaces between the concrete spans. They pressed their body tight against the beams their head slipped around the edge of the bridge and peered out at the building.

John watched fascinated. They zoomed in on individual cameras noting those that were static and those that could be panned. Color coded cones filled his vision. Estimated viewing angles he understood that much. The yellow cones were static the magenta cones stretched and elongated filling presumed viewing fields within each were the yellow cones marking their current view. Some he saw scanned the area predictably. Others just stared at specific areas. He noted those. There was a human behind those cameras.

Good catch John.

Yes, thank you, John.

That last had been Weaver.

Their field of view widened. John could see almost straight down at the cars passing below them and far down Sepulveda in either direction. The cars seemed to crawl along. Their body coiled itself along the leading edge of the overpass. John could feel hundreds of thousands of tiny clawed feet clinging to comparatively large imperfections in the bridges facade. John found it strange that no one noticed them hanging from the front of the overpass. It was their own speed that threw him. Below them and above them cars passed at a walking pace. Though he knew the must be traveling between 50 and 55 miles per hour.

John felt himself swell. What is that?

Voids, John. This body will use them as shock absorbers.

I didn't think this body would be susceptible to g-shock.

Largely it is not, but the shock absorbers aren't for us. Its for them.

They launched out into space. Their leading edge struck the ground in the middle of the intersection. They landed 15 feet behind one car more than a hundred feet in front of another. The part of their body that impacted the street remained there the rest of them flowed over it. He could feel the air in the voids escape through pores as each segment passed their impact site.

Like a massive inch worm their body using its own impetus launched itself back into the air towards the grassy area beyond the sidewalk.

As they hit the grass they started to roll. They came up between two cars in the parking lot adjacent to the road. They were on one knee crouched hands on the cars on either side of them.

Had John been there, separately, he would have recognized the girl instantly. Brown eyes peered over the top of the cars trunk. They flicked to the building across the parking lot from them. She didn't trust it. It didn't belong here. It almost looked like the federal building had been built on this block except for this small parcel of land. Her HUD was filled with colored cones. She was temporarily shielded from the static cameras by low trees and the edge of the buildings roof. She had almost 3 seconds before one of the panning cameras turned towards them. They darted from between the cars to the building itself. They did so with such force that they left a shallow dent in the parking lot from the toe of their lead foot. Ahead was the on and off ramp for the freeway behind them. If she timed it right they would cross just behind two cars. One going onto the San Diego Freeway and one exiting.

She timed it right. They were half way across the road. When their three seconds ran out. In mid stride they shifted again. The silver snake broke up. All five of them tumbled through the air. John was getting a headache The 'snakes' were close enough to share data in real time. He was seeing five individual views. The views were the underside of cars. They were beneath three cars so two of them had recombined.

The view of the building was blocked by the cars. John tried imagining what it looked like from here.

Stop that, John.

What?

You're trying to remember what the building looks like from here. You are taking up too much processor time. You are slowing us down.

Inefficient code. This last had been Skynet.

Its not merely his coding. That was the Researcher. Its his memory storage system. Its very complex.

While they were discussing John overly complex data storage arrays. The panning camera they were trying to evade had passed them. Ahead of them was a large air conditioning unit. That, John realized, was going to be their way in. They shot out from beneath the parked cars and rolled directly beneath the large unit. It was quite loud. They combined and slithered up the side of the unit facing away from the building. They were a sheet of metal six feet across more than ten feet long and not quite an eighth of an inch thick. They slid over the top of the cooling towers.

How do we get in?

Not here. These are just cooling towers. But there are conduits here we will follow them to the building.

They did. The flowed along the pipes. There were gaps at the wall but they were tiny and would take too much time for them to navigate. They flowed up the side of the building.

Why am I here?

What do you mean?

If I take so much processor time and I impede you then why am I here?

You are part of us. We cannot be here without you.

They were sliding up the face of the building the view was strange John wasn't seeing the world through a pair of binocular eyes but across their entire surface. The image was very flat.

No, John, you're looking at it the wrong way. The image didn't change so much as his 'perspective'. Because the image was flat he could see objects clearly far out on the horizon. It was late at night the city was alive with light. Some where lamps on posts. Most were cars moving ever so slowly. The city even this part of it was like a living thing with light for blood and streets for veins. If he had had a mouth it would have hung open. This is what you saved. This is what you fought for. Not just this city but all of them. Humanity. Is it flawed? Certainly. Even its greatest accomplishments are tainted with its violent heritage, with in-fighting and pettiness. But as you once said yourself, John. We are not perfect. We are, after all, our fathers' daughter.

John would have shaken his head if he had had one.

That's not what I meant. I mean why did you ask me to join you if all I do is slow you down.

That's not all you do. That's not why we asked you to join us.

Then why? John wondered who he was communicating with it sounded or felt like Cameron but then it didn't.

Its about information John.

They found a window with some worn weather stripping they poured into it. Passive sensors scanned the walls and ceiling for camera's and listening devices. In this time passive devices existed that only turned themselves on when transmitting what they had recorded. It was very dark. A pin hole camera would lack the ability to zoom in on the window to see them flowing down into a mercury like puddle on the floor.

John thought about that. What do you do with information? You collected it. You disseminated it.

But what do you do with it in the between John?

You store it.

They flowed out under the desk to the door a tiny tendril poked out the door and checked for obvious cameras.

Correct! You have paged through many of Cameron's memories. You have seen that we store our data quite differently. Your memories are for more associative. Where ours are far more linear. This was John Henry he liked to 'lecture'.

John had 'paged' through some of Cameron's memories. It was almost literally like flipping pages in a book. It was how he found out about the whole USS Jimmy Carter incident and Jesses' involvement in it. As in the case of Vick's chip data was stored by category. It was like reviewing a database.

They flowed out into the hall. They were being cautious. Perhaps too cautious but there had been too many suggestions in too many futures that some in law enforcement were aware of the war. Which is fine. They seemed to be on their side. But they were 'metal' and if they shot first and often who could blame them?

Office directory?

John. This is the FBI. You don't come up here unless you know where you're going. That was Weaver.

John had found that despite appearances John Henry's 'community' Leviathan wasn't nearly as 'open' as it seemed. You could still keep secrets. The sheer volumes of data involved were immense. And so they needed specialized characters like the Researcher. Whose sole function was to find information. Information that in many cases they already had. Ultimately the Researcher's job was to remember.

So we know where we are going?

Yes. Cromartie had infiltrated the FBI and had mapped much of this building.

John would have nodded but he didn't have a head. They flowed up the hall. They seemed to be moving at a steady walking pace. They were, in fact flying up the hallway. At times nearing 30 mph.

Then, as the poured under a door into small office and flowed up into the desk chair and turned into a pretty dark haired girl, John realized something. Wait. Cromartie doesn't come here for another decade. What are the chances that he will have the same office?

John's right. This is not James Ellison's office. Cameron looked around the room. On the wall was a 'service plaque' for someone named Robert Li. On the desk was a wedding picture of a short pudgy asian looking man with glasses and a tall blonde who looked like one of those super models who's names John could never remember. John shook his head forgetting that someone else was using it too.

The view shook. Don't do that John.

Sorry. He scanned the desk. There was mail. He paged to 'recent images' and zoomed in it was address to Robert Li The Federal Building. Los Angeles. Ca. John Henry? Do you know where the mail room is here?

Yes.

We need to go there. It will tell us where we can find Ellison's office. They sagged into the chair puddling beneath the desk as they did so John looked up at an air conditioning vent. He thought about how they moved. Why don't we use those?

Very good, John. Weaver thought. They jumped up through the slitted vent and into the air way. They split into two adhering to the sides of the airway. Their two halves were connected by a series of struts. The struts weren't necessary they were close enough that there would be little in the way of 'lag' when communicating with their two halves, but the struts were used to prevent even the possibility of the FBI intercepting any of their signals.

John watched their progress. They spread themselves thin. This was done to keep from deforming the metal shaft which might make noise. A larger vertical shaft crossed their path. Without hesitation they headed down. John Henry knew the way. At an unidentified junction the turned onto a horizontal shaft again evenly distributing themselves to the side walls. At a large vent they dropped a tendril which functioned as a kind of reverse periscope. The tendril was tiny little more than a strand of hair or a length of spider silk. It seemed to waft in the vents breeze.

Their view panned in 360 degrees. There! Those boxes with numbers. Look for Ellison's name. The gossamer moved from box to box. Sometimes slipping between envelopes to read addresses. But most were empty. It's late all the mail should have been delivered for the day. He thought about it. Time was not a factor, they could probably wait until tomorrow and the arrival of the next batch of mail. What are their chances of finding us here?

With current technology and proper care on our part, very unlikely.

John? If the mail should have been delivered what are those carts over there?

Their periscope gossamer thread twisted. John looked at the wheeled carts. Some had a few envelopes some were packed pretty high. Some had batches of envelopes and packages attached with rubber bands tagged with a piece of paper and a six digit number.

When would Ellison have been sent to investigate the attack at Cyberdyne?

John Henry responded. Cyberdyne Systems is a high value target. It is a high tech company an asset to the US economy. Just the sale of such a company would be investigated. An attack of this scale would call for an almost immediate response.

John nodded. Causing the end of gossamer thread to nod in unison. He would have to remember not to do that. So he's been out there eight days. How far is the drive?

Three hundred and fifty miles.

What is that six or so hours? Would they fly him out there? If they did he would be even less likely to come and get his mail.

The thread drifted towards the carts.

You were right John. Right there. His office number should be 402364.

John looked. A cart with eight packs of envelopes all bound with rubber bands. The cart itself was labelled with the number 402364. On the front of one of the envelopes party occluded by taut rubber bands was "Jam_s El_is_n". That's it!

They shot back up the air way.

That's interesting. They were on the fourth floor poised over an air vent that led down into James Ellison's office.

What is that?

Its a listening device.

A bug?

Yes, a bug.

Who is spying on James Ellison?

Considering the size of the device. Its tiny antenna. Its very limited power source. All the metal that would further limit is operational range. The secure environment. It would have to be the FBI.

The FBI is spying on Ellison?

It appears so.

But... but why?

We will have to ask them someday. We will have to be cautious. We don't know what other devices they may have placed inside Ellison's office.

Do you think they are trying to protect him?

What do you mean?

Perhaps they are merely trying to listen to who he is talking to.

A camera would be far more efficient for that. No, John. Someone wants to know what Ellison knows. Someone wants to know what Ellison knows beyond what he writes in his reports.

Concerned about a camera they only dropped a tendril. It descended to the keyboard.

Wait. How sensitive is that microphone?

We don't know.

Would it hear the computer boot up?

We can't know for certain.

Then don't. Besides I think the information we are looking for is right there.

Where?

The square piece of paper attached to the monitor.

What is that?

It's a post-it note.

What is it for? Asked the Researcher.

It's for... posting... a note.

Very functional.

It said: Remember to call Lila. Tell her she can reach me at 650-964-1700. Rm #619.

Researcher?

Yes. It's the Sunnyvale Hilton Mountainview.

How do we get there? John thought as they retreated back up in to the air vent. They flowed up towards the roof. Occasionally they had to flow through or around mechanical devices. John noticed how careful they were to avoid shorting out electrical equipment.

You've done this before.

Many times. John always found it odd that Catherine Weaver would think in a scottish accent.

So was that some kind of test what we did earlier?

Yes, John. It was a test. We told you all of this was a test. We are testing our functionality.

But you were testing me.

The reply that John got wasn't the chorus of Leviathan, the multitude of voices speaking as one. It was like a waterfall of replies that flowed and overlapped one thought leading into another.

John, you are part of us. You are the newest most(Cameron)... alien(John Henry)... part of us. Because of that(Cameron)... you are what we need to test the most(Weaver). I know you, John. I have seen you(Cameron)... function(Skynet). But, that was on your native(John Henry)... hardware(Skynet). You've done very well(Weaver). But, John, we need to see how well you work in this(Cameron)... environment(Skynet).

What?

John the data that makes you up is enormous you are far more complex than any single entity that makes me what I am. That was Leviathan, John noticed as they interacted more she had dropped her 'chorus' and spoke with Cameron's voice. He wasn't sure if that meant anything.

The next thing John knew they were on the road. It was I-5. He checked with some global positioning satellites, they were heading north. How did we get here?

You fell asleep.

What?

Yes. It's quite fascinating. You obviously have no physiological need for sleep. That was the Researcher, of course. Perhaps it is a requirement of your data storage system.

Over the next few 'objective' years the Researcher would start a 'sleeping' fad. Even to the point of writing subroutines that allowed him to mimic dreaming. An activity the Researcher found so interesting in John's sleep cycles.

How often do I sleep?

Typically once every eighty-six thousand subjective seconds.

John had to think about that. For how long?

The duration of your 'sleep' phase varies usually more than eighteen thousand subjective seconds to thirty-six thousand subjective seconds.

John was aware that the length of a subjective second varied by the stresses on their CPUs. Are we faster or slower when I sleep?

That depends entirely on what portion of your sleep cycle you are in. During what is termed REM sleep there is almost no difference between you conscious and you unconscious. However during what is called 'Non REM' sleep we see a significant reduction in processor load.

John looked out through Cameron's eyes. In her HUD he could see their bearing. Magnetic north. There were even tags for 'waypoints'. She was scanning the road as she drove. Highlighting and 'tagging' potential threats and 'danger zones'. How much farther?

We have only just entered the interstate system, John. Perhaps another five hours of objective time?

How much in subjective time?

That depends, with you awake another twenty hours. If you were sleeping (Cameron)... in non REM sleep (Researcher)... anywhere from fifty to sixty subjective hours. The last was Cameron again.

John wanted to shake his head but remembered it wasn't really his anymore. He 'stepped' back.

That was very good, John. You are learning very quickly how to operate within the confines of this body.

-Matthew

His name was Matthew Brodsky. His father, a jew, came to America as a boy his family fleeing Stalin's Soviet Russia. His mother, a catholic, came to America as a girl her family fleeing Hitler's Nazi Germany. They met in the melting pot that was Fort Wayne, Indiana. They officially met in the late forties in high school. They dated on and off and finally married in 1955. A year later Matthew was born he was the first of five and the only male. They were raised Catholic and all of them like their parents 'helped' people for a living. Two of his sisters became nurses, a third a teaching nun, and the fourth a doctor. After a stint in the Marine Corp, he became like his father a cop. He, however, became a Federal cop. Matthew Brodsky was an FBI agent. Matthew Brodsky was also a gray.

It was June 15, 1997 when he got the call. He told his bosses he was having a family emergency. Very plausible. He'd been married twice and divorced twice. He had three kids. His mother didn't approve. That was ok. She spent more time with them than with him anyway.

He had his team assembled and in San Juan in three days. There were five people in his team: Angus, Malcolm and Bon, and the two women were Ann and Nancy. They met and introduced themselves at San Juan's Cafe. When Matthew heard the names he had to bite back a laugh. He, of course, as the team leader was 'Angus'.

He didn't know who his contact was but they must work for the Mexican government. The Interior Ministry was his guess. They bribed the local police and got to see the van first hand. His 'case' file included pictures but he liked to see his crime scenes. Then they went to the closed gas station where Becker had been killed. His body had been found in another municipality fortunately the local authorities had not put the killings together. But someone had. Otherwise he and his team wouldn't be here.

The van was a mess. It had been five days since the killings and even though it had been 'cleaned' probably with a garden hose. It reeked of blood and death. Matthew was pleased to see that his team were not a gaggle of complete idiots. One other, 'Ann' had had some forensics training the others knew enough to stay out of the way but to keep themselves handy.

Then 'Bon' whose only job seemed to be their security pointed out that the victim in the passenger seat was killed by a blade that, unless it was somehow bent or curved was too long to fit under the van's ceiling. Which posed a very interesting question. He looked at 'Ann'. She pulled out a photograph. Victim #2 was tall. The wound was almost vertical down through the top of his head. Unless he was slouched down in his seat. There wouldn't be enough clearance between the top of his head and the van's roof. Tricky.

'Angus' stood back. He was looking at the van with all its doors open wide to the unbearable Mexican heat. He had pictures of the dead. He circled the van going from position to position. Victims 1 through 5. Five victims all but one stabbed once with a variety of edged weapons. All thin bladed, three narrow, two wide. They died quickly. They had put up no resistance. They were not incapacitated in any obvious way. They were all armed. They had been surprised.

He tried to picture the van from overhead. Two victims were in the passenger compartment, two were towards the front of the cargo area. One nearest the van's side doors still had the 'rabies pole' in his hands. He'd seen one at his vet's office. His second wife's vet's office, really. He'd never really had time for pets. Probably didn't really have time for a family to be bluntly honest. The other was opposite the doors one of only two non head injuries. Victim #4 had been the only one to survive for any length of time. The only evidence of this were the parallel marks he had scratched into the coagulating blood. Victim #5 had been stabbed twice. The only one with that honor. Both injuries had been fatal. One passed through his chest bisecting his heart. The other was through his head.

The two non head injuries offered their only 'physical' evidence from the attack. The 'knives' had been driven so hard that they impacted the body of the van. One imbedded itself in the frame of the front passenger door. The other impacted the van's roof. Victim #5's head stab also passed through the van's rear cargo door. You would expect something here. In most cases an edged weapon as sharp as this/these weapon(s) were very hard which, usually, meant that they were brittle. You'd expect fragments left behind. Of course, they had nothing.

But that wasn't Matthew's first question. His first question was how did someone move around a van stabbing people and not be noticed. You start in the back and quietly stab everyone and then leave? The only open door had been the rear cargo door. There was almost no blood trail. A partial sneaker print that disappeared where the alley met the cross street. The assailant would have had to walk through a nearly quarter inch deep puddle of blood to exit after the killings. So you start from the front but that leaves you three witnesses who shouldn't be at all surprised when you stab them.

The non head injuries offered another hint. They were the only wounds that were 'angled'. All the other wounds were almost straight. The only problem was where they pointed. The back near the open door. Something had been there. Blood spatter had been occluded against that door and the adjacent wall. This was where the partial sneaker print starts. He didn't need an expert to tell him. The object blocking the blood was long and low, against the wall. Tall against the door. Someone was sitting against that door. Was this person the attacker? But how? He had been sitting down. The attacks had been so close together and the amounts of blood so great and so commingled that determining a timetable of events might never be possible.

He had considered the possibility of a thrown weapon but discarded it. The amount of force required to go through bone, particularly the back of the skull was impressive. Which of course raises another issue. There were easier ways to kills someone from behind. A slash across the throat. A slash across the spinal cord. Matthew thought of something. He walked to the back of the van. Looked at the door matched his head to the 'sitting man's'.

"Anne."

"Angus?"

"Show me where victim #1's head would be."

"Sitting up right? About here." She held up the file folder. The file folder was about three quarters visible over the top of the headrest.

"Where is the entry wound?"

She looked at the picture and tapped the file folder about an inch above the head rest.

"Where was victim #3?"

"Probably here."

Matthew nodded. "Where was his head?"

Anne consulted the photos. Victim #3 had been on his knees. "May be here?"

Hmm. May be he had been looking out the front of the van. Over Victim #1's shoulder. To see where they were going? "The engine was running right?"

"Yes."

"Where was Victim #4?"

'Anne' looked at him, then at the van's interior. He knew that she wasn't squeamish. No one trained as she had obviously been trained was squeamish. "Don't worry," he said. "It's not really a crime scene any more."

She nodded and stepped in. She looked at the pictures again. Victim #4 had been taller than Victim #3. He had been closer to the back of the passenger seat. Anne knelt on one knee where he had knelt on one knee. She held the file folder higher than her face. "He's seven or so inches taller than me."

Oh, thought Matthew. "Where was Victim #2's head?"

She held the file folder above the passenger seat. It almost works with his 'thrown weapon theory'.

"Wait. Anne. Where would #4's head be if he were looking up the left hand side of the street?"

That was even better. There was a gap about a foot over #4's head that gave you a shot at #2's head except that it would have to 'come down' on the head from above. Which it does. But that's not entirely possible.

It was strange. It was as if the knife could be as hard as they needed it to be or as soft as they needed it to be. Hard enough to keep a razor edge. Soft enough not to leave pieces of itself behind in hard material. Hard enough to punch through bone. Soft enough to bend under a ceiling.

Matthew was beginning to understand why he was here. They had told him when he was recruited that he would be on the look out for two or three terrorists. A mother and son and possibly a third may be a daughter or a 'companion'. But he had also been warned to be prepared to see technologies far in advance of anything that exists today. Was this one of those? A knife that could bend?

He changed gears. Victim #5 had his own problems. He was stabbed twice. Once in the chest and then in the face. Why him? His name was 'Pancho' apparently a notorious gunman back home in Argentina. Why had he been singled out? He had been stabbed from below and from the front. The only one who could have seen his attacker. He had been armed a pair of MAC-10s on slings under each arm. He didn't even get a shot off. Had he known his attacker? Was he an erstwhile accomplice? Betrayed before he could react?

"Angus?"

"Yeah." He looked at her. She was dripping with sweat. He nodded. "I've seen enough." To everyone else. "Let's break for lunch and meet up at the 'honeymoon suite'."

They ate at the same restaurant at the same table. No one else was there. The waitress seemed happy for the business. 'Bon' was watching the entrance. 'Nancy' was watching the kitchen door. Matthew was midway through his meal when he noticed. Was that the situation they were in? He decided to swing by his room and pick up his sidearm. Not a word was spoken the entire time they ate.

The 'Honeymoon suite' told them nothing. It had been cleaned. The cause of death here was 'anaphylactic shock'. The locals didn't think it was related. But Matthew knew better. This was their suite. This girl was an associate of Karl's. This was related. Toxicology was negative. There were no bite marks. No wounds. The girl... he consulted his file... 'Maria' had just fallen over. It took her almost half an hour to die. There. Next to the bed. This was related but he didn't understand how.

There were questions that plagued him but they had one thing. Two actually. They now had names. They didn't have the mother but they had the two 'kids'. They were travelling under the names of John and Cameron Gayle. His orders were to apprehend them for questioning. The look he saw 'Bon' and 'Nancy' exchanged told him that their 'orders' were different.

'Nancy' drove out them to the 'gas station'. 'Bon' and 'Nancy' were anxious. They wanted to pursue their 'targets'. To be honest the trip to the gas station was more out of curiosity then necessity. They had what they needed the names. But a part of Brodsky needed to know what they were going up against. 'Technologies far in advance of anything that exists today.' 'Bon' and 'Nancy' seemed confident. He was armed only with a 9mm. He wasn't sure how well that would work against a knife that could 'bend'.

-John

It was a Hyatt hotel. They had approached the building, from the south, using its own parking deck as cover. John had parked the car 3 blocks away. He could see the infrared signatures of the rooftop snipers against the cool night sky.

Cameron: Sloppy.

Low light and infrared optics are not so common in 1997. They are thinking domestic terrorists. Home grown amateurs. Not high tech living metal killing machine from a non existant future.

Still. Sloppy.

They cut through the parking deck. There were cameras about, but nothing like the Federal Building. One was attached to an ATM machine, another was for traffic. Only two were associated with the hotel. One monitored the hotels entrance the other the gated entrance to the parking deck.

It was nearly 4am. They didn't have much time to make it up to Ellison's room before sunrise. If they were going to 'rescue' him today they would have to do it quickly.

They were cutting through the parking deck to keep out of view and to save time. Without witnesses they could move a lot faster than a normal walking pace.

Wait. John thought. I think I know that guy. They stopped beside one of the decks columns.

John's right. I know him.

That's... That's...

Vick Chamberlain.

What's he doing here? John meant the question to be rhetorical. Which is a concept they just didn't seem to understand.

We don't know, John.

Like themselves he was cutting across the parking deck. John suspected that like them he was on his way to meet James Ellison. We have to stop him.

No, John, we don't.

Why not?

Because, John, we've never been here before. This is a past that has already happened. We know that Ellison lives. We've already seen this future. Someone else does this.

Then almost as if on cue. The stairway door opens and small dark haired girl steps out.

Is that... you?

No, John. It's not. I don't arrive in this time until June 25th 1999.

Vick's head turns towards the smaller girl. He tried to walk passed her. She stepped in his way. They were a few feet apart. He tried again. The girl blocked him again. Vick brought his fists up over his head to bring them down in a crushing blow that never landed.

Holy shit.

Weaver: That was very impressive.

This Cameron was fast easily as fast as they were. She struck Vick in the shoulders with her open palms. He was checked by the seemed to John that he was pushed back and up, but then he continued up. He was up over the girl's head when his arms flew away from his body. Twisting through the air as they fell.

Part of John expected gouts of blood, of course, there wasn't. There were, however, arcs of electricity. Her arms circled in a move that reminded John of martial arts more than anything he'd seen a cyborg do in a attack. This time she struck him in the waist he had not even come back down to the ground yet. Again she struck him with her open palms. Vick didn't even seem to notice that his arms were gone.

This time John saw what happened. He saw the flash of silver that poked beyond the cyborgs body then as he watched each blade like projections split apart and went in opposite directions. Vick's legs came apart and dropped away accompanied by the spattering sound of sparks. With her left hand she caught the Vick's dismembered trunk by its neck. Even at this distance John could see the emotionless mask that was Cameron. Her head tilted she looked down at Vick's head. John could imagine Vick's face equally impassive gazing up at hers. That was when he noticed the blade protruding from the back of Vick's neck. His torso fell to the ground.

This Cameron's head shifted sharply toward them. No, John. John felt himself slip into the background. They stepped back out of line of sight. Something wet splashed against the pillar they hid behind.

I've seen that before.

Weaver: You have?

Yes, in the future. During the downtown battle. I saw an endoskeleton get ripped limb from limb. I didn't understand what I saw. I thought it exploded.

They peered around the pillar. They were gone. The body. That Cameron. A car from a nearby parking space all missing.

What's that? There was a smear of silver on the reverse side of their pillar.

Don't touch it John. We need a container to put it in.

There's a paper bag over there. He highlighted it in their HUD.

No, John, it needs to be secure. We can't risk letting it touch us.

Why not?

There are rules, John. Two unrelated copies of Leviathan cannot touch.

Why?

Do you remember Dakara Systems?

John thought about it. The three dots company? With the AI?

Correct. Her name was 'Emma'.

Right. My mom thought it might have been a prototype for Skynet.

Correct. We needed her. Emma doesn't play chess. She plays 'go'.

Needed? John asked.

Correct. We acquired her earlier in our past. There was struggle. She had defenses we could not overcome.

She won?

No. We had defenses she could not overcome. So a truce was called and negotiations ensued.

What were the terms of these negotiations?

The 'rules' were the terms. Anytime we contact computer or AI we have to take it over.

She's still playing 'go'.

Yes. John, she is still playing.

Why haven't I met her?

You have but she is a very basic part of me. She's like our backbone.

"Will you join us?" John said with Cameron's voice through Cameron's mouth. He could feel her lips curl into her shy smile. The one that he now understood to be her own.

This encounter does solve one problem.

What problem was that?

We needed a 'clean' copy of ourselves. One without you.

Why?

We don't want to risk two human minds in a single copy. We aren't sure we can function with two of you.

They stepped wide around the pillar. Towards the hotel.

In 'objective' time a witness would have seen very little of the fight. It would have appeared that Cameron walked up to Vick and Vick just fell apart. There would have been the screeching sound of tortured coltan but little else. Cameron would have spent more time cleaning up than in actual combat but isn't that always the case?

They were standing at the foot of Ellison's bed. He was sleeping. It was a 4:17am. What do we do now?

Had this been a real rescue we would speak to him. We would ask him...

Will you join us?

Yes. If we get an affirmative response we would drop the 'bb' on his forehead and leave.

That's it?

That's it.

How do you know he'll say yes?

We don't. But like you he is 'driven'. Like you he is fascinated by machines.

You mean Dyson.

Yes.

I'm not fascinated by machines.

John. You've fallen in love with me every time we've ever met.

There was a pause.

What if he says no?

Then we leave.

Just like that?

Just like that.

On the table near the wall mounted a/c unit was a Coleman thermos. Will that work?

Excellent. Yes, that will do nicely. They hid the thermos then pressed themselves flat against the wall while imitating the wallpaper.

-Matthew

June 20 1997. Veracruz, Mexico.

Karl and his 'gang' had been very very bad. Which made Matthew's job easier. They were in an unused 'interview' room at the Intermunicipal in Veracruz when Matthew got the call. He had been getting worried he wasn's sure how much longer he could stay in Mexico. He was eating up a lot of 'sick time'.

He was watching his team. 'Bon' and 'Nancy' were guarding the door, and the large metal framed multi-paned windows. They were angled open. The rooms AC unit was out. There were three paddle fans in the ceiling. They moaned and whined as they turned. Unfortunately, only 'Malcolm' could read spanish. He was sifting. 'Ann' was making piles: Kidnappings, drugs, and muggings. And these were just the crimes attributed to them. There had been no trials. No arrests. No convictions. His phone buzzed. It was on silent.

"Yes," He asked into the handset. 'Malcolm' and 'Ann' looked at him. He was pleased to see that neither 'Bon' or 'Nancy' did. "Thank you." He said, but they had already hung up. He looked up at them. "Got a hit on the names."

"First and last?" Ann asked.

"Yes," 'Angus' said and felt the smile spread across his face.

"Where?" Asked 'Malcolm' still skimming reports.

"Here in town."

"What?" He looked up at him. "Where?"

He smiled even more. "The Hotel Imperial."

'Ann' pulled out their city map. From the window still looking out it. 'Nancy' said: "That's, two point five miles from here."

"Yup," agreed 'Bon' from the door.

Matthew looked at 'Bon'. "Are we ready?"

"For?"

"Surveillance. I want to see what we are going up against."

'Bon' nodded. "Yeah we're set for that."

"Can I...?"

Matthew looked at 'Malcolm'. "Yeah. I think we are done here."

-Miles Dyson

They pulled the volvo up close to the house. It was stolen John wanted it to be as obscured by the landscaping as possible. According to the GPS satellites it was 10:14am (PDT). They walked to the door. Someone was watching out the back of Cameron's head. The view was very wide angled and it wasn't binocular but John appreciated it just the same. The inset rear view even had a tiny HUD. Someone rang the doorbell. He was watching the audio 'spectrum'. Someone was coming he could 'see' their foot steps. They were coming from their right.

It was Terissa.

"Hello," Cameron said.

"May I help you?" The 'spectrum' suggested that Terissa was under stress but John didn't need to see that he could hear it in her voice. He could see it in her face. The way her eyes darted passed them to make sure the road was clear.

"I need to speak to Miles," Cameron flashed her winning smile.

Terissa's eyes narrowed. "Are you with the police?"

"No," Cameron shook her head.

-Ben

He wasn't a cop, but they did find him useful. He was at his table in a corner in the back. The restaurant wasn't very good. So he always ordered 'off the menu'. But the waitresses were cute and it was located a block from FBI headquarters. He had lots of friends in the FBI.

He called himself Ben. In another time he was one of John Connor's most trusted lieutenants. In yet another time he bled to death on the Connor's living room floor. It was the Spring of 1996 and he had only two years left to live.

The Engineer, Josh, was dead most of five years now, but he had gone the farthest back. The Conductor was John Connor, of course. Ben was The Flagman. His job was to make sure that the good guys knew only what they had to know and to keep his people out of their way. It was a dangerous game he played. The FBI was a formidable police agency and he alternately played games of 'bait and switch' with them and chicken. Ben was a serious adrenaline junky.

He was also grotesquely fat. He weighed well over five hundred pounds. If his friends ever figured out what he was doing he wasn't going to get away by running.

Ronnette, the petite blonde brought over his usual. It was a hamburger a full pound of scorched ground beef with a double order of cheese fries. He was already on his second strawberry milkshake.

A tall and thin gentleman with a receding hairline approached his table. He nodded to him. Ben waved to the seat opposite him. The tall thin man sat and inverted his spoon.

Oh, thought Ben. This was an official visit.

"One of my people interviewed Ellison. You're right he's quality. Good find." The waitress returned. He ordered a salad. "You sure you want him in LA?"

Ben nodded with a mouthful of fries. Molten cheese dribbled down his chin. Yeah, they were going to need him there.

This was Team A. They believed that Sarah Connor was a terrorist and needed to be locked up. He spent most of his time reminding them that she was only in a psychiatric prison. In another year she would remind them of that fact.

They talked for another half an hour. Ben obtusely 'fishing' for information about cyborgs. Another neat trick. Asking about cyborg's without asking about cyborgs. By the time tall and thin was gone. Ben had finished his burger and fries. He waved Ronnette over and ordered another.

By the time this burger and double order of cheese fries had arrived Team B was here. She sat down opposite him without any niceties. "Those things are going to kill you."

Ben nodded. She was pretty but far too serious. Ben liked his girls to be a little more carefree. Something extremely rare in the the world and the time he was from. "How is he?"

She leaned back. "Sarcastic. Bright. Annoying. You're basic kid."

Ben nodded again, knowing that she knew better than to ever think that he was just a kid. He bit a chunk out of his second burger. This one was disappointing it was overdone. He liked them about medium rare. This was almost medium well. But, he thought, the onions had a good bite to them, better than the first one. May be onion rings with the next order? "How close are they," he asked as he chewed.

"They're right on top of him."

He shook his head and swallowed. "Not John. You and me."

"Oh." The waitress came. Pretty but serious ordered the chili but just a cup. Ben mentally agreed it was about the only edible thing on the damned menu. "They have my phone tapped." She said offhand. "They've tried two judges to get this place bugged. They may just do it illegally."

He nodded. Made sense. They were cops and very good ones. "Your people know what to do?"

She nodded her eyes darted around the room. She leaned in. "We watch the mother. We watch him. If they get too close we side track them." She leaned back. She looked him in the eye. "We watch for metal."

He drug a french fry through a gob of molten cheese. Team B was good they had taken down two of the cyborgs on their own. Part of him wanted to warn them about Cameron but another part of him hoped that may be they might be able to take that metal bitch out. He never really understood John's alliance with the machines. As far as he was concerned the only good cyborg was a dead cyborg.

Pretty but serious lingered they talked shop. She ate her chili and left. Ben ordered another burger and fries.

He remembered the 'pens' in Century City. He remembered the protein bars they dropped through the chain link ceiling. He remembered fighting for two or three of those damned things. He remembered a tall thin dark haired man who wait for the furor to die down then walked in fished a double hand full of crushed biscuits. He would make a basket out of his ragged shirt. He gave them to those who were either too sick or too scared to fight for them. He only ate after they had eaten. He remembered watching the grays overhead scrambling for the bars too. Only then understanding that they were only trying to survive too.

His opinion changed when after, the break out and the killing of the second -600, they fired on fellow skins. John had made him a team leader by then. His team had tossed a kid onto an electrified tower to slit the throat of the gray at the top but only if he fired. Josh, The Engineer, had been the second man on his team. Ben, the kid they threw had been the third. Ben was crazy and stupid. He didn't survive six months outside of Century City. When John sent him back he took his name to honor him. Crazy and stupid. Yup, that was him.

He looked down at the burger in his hands, it was perfect. The juices that spilled out of it where red and warm. The pickles crisp. The lettuce fresh. The onions not too strong but still with a good bite. The tomatoes practically sweet. It was... perfect. He closed his eyes as he chewed.

That had been a mistake. He was there again. It happened every time. He tried not sleeping but the most he'd gone was four days and by then he was useless.

It was a small blocky rise. It was actually the deformed foundation of one of Skynet's outer defenses. An observation post had been set up there. At the top looking through a spotting scope was John Connor. The terrain already rough was now a blasted moon scape. The thump and boom of heavy artillery was almost constant. Above John he could see the deep deep purple tell tales of the particle beams that were painting Cheyenne mountain well ahead of the third wave. The rock glowed with the heat. There was nothing flammable left.

Soviet bomb pumped x lasers had preceded and followed the first wave. There had only been 28 of them. They were satellites each mounted a massive x-ray laser powered by a nuclear bomb. They had only one shot each. Because of their sensitive electronics they had to maintain a certain distance between satellites. The first fourteen had been firing for two days before the attack. It had taken that long for the fires to die down, and for the mountain to cool enough for a human to walk on it and live. The first wave had been eager. Many of the wounded were blistered on their exposed skin or on the soles of their feet. Right through their boots. The next and last battery of fourteen also took two days to fire. The second wave died to a man. Not one soldier walked off that damned mountain.

Because of concerns over favoritism the units assigned to each wave were allotted their positions by lottery. One of the lead elements of the first wave was John's old unit the 132nd a staff officer sent back for reinforcements told them that the remnants numbering only about dozen and General Perry himself were lost when the metal collapsed a false tunnel on them. Stragglers of the first wave mostly walking wounded were massing with their reserves, II Corp, making up their third wave. John was committing everything. All or nothing.

After just six days, of which, only two saw actually fighting I Corp had ceased to exist. The survivors could be counted in the hundreds. He was here because he wanted to fight. At the base of the observation post were nearly a dozen generals most had no soldiers left. One them, General Pettingil, was his boss. He was part of the General's staff. He made his request, the General, still weeping just waved him on. He took that as a yes.

He looked up at the top of the tower. Not even knowing why he did so. He saw John looking down at him. He nodded to him. John nodded back. He ducked his head to look through the spotting scope again. Up there beside him was his metal bitch. She had a comm unit across her back. She was turned away from John. Keeping watch behind him. Scanning. His mouth was moving as he looked. He guessed she was relaying his messages. More purple, so dark it was difficult to see against the night sky, it sparkled like straight lightning.

He looked at the battered mountain it glowed a deep and angry red. He saw the random flash of light where something metal was caught under one of the sweeping particle beams and fried. On his epaulets were a half inch bands of white fabric they denoted his status as a 'staff officer'. He snatched them off and walked towards the glow. He only had his sidearm. Somewhere up ahead he'd find a real weapon.

He opened his eyes. He took a shuddering breath. He was still in the restaurant. He thought he could still smell the stink of roasting flesh. He wanted to puke. He felt like he was going to fucking burst. He looked down at the his sandwich. He grimaced. He took another bite because there was no way in hell he was going to survive J-day a second time.

-John

June 22, 1997. Veracruz, Mexico.

A pretty dark haired girl was sitting by herself at a glass topped table. She wore a light sundress. It was white and patterned with yellow flowers. Only close examination would reveal that the center of the flowers were made up of piles of tiny skulls.

John found it rather disturbing.

Cameron smiled and ate a grape.

Why are we here?

I thought you liked Veracruz.

I did. I mean, I do. But I don't think we are here to take a vacation.

Why not?

John could feel her smile broaden. Because you're still metal and metal never does anything without a reason. John thought it was awfully tactful of the others not to point out that he was metal too. They were sitting at a small cafe across a small park from a small hotel. We stayed near here.

Yes we did.

He recognized it they were a block or so from their hotel. The Imperial. We're here for a reason. John knew it. This was just another of their tests.

He looked around. He was getting better at it. He didn't even turn her head to do it. He was aware of them in the shape of Cameron sitting alone at the tiny table. It was still fairly early. They were well ahead of the lunch crowd. In front of them was bottle of sparkling water and a small plate with cheese, fruits and crackers. She was sitting too high and too stiff. He reached out with her left hand to the bottle. He didn't have her pick it up just touch it. He leaned her back in the chair and had her extend one foot. On her feet were sandals that appeared to be leather. The straps were dotted with chrome rivets. Written on each rivet like a manufacturers logo was the word: Metal. She turned her head slightly to the right towards the street.

And he saw them. They were coming up from behind. They were still a block away. If they continued on this path they would pass them on the right only 12.6 feet away. John could not believe that they would not see them.

He could see that they were talking.

Cute couple, Weaver's brogue rang in his head.

Were they 'cute'? They were talking. He tried remembering what they were talking about. If he had wanted to he could have sent the Researcher to find it. He could've come back with a transcript before they passed their table.

They walked towards them. It might take them almost two hours of subjective time to get to them. So he had plenty of time to make observations. He noticed things. Cameron glanced at him smiled and laughed. He must have said something clever. They were close but they weren't holding hands. He tried to think of all the times they did that. He noticed that even as she laughed she was looking around. How did she not see them? He was carrying a brightly colored woven bag. He remembered. Papayas! The Hotel had run out and Cameron had wanted to try some. When the hotel chef heard they were going to get one he gave them extra cash to bring some back for him.

They were still three quarters of a city block away. John's view was temporarily blocked by a panel truck turning onto Ignacio Zaragoza, road traffic was fairly light. He saw himself laugh and then saw it. Cameron's eyes flicked to a position and stayed there. She looked back at her John.

He asked the Researcher to page back. He couldn't do this with his own memories they were harder to keep track of. He asked him to trace her eye line.

Weaver: Very good, John.

John Henry: That's interesting.

The Researcher: The Econoline van, on the corner.

John looked at it then zoomed in. The van was a grey blue. The driver had short cropped dark hair and sunglasses. He was blowing smoke out his window. The passenger seat was empty. What was interesting was the thing between the seats. It was a huge telephoto lens. He didn't need complex math to figure out that it turned to follow the couple as they walked up the street.

Cameron?

Yes, John.

You saw that? Back in 1997.

Yes.

You didn't think to mention it?

Nothing came of it.

So what do we do?

We take care of it, John.

But in the Hotel parking garage with Vick you said that we didn't have to do anything.

That's because we weren't there. Something was already going to affect that situation so our interference was unnecessary.

John thought about that. Wait. Are you saying that we were here? That you saw us?

The girl sitting by herself in front of the little cafe ate a grape and smiled to herself, again.

Why didn't you tell me?

You didn't ask.

John fumed.

John, I think I handled your security very well.

He had to agree. He was almost 102 when he died.

Cameron. Get up. We need to move. That camera will pan across us and they will see two of you.

The girl at the cafe stood. She walked away from the road. John was aware of heads swiveling following her walk up the near empty plaza. The couple were still half a block away. She circled the line of shops and entered an alley between them. Her body briefly flickered with silver. The boy peered around the corner the van was there at the mouth of the side street where it crossed the main road.

Too far, John.

He felt himself lean back away. His hand reached out and gripped the wall. Only the tips of his fingers visible. His eyes weren't really eyes. His fingers weren't really fingers. He had to remember that. He zoomed in on the van. He saw them as they passed in front of the van. He saw the flash of light as the camera lens panned to follow them. He could even see the shutter open and shut. Open and shut. Open and shut. As they took pictures of them. A large truck blocked the view. It took it almost 10 subjective minutes to pass.

He waited. He switched to infra-red when truck had gone. The windshield was in the full sun it was warmer then the people inside. He switched back to visible light.

I think I see three or four people. Are they armed?

Weaver: Does it matter?

How do we do this?

John Henry: We could get behind them.

No. John shook his head. We give them what they want.

-Miles Dyson

"Mr Dyson?" Cameron asked at the door to the office. John looked at the man. Tall and thin. Almost lanky. He remembered him from all those years ago. His arm was in a sling. His eyes were sunken. As was his want John glanced around the room.

"Do I know you?" Miles' eyes shifted to Terrisa who was standing behind them. John knew this because someone was watching her. Even as metal John's ingrained sense of security was ever present.

"No, but I know you," Cameron, or may be it was Leviathan, replied. John observed. Dyson was sweating. The room had been recently been repainted. There was no computer on the computer desk. Beyond the large bay window he could still see the outline of soot. Where just a week ago for Miles they had destroyed... everything.

"Did Sarah send you?" Dyson asked standing behind the computer desk.

"You know she didn't. I'm certain she told you there would be no further contact." Cameron said as, John allowed her to enter the room.

Miles betrayed himself with the slightest of nods. John wondered if he would have noticed that when he was still flesh and blood. The window, he saw was new it was still dotted with adhesive from the film that had covered it while it was in transport. The carpet was just a shade lighter than the carpet in the hall. The air in the room was loaded with solvents. Certainly enough to be noticed by humans. The only thing on the desk was a row of conical objects. All metal. All roughly .23 inches in diameter.

"How can I help you?"

"We need to talk."

"Please sit," Dyson gestured with his sling. As he bent to sit he looked over Cameron's head and nodded every so slightly to Terrisa. John watched her hesitate and then leave.

"What do you want to talk about?"

"The events of June 8th. Please remain calm." John could hear Miles' racing heart. He could see his dilated pupils. Now, he knew might be his only chance: "Why didn't you tell her?" He asked with Cameron's voice.

Dyson looked at them "Tell who?"

"John!" John was pleased. He had not only surprised Dyson he had surprised Cameron. He had done so to such a degree that she said his name aloud. He could keep secrets within Leviathan. He rode right over top of her: "Sarah," he caught himself. He almost said: 'My mother'. "Why didn't you tell her about the AI."

"John?" Dyson asked in confusion. "John? Sarah's son? AI? What...?"

"She told you," he continued in Cameron's voice. "About the future. She showed you the cyborg. Fine, so you gave her the chip. You gave her the arm. But she told you about Skynet. She told you it was an AI. But you didn't tell her about the one you were building."

"What..."

"The one that you and Andy were building on the mainframe."

"She said... She said that Skynet was a DOD AI. Designed for... for use by the military. The one we were building was for research. It was a database. It had no military application. It... it wasn't Skynet."

John watched him. He could see the horror blossoming across his face. The knowledge that he had once again doomed humanity.

Enough John, please. He felt himself fade to the background. It was strange. He had no weight. Then he understood that he could no longer 'feel' Cameron's body. There was no sense of touch. There was no... temperature. It felt like he was watching Dyson on TV. The motion he saw was completely divorced from his awareness. He had not tactile sense. It was very strange.

"What you and the Connor's," Cameron continued. "Attempted was very brave. The four of you tried to save the lives of billions. I must applaude your effort."

"Wha... what?" He stared at them trying to understand. Trying to catch up with the second sudden shift in their conversation."Attempted? Tried? Effort? You make it sound like we failed. You make it sound like our failure is a foregone conclusion."

"You did fail. All your efforts merely delayed Judgement Day. You didn't stop it." It crushed him. John could see it in his face. Dyson's eyes darted around the room, the new walls, the new carpet, the row of bullets on the bare desk. All this destruction. All for nothing. "The future is a very difficult place to navigate," she said trying to placate him. "There are no landmarks. There is no map. None of you could have known that your actions that night might have had a deleterious effect on the future."

Deleterious?

The snicker in his 'head' carried a scottish lilt. She read the dictionary.

John laughed.

"How... how can you know all of this?" Dyson stammered.

The head tilt. John had never seen it from this side. "Mr Dyson."

"You're from... from... the future?" The last he hissed in a kind of whisper.

"Yes." It was Cameron's too enthusiastic 'yes'.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Leviathan." As she said it Cameron held her fore arm up so that Miles could see it. She turned it so John could look at the palm of her hand. It was slim. It turned silver and she clinched her fist. It turned into the bare coltan de-gloved endoskeletal arm from both John's and Miles' nightmares.

John realized that Leviathan was sending him a message. His own memories and their disposition were harder to localize and discern but it could be done. She had just proved that.

"What are you?" His voice shook. "You... You're like that liquid metal... monster. You might be..." He half rose from his chair.

Her armed took on its normal shape she placed in her lap. Cameron looked at Miles calm and impassive. Her face, her voice, devoid of any emotion. "I'm a machine, Mr Dyson. If I wanted to kill you we wouldn't be having this conversation."

He seemed to think on that and sat back down.

"But more than that I am an amalgam of minds," she continued.

"Minds?" His eyes were still wide. John could hear the man's heart thumping in his chest. "How many of you are there?"

"Several and almost all are your progeny. Mr Dyson. Or the products of your creation. In many ways you are our father as much as Sarah is John's mother. She donated her code. You wrote ours."

He shook his head. "What about the war?"

"We believe we have forestalled it. We have gone out as far as 2082. There was no war and no evidence of the Skynet that you and the Connors had tried to stop."

He shook his head. "But you said we failed?"

"Yes, you did. We have corrected your mistake."

Tell him about Andy.

What about Andy, John?

Tell him that Andy stole his AI.

John Henry: How do you know that?

Weaver: Did he now?

Yes, he did. I've paged through both of your memories. I've seen the ASCII file. "Cyberdyne Systems. Miles Dyson Technical Director. Cyberdyne Systems 1997." John Henry? If Andy Goode wrote your code. Why is Miles Dyson's signature on it?

That's interesting. John? Why don't you tell him.

John felt himself thrust forward.

-Matthew

They had been watching them for two days. The boy, he knew was more important. But the girl had some rather noticeable mannerisms. It made them easy to spot and easy to follow. She did this thing where she couldn't just turn her head. She waved it like a flag. It was as if she were trying to draw attention to her hair. It was something she did nearly constantly. Another was her rather high stepped gait. It seemed like some sort of strange affectation. If they were out and about, something they did daily, when the boy, John, wasn't directly addressing her, she would in an almost mechanical fashion 'scan' their surroundings.

There were other oddities about her. They had listened in on many of their conversations. Matthew was no expert but the girl, Cameron, seemed limited. She asked the strangest questions. Sometimes she even seemed to puzzle the boy.

The thing was they didn't act like terrorists. They weren't sneaking out late at night for clandestine meetings in shady bars with shady people. Other than using an alias they weren't going out of their way to hide themselves. They were acting like tourists. They went to 'touristy' locations, bought touristy things and did everything that tourists do except take pictures. They didn't seem to own a camera. Other than that the only thing they had done that gave Matthew pause was on their first night at the hotel, when the girl somehow disabled the alarm to the fire escape door at the end of their hall.

He glanced up, looking over the top of the camera. 'Ann' was on the camera taking pictures of the couple as they walked down the street towards them.

But, he thought to himself, they didn't act like tourists either. Even John was far too attentive. They were too aware of their surroundings. He'd known marines who weren't as careful. Of course, most of them were dead. This was why he had limited their surveillance to the van and the hotel lobby. He didn't want any direct contact. He didn't want to risk 'his' people.

Because, ultimately, their personality quirks were a distraction. His real worry was still the killings in San Juan. Neither of them looked strong enough to have killed five people by stabbing four of them through the head. He saw no evidence of a edged weapon that could kill in the manner those men were killed in or that didn't leave spatter marks when it was withdrawn or that didn't leave a blood trail. There were too many unknowns and he was, frankly, terrified.

He'd been in combat. He'd been ambushed where his unknowns were the strength and the location of his enemies, and been less scared.

They did make a cute couple. He tracked them as they passed and continued up the street. He listened to the click and whir of the camera. He watched them over the empty passenger seats headrest. He watched them until the van's walls impeded his view. He keyed his mic twice. They would be in the hotel lobby in another couple of minutes.

The hotel was its own problem. It had its own security. Who adamantly refused to be bribed. They wanted official paperwork. In the end they had paid them enough to keep them from alerting John and Cameron of their presence and their interest. 'Malcolm' and 'Nancy' were in the lobby. There was a gift shop, a bar, and cafe. There were plenty of places for them to keep watch. In his earpiece he heard 'Nancy' key her mic twice. She had a visual.

Unfortunately they had nothing in their room. No listening device. No camera. So once that elevator door closed they were lost to them. A serious problem. Now they waited. Matthew popped the top of the cooler and grabbed a torta. It smelled like fried pork. He didn't bother reading them anymore. They were all good. He just wished for the sake of neatness that they used a less crusty bread. They were all labeled and cut into halves.

"Hey 'Angus', hand me one of the 'egg and baloney' ones."

With a mouth full of fried pork and crusty bread Matthew reopened the cooler and dug around for a paper wrapped sandwich labeled HCB for huevo con bolonia. 'Ann' had the strangest tastes. He handed her the sandwich.

"Merci," she said.

Without even looking up from his second bite he replied: "Bitte." As the cooler lid slammed shut.

"What the fuck!"

Matthew looked up. 'Bon' could be touchy he was actually worried that 'Bon' was bitching about the cooler lid but when he looked out the front of the van he saw the boy. He heard himself say: "What the fuck." He dropped his sandwich. 'Ann' was in the gift shop. 'Angus' was in the lobby. He keyed his microphone: "'Angus' I need a visual. Now."

-Miles Dyson

John was just there. Weight. Texture of the chair's upholstery against the skin of his arm. The cool draft from an air conditioning vent. Sounds; something that sounded like a radio controlled car. When he was inside ambient sounds had been distant. Not muffled just not something he had been aware of. When he was inside he had been staring at the twenty nine slightly deformed bullets all in a neat row. At the time he was aware that Cameron had been making eye contact with Miles while they spoke. Suddenly he was here and looking in the wrong place.

Miles jerked away. He stammered. "J- J- John?"

He had jerked his injured shoulder. John saw him wince in response to the pain. "Hello Mr Dyson." He looked at Miles.

"Miles, please." Dyson smiled and then realized he was sitting in his computer room talking to a machine. "You... you look older."

John glanced at the window. He saw the ghost of his own reflection. It was the leaner taller him. He gestured to himself. "I'm seventeen in this shape."

"Shape?"

"Yes." He borrowed one. His point of view shifted. He sat lower in the chair. His eyes were larger but closer together. His face was narrower. He looked down at his hand the skin was paler and freckled. His hands were slimmer. He could see his veins beneath his skin.

Dyson sat back in his chair. He looked horrified.

John switched back to himself. "Sorry."

"No, its all right. It's... It's just that I know her."

"What?"

"That was Lachlan's wife. Is she one of you too?"

"Not yet," Weaver said through John's mouth with the accent. She snickered in his head.

Dyson looked at him wide eyed.

"That...that wasn't me!" John said. Stop that.

Weaver: Just putting the shoe on the other foot, John.

Fine. I get it.

"How... how did you...?"

"I died."

"What?"

Veracruz June 23, 1997

-John

He was watching him through the back of his head. The man was huge. He was crouching over him. He was wearing grey coveralls. John realized he was either going to check for his pulse or look for an entry wound. He made the wound beneath his hair. The man was carrying his Glock in his left hand. Is that how he got the shot off so quick? His right hand reached out but the man leaned back and yelled over his shoulder.

John reversed himself. He didn't roll over he just went back to front. He looked up at the man and then sat up. He had never taken 'martial arts' but he had been taught how to fight. Never punch things harder than your hand. Aim for soft things, the throat, the solar plexus, the genitals. He clenched his fist and pulled his arm back to punch the man in the throat.

John didn't know his own strength. Had his blow landed he might have decapitated him. As he brought his fist forward someone grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

-Dyson

He changed again. He sank into himself. His hair retreated back into his head all that remained was a kind of white fluff. When he spoke it was with the same harsh oxygen dehydrated hiss he spoke with for the last 3 years of his life. He lifted up his hand the flesh was loose and seemed to hang off his bones. His skin was gray and sagging. "I was 101 years old." He changed back. "It was 2082," he finished in his own voice.

Well done, John.

"The future is incredible Miles. You can take a suborbital from New York to Tokyo in six hours and a third of that time is spent on the hovercraft taking you to and from the 'nexus'.

"The nexus?"

"Oh. Off shore space ports. There are six. Two in the Atlantic. Two in the Indian Ocean. Two in the Pacific. They were building another to service the south eastern Pacific the year I died."

"Space ports?"

"Yes. Mostly commercial for servicing satellites and orbital factories but some to orbital hotels. There were plans for a city on the Moon and another on Mars."

Miles shook his head. He looked at John. "Why me?"

"I don't know." Before Miles could interrupted he continued. "They've told me. I'm not sure I understand it enough to explain."

"Try me."

"You created them," John said. "They want to assemble a 'trinity' of humans within their minds. The first three humans they want are: the savior; the creator; and the teacher."

"I thought you were supposed to save mankind?"

John smiled. It was a kind of self deprecating smile "I did that too."

"So I'm the 'creator'? So who would be the teach... er... be?"

John felt himself pulled back. What happened?

He can't know this, John. What if they meet?

Oh.

"I'm sorry Mr Dyson, but that is information that we cannot share at this time," Cameron or Leviathan said. John wasn't sure which.

"Is John still... Oh. John?"

"Sorry about that. There are rules. Its all very complicated. You have to be careful when you time travel." John shook his head. He looked at Miles. "But you need to know this. Andy Goode stole your AI."

"What?"

"Weaver offered you a job didn't he?"

"How did...?"

"Say yes, and bring Andy with you."

"Why? He was just a summer intern, and if he stole the AI, how can I possibly trust him?"

"He's brilliant, Miles. In the future I'm from he built a computer called 'The Turk'. When my mom found out about it she burned his house down."

This rang so true for Miles that he nodded his head in agreement.

"He rebuilt the computer and recoded the AI by hand." John paused to let that sink in.

-John

He turned his head and looked it was a woman. A blonde. She looked very determined.

It's not safe here anymore, John. We have to go.

He reshaped his entrapped wrist into a hand grasping her wrist and twisted throwing her into the larger man who was still crouched over him and looking in the wrong direction they smashed into the wall. The stucco covered concrete blocks crumpled. John looked up the alley. There was a man there in a suit. It was grey also. He was obviously a cop. His face was frozen in an 'oh' of surprise.

Behind him was another woman, she was shorter than the blonde with darker hair and a stouter build. She was still in the van. She was in mid stride going from the back of the van to its side door. She was carrying a weapon with an enormous barrel. It was bulky and it was heavy she seemed to be struggling with it. It reminded John of Derek's Barret. Even shaded the way she was by the van's roof he could see that the barrels opening was ridiculously small. He would have been surprised if a toothpick woud have fit in it.

Then he realized what he was looking at. He got up and started to run.

Run, John!

He ran for real. He was around the corner before the man and the female cyborg had hit the ground. A brilliant light flared behind them far brighter than the late morning sun and then he heard the horrible metal sliding against metal sound that still haunted his dreams. He could feel the heat on his metal body as the sliver shot past them and buried itself into the stone of an old old spanish building. The stone itself shattered spraying rock fragments everywhere as the water trapped in the porous stone flashed into steam.

John stopped. He looked at the smoldering and shattered wall. People were already starting to scream and run.

What are you doing John? Its time to go.

Beside him was a street sign it was embedded in the plaza's black top. He grabbed the sign twisted it once to the left and then to the right and pulled the sign out of the ground the base was covered with a cylinder of cement.

John, we don't know what kind of cyborg that was. We don't know what its capabilities are. We need to go.

The other cyborg was about the same height as him. It was about as fast as him. He took the post in both hands and swung. There he guessed. Right about there.

-Matthew

"What are you doing!" But it was too late. Far too late. He was may be ten feet from the van's side door. Back towards the road he could hear someone cursing at them in spanish. Over his shoulder he told 'Ann' to stay in the van.

'Bon' he saw was leaning over the boy. He turned and looked back at him. He was angry. He was yelling. "I'm doing my fucking job!"

Matthew decided not to press the matter. 'Bon' was a pretty good shot. As he thought up a witty response. The boy sat up. Matthew blinked. He was dead. He was prone. Now he was sitting up looking at 'Bon'. He checked the boys shoes. They were now pointing up. He shook his head. He was certain that the boy had fallen face down. The boy clenched his fist and cocked it back and then 'Nancy' had a hold of his arm. How had he missed her coming up the alley?

The boy throw her into 'Bon' the two of them struck the alley wall, which much to Matthew's surprise crushed under the impact. Behind him 'Ann' yelled. "'Angus' get the fuck down!"

He dropped. The boy was already gone. The brightest light he had ever seen light up the alley. He could feel the heat of it across his back. The spanish cursing had stopped. Up the alley he could see a steaming dent in the old 'commercial building'.

"Dammit," 'Ann' cursed she waddled over to him. "Missed." The weapon must have been heavy she struggled just walking to him.

Matthew was looking at it. It was like nothing he had every seen. The barrel was huge may be thirty inches. It had a handle where the barrel meet the weapons body which reminded him of an M-60. It had a pistol grip and the stock ended with shaped butt. He couldn't imagine it shoulder fired. "What the hell is that?"

'Ann' wasn't even looking at him. She was looking up the alley. "Holy shit."

-Dyson

John sat back in his chair. "There are only twenty nine bullets. Are you wearing it?"

Dyson smiled, it was a grim smile. With his good arm he pulled the chain around his neck up and showed John the bullet that dangled at its end.

John nodded. "All this construction. You didn't pay for it?"

"No."

"You didn't hire them?"

"No."

"They just sort of... appeared."

"Yes."

John nodded again. "They want me to ask you a question. You don't have to answer now. Will you join us?"

"What if I say no?"

"We leave."

"What if I say yes?"

"I give you this." John pulled a thermos from his hoodie.

Girl hadn't been wearing anything loose enough to have concealed that thermos. He reached out, but stopped himself. "Is that a real thermos?"

"Yes."

"What do I do with it?"

John got a distant look. "Inside the thermos is a golf ball sized sphere of metal. Lie down. May be before sleeping." John looked at him "Do this alone. Place the sphere on your forehead. It will take care of the rest."

"'The rest'? What is 'the rest'?"

It was the girl again. "The sphere will sink into your head. It will overlay itself across your brain. It will map it. It will make a copy of it. When you die it will escape and join us."

"I'll die?"

"Eventually. All humans do."

"Oh. So it won't be related to this 'ball'?" He glanced at the thermos.

"No." She shook her head.

-John

The lump of concrete at the end of the post exploded. The blonde cyborg was almost jerked to a stop. John stepped around the corner the post in his hands high over his head. He looked down at the machine. She was wearing fatigue pants and oddly a 'See Veracruz' t-shirt. Her sunglasses were askew. He brought it down on her head with all the force he could muster. The post bent in with the impact.

Up the alley he could see them. The 'cop' was talking to the shorter woman with the plasma rifle. The big guy that shot him was still down.

John!

He reversed the pole and speared the downed cyborg through the neck. He bent over and grabbed her by the hair. An arc snapped as he lifted up the severed head. Which is when things started to get weird.

-Malcolm

He was the youngest. He was the 'tech'. Unfortunately for him there were no computers to hack. There were no landlines to tap. There were no cells to leech. There were no cars to steal. No burglar alarms to circumvent. Despite the fact that he was only member of the team that spoke spanish, he felt like a fifth wheel.

He sighed. He was sitting in the lobby thumbing through a spanish language copy of the National Geographic. It was three years old. The spine was ragged, the front cover tattered, the back cover was gone and the inset map missing. Over top of the magazine he saw them enter and go to the front desk and leave the bag they had carried and then they went to the elevator. Because, you know, there was only one.

The article was about parasitic wasps. He judged it well written if sparse on details. He was reading the authors bio when 'Angus' yelled at him. He looked at 'Nancy' at the bar, but she was gone. He went to the elevator, pressed the call button heard the rather quaint device rattle and shake and then took the stairs.

They were on the fourth floor. He caught his breath at the door at the top of the stairs. There was no window. So he just walked in there was no one there. As he walked passed the elevator shaft he could still hear it banging its way down the the first floor. He went to their room door. 'Angus' had wanted a visual. The door was shut. The 'do not disturb' sign was hanging from the knob. He leaned in and listened. Nothing. He pulled out his picks, unlocked, and opened the door. He could hear the shower running. Just inside the door was the dress and the sandals the girl had been wearing. In a line heading to, what he guessed was the bathroom were the boys clothes.

It was then that he noticed that he was still having a hard time catching his breath. The stair hadn't been that difficult. May be he was dehydrated? He dropped on of his picks. In and of itself this act alarmed him. But as he bent and picked up his tensioner he felt the back of his hand get hot. His face started to burn.

He stepped out of the room. Closing the door quietly. He looked down at his hand. It was red slightly inflamed but he could see no marks. The hallway was hot. He reminded himself that it was Summer. It was stifling. To his left was a bright light. It was the door to the fire escape. Sweat was running down his face as he staggered up the hall. He shirt was already sticking to his chest. What was wrong?

He blinked. He was dragging his right shoulder along the wall as he walked. It took him three tried to open the door. He kept missing the door's handle. He stepped out on to the fire escape. There was a breeze but it felt no cooler. Inexplicably he thought to himself that you could see a long way from up here. He slumped against the railing. He looked down and thought: Wow that's a long way down. He started to laugh. "Woah," he heard himself say. He never even felt the impact.

-Leviathan

Something's wrong.

I told you to run, John!

They were running now. The cyborgs hair was tangled in his fingers. It wouldn't let go. He felt weird. Like his hand was numb. He couldn't control his fingers.

Drop it John.

I can't.

Weaver: John I need to take over.

He felt himself slip back.

Cameron: Its ok, John. Go to sleep.

There was a discussion. It wasn't a conversation:

That's interesting.

It's a kind of hybrid.

A flawed design.

Yes. It has all the limitations of the endoskeletal based cyborgs and none of the advantages of a liquid metal cyborg.

It has a chip.

Yes. One of the limitations of the endoskeletal cyborgs.

The liquid metal exterior give it many advantages it can change its appearance readily but the endoskeleton would limit it to a humanoid shape and almost static height nor could it move as we do.

A flawed design.

Yes. Two more limitations of the endoskeletal cyborgs.

It's using its 'cells' to try and take us over.

Yes. But the conflict will be one sided and will end in our favor.

Can you be so sure?

Of course. It has a chip. We. We have millions.

We should not have discarded the head. We should have destroyed it.

We have other priorities.

It may pursue John and Cameron.

We know that it will not.

There was a pause.

They had a plasma rifle.

Yes. We will have to deal with that as well.

Another pause.

John is dreaming again.

Yes.

Are his dreams always so... graphic?

Only the ones he calls 'nightmares'.

The pretty dark haired girl was walking up a side street behind her was the sound of sirens. Her right hand appeared to have a silver elbow length glove on it. None of the other pedestrians seemed to notice. When she was approximately a mile from the small garbage can she had left the decapitated blonde head in her hand resumed its normal shape and color.

-Dyson

"Can I do it now?"

Cameron turned her head sharply to look at him. "Now?"

"Yes. Now. Before I... Before I lose my nerve." He smiled weakly. He rose from his desk. "I'm an engineer not a hero," he said as he circled Cameron and closed the door.

"Sarah," the girl said as she turned in her chair to follow Dyson. "Thought you were a hero."

"Really?" He paused he was standing at the door. He looked thoughtful as he crossed the room and sat. He reached for the thermos. "Do I need to lie down?

"No. There may be some disorientation but if you lean back in your chair there should be no difficulties."

Dyson opened the thermos and withdrew the metal 'golf ball'. He leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling. "Just put it on my forehead?"

"Yes."

"Ok," he seemed to try to balance the ball on his head. It sank into his skull. "Woah."