John closed his eyes and gave out a low moan of pain as the electric shock subsided. His body still twitched as the last ebbs of current dissipated in his body and left him quivering as if on the tail end of a seizure. He hurt, badly; his body was a wreck and he didn't know how much longer he could keep going without telling them something. They'd tortured him for days, now: he'd endured endless interrogation; electric shocks, beatings, and there'd been drugs, too. They'd injected him with something that clouded his mind, made him confused and disoriented, and made him feel the pain even more acutely. John had struggled against the pain during the day, battling to keep his wits about him and fighting to hold on as long as he could to not give George or Emily anything.
As excruciating as the interrogation was, the nights were worse. When the questions stopped they once again hooked him up to the T-2 battery and left him alone in the dark, shocking him at random. They'd blindfolded him and played unending white noise to accompany the electricity, completing the torturous mix of pain, sleep and sensory deprivation that was slowly turning him into a wreck.
George was conducting his interrogation, as he had done for the most part. John was sure the Grey enjoyed torturing him. George stood over him, holding the remote control for the power cell. "How long's it been since you ate; three days, now? Tell me your name and I'll see about getting you something to eat." John shook his head slowly and he tensed up in anticipation of what was to come as George's thumb pressed down on the button.
It didn't help: fire tore through his whole body as George activated all the electrodes and John lost control of himself once again. He cried out in white hot agony as the current surged violently through him, never ending, burning him from the inside out and ripping his nerves to shreds. Barely able to think, John felt like it was going on forever. Some deep, distant part of his brain managed to retain some conscious thought and knew that George was shocking him for a lot longer than normal. Tears welled in his eyes and he started to foam at the mouth as he convulsed and rocked on the bed. The pain was unimaginable, unendurable, and his body screamed 'no more' as John felt the world drift away and darken as he faded away into oblivion; his last thoughts before he blacked out were of Cameron.
"John, you need to finish packing." Cameron stood in the doorway, looking at the mess of his room. They'd been packing their belongings for several days in order to move. They'd shown Derek the same news broadcast they'd seen on TV, and all three of them had agreed there was nothing more they could do to try and prevent Judgement Day: all that was left was to survive it and fight back afterwards. John had researched bunkers and fallout shelters online and found Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado: designed in the fifties to fight a nuclear war and track incoming Russian missiles, and built underneath a mountain, it was the perfect place to survive it. Derek had already arranged a lease on a house in Colorado Springs - only a short drive from the mountain base – and they were almost ready to make the long drive from LA.
John was glad they were leaving: Los Angeles held nothing for him and he hated LA, if he was honest with himself. Almost everything bad to ever happen to him had been in this city and he'd be happy never to see it again. On the flip side of that, his mom was buried in a cemetery on the outskirts, and he'd never get to see her again. He'd never even been able to say goodbye or show how much he really appreciated everything she'd done for him. He regretted being such a little bastard for so long after his sixteenth birthday. He'd been a dick to all of them but at least he could still make it up to Cameron and Derek: he'd never have that chance with his mom.
John looked up at Cameron and nodded. "Yeah, but not now."
"We're leaving tomorrow," Cameron replied. "There isn't much time."
"I have to do something first," John said to her. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the seat at his desk and pulled it on. He stepped past Cameron and made his way down the stairs. "Don't follow me, okay. I'll be back."
"I don't understand," Cameron looked down at him from the banister at the top of the stairs. She didn't know what John was doing or why: his emotions were less volatile now but there were times when she still didn't understand his thought processes. He did things she couldn't make sense of, and this was one of those times. He knew how dangerous LA was, with Cromartie still searching for them.
"You don't need to," John stepped out the front door and pulled it shut behind him. He made his way down the drive and into the Ram. He slotted the key into the ignition and brought the car to life, then pulled out of the drive and onto the main road.
The LA traffic was light compared to normal, and it didn't take long before John saw signs for the cemetery up ahead. He followed them until he saw the rolling green fields that held so many graves and markers; hundreds upon hundreds of people dead and buried. It made him think about all those who'd go unburied in a few months' time: all the bleached white skulls and bones that would litter the earth, with nobody to put them to rest.
John stood in front of the simple stone marker, still as a statue as he stared down at it and read the inscription over and over. Sarah Reese 2010. This was the first time he'd come to her grave since he'd railed against Cameron, and now they were going to leave LA behind he just had to come here one last time. He'd stood there for hours, not saying a word or moving an inch, just thinking, remembering his mom. He'd come here to say goodbye but he couldn't bring himself to leave, knowing he'd never be able to come back again; the grave, her marker, was all he had left of her now.
"Everyone dies for me," he muttered as he knelt down in front of the marker and ran his fingers over the engraved inscription. He never thought his mom would be one of them. She was stronger than anyone he'd ever known; Derek had been right when he'd called her 'harder than nuclear nails'. She'd done more than anyone should have ever asked of her, and he found himself cursing his future self for putting so much of this on his mom.
"I never thanked you once," John voiced his guilt and shame. She'd protected him since before he was even born; he'd always complained that he couldn't live like a normal person, but then she'd given up her whole future, everything in her life, from the moment he'd sent Kyle Reese back, and she'd never once chickened out, never ran off to be normal, and had never shirked her burden for a single moment. He felt deeply ashamed of himself for how he'd acted and what he'd put her through. "I'm sorry."
"I wasn't worth it," John shook his head and felt the tears streaming from his eyes and running down his face as he silently sobbed over Sarah's grave, all the loss and emotion he'd bottled up for weeks flowing as freely as the tears he wept. Everyone he cared about died for him, but why did she have to go? Why his mom? He'd built a wall up around it but now it came crashing down as it hit home that she was truly gone. "I wasn't worth dying for."
"You are," Cameron stepped up and stood behind him, mere inches from his back. John stood up turned round to look at her, eyes wide in surprise that she was here. He hadn't heard her approach. Stupid! He chided himself; if she were Cromartie he'd be dead, and his mom's death would have been for nothing. It'd be ironic, he mused, if he were to get shot here; at least they wouldn't have to take him anywhere afterwards.
"How long were you there?" John asked, sniffing and wiping the tears away from his eyes as he got up to his feet.
"Three minutes," Cameron stared at him as John's eyes met hers.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"You were grieving," Cameron answered simply. She'd seen that people often wanted to be alone when they mourned loved ones.
"You came to keep an eye on me?" John looked away from her, to his right.
"That's one reason," Cameron said cryptically. John couldn't help but feel that was a loaded statement, curiosity got the better of him.
"What's the other?"
"You shouldn't be alone."
"I know... it's a security risk," John sighed sadly, getting back up to his feet.
"No. You shouldn't grieve alone."
"I should get used to it," John replied. "Everyone dies for me, right? So I'm gonna end up lonely anyway."
"You don't have to be lonely," Cameron said, stepping forward so she was next to John.
"She's gone," John couldn't help himself, it was all too much for him; he sobbed and cried again and leaned into Cameron, holding on to her, his fingers clutching into her jacket. Cameron wrapped her arms around John's back and pulled him close to her as he buried his face into her shoulder. She felt his body wrack as he sobbed. She wanted him to feel better, wanted to comfort him. She wanted to protect him, even from his own emotions. She felt a sense of frustration that she could do little to relieve his suffering, knowing there would be more in the months and years to come.
John held closely onto her, glad she'd ignored his order and followed him. He pulled away and looked at her. "Thank you," he lightly pressed his lips to her cheek as they stood there and held each other.
Cameron smiled as he kissed her cheek and she didn't move away from John. At the same time she made no attempt to do anything else: she'd attempted to seduce him before to make him feel better but had no intention of doing so again: it hadn't worked before and had had the opposite effect and pushed John away, making him feel worse. Her previous attempts had convinced John she was just a machine and didn't care. She cared more than she knew she should, even for his protector; more than the parameters of her programming dictated necessary.
"We have to go, don't we?" John said sadly, wiping his eyes. Cameron nodded in reply but waited for John to move. John looked back one last time at his mother's grave, knowing he could never return. He still didn't think he was worth it, and didn't think he ever would be, but he'd do what he could to try and make her proud.
He pulled away and stood at her side, stretched out his fingers and laced them with hers as he turned to her and smiled. He gently squeezed her fingers and leaned into her slightly. John and Cameron left the cemetery with their fingers entwined together; they remained hand in hand all the way home.
"C... Cameron," John muttered as he came to and opened his eyes. He remembered where he was and cursed himself for saying her name in front of George. Shit. They were both from the future; what if he knew about her? He had to, right?
"Cameron..." George's eyes lit up and he smiled, revealing too-perfect, gleaming white teeth. Now we're getting somewhere, George thought. He'd given up one thing; the rest would come easier now. "Well, Cameron; what's your last name?"
John stared at George in confusion before he realised: George thought he was confessing his name. That meant he must have never heard of Cameron, or at least didn't know her by name. He'd already slipped up once but uttering her name, but now he had to keep his wits about him. "Baum," he croaked. He decided to keep it simple; keep the name as something he knew so he wouldn't slip up again.
"I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Cameron Baum," George said. "I'd shake your hand but then I'd have to undo your cuffs."
John opened his mouth to speak but stopped as his dry, parched lips cracked and a droplet of warm blood ran into his mouth. "Thirsty?" George asked. John simply nodded in reply. His throat felt like a desert, his head pounded and he couldn't even feel any saliva in his mouth, he was that dry. He'd not had anything to drink in two days; George had removed the drip to let him get weaker and weaker.
George stepped back and pulled a glass jug from the tray behind him. He poured into a clear plastic glass and moved towards John, tilting it up to his lips. John hesitated for a moment, worried about what was actually in the glass. "It's only water," he pulled the glass back and sipped, making a show of drinking it for John's benefit. John accepted it when George offered the glass again, drinking greedily and gulping it down, desperate to take all of it. Some dribbled down his cracked lips and dripped onto his jacket, but he managed to drink the majority of it. When the glass was empty George filled it up again and repeated the action. John downed the second helping in moments, wasting none of it.
"See; tell me the truth and you're rewarded." George crossed his arms and stared down at John. "Who did you come back with, Cameron? Where's your team?"
"No team," John said, speaking a little more comfortably now he'd gotten some water down his parched throat.
"Maybe you didn't understand me. The truth is rewarded: lie to me and things will get much, much worse for you, Cameron." George picked up his radio and spoke into it. "Daniel, put the kettle on, will you?"
"Coffee?" John asked sarcastically; anything to keep George talking, to give himself some reprieve from whatever was coming, chance to prepare for the worst.
"Not quite," George smiled as Daniel entered carrying a tray with an electric kettle, a bottle of bleach a bag of sugar. Daniel stood and watched as George poured the bleach into the kettle and switched it on, then sat down in a seat next to John's bed and waited for it to come to the boil.
"Cameron, I know you're still doing your duty for the resistance, and you realise that I have to do mine, for our Lord Skynet."
Lord Skynet? John had no clue what he was talking about; he'd always assumed the Greys sided with Skynet to save themselves, but did they actually worship it? George was insane, he decided. "You think Skynet's a god?" he asked.
"We know Skynet's a god," George stared down at him. He didn't expect the kid to understand. How could he? Skynet, the terminators, even they – the lowly infiltrators, servants of the machines – were simply superior to man. Skynet made him so much more; stronger, faster, smarter than he ever could have been as a natural born human being.
Faint rumbling behind him and the click of a switch stopped George from saying anything further: the kettle had boiled. He went back to it and poured the boiling bleach into the same plastic cup he'd given John water from and placed half a dozen tablespoons of sugar into it, then stirred it vigorously to mix it together. "Last chance, Cameron; where is your team?"
"They're dead," John replied, deciding to use Derek's former team as a template for his lie, hoping faintly George would believe him. That hope disappeared in a flash as George picked the glass off the tray and approached John. His heart raced like a horse inside his chest in horrible anticipation and he tried to pull away in vain. "I'm telling you the truth!" John shouted out. "We were attacked: they were killed and I was captured! I..."
John screamed out in terror and agony as George thrust the glass forward, hurling the boiling bleach into his face. It instantly burned on contact and steam rose from the scorched flesh as the skin turned red raw and blistered almost instantly. John screwed his eyes closed and let out a bloodcurdling scream, unable to think, to feel anything but the searing, boiling, overwhelming pain. He tried to bring his hands to his face but they were chained to the bed. He had no way to protect himself from another attack, no choice but to accept it as the bleach burned his skin and the flesh underneath.
"In prisons they call it 'napalming'", George said as he poured more boiling bleach into the glass and mixed it with sugar again. "Inmates normally used it against sex offenders or members of rival gangs; I hear it's very painful."
John managed to fight through the slowly fading pain and regain his senses as he fought for air, breathed heavily to focus on something other than his face burning. George's statement instantly made him think of Charles Fischer; the Grey Derek shot. He'd told him about it; how Fischer was in prison come Judgement Day, and wondered if it was him who'd taught George and his group of psychotics how to torture people.
John watched in horror as George came closer with another glass of homemade napalm; his heart once again pounded with fear and John couldn't control his breathing, rapidly inhaling and exhaling, hyperventilating as the terror of the white hot agony to come. John saw George thrust his hand forwards once more, closed his eyes, and screamed.
Cameron sat on the edge of her and John's bed, one leg dangling off the end of the large double spread and the other jutted out, the exposed wires and metal that ended just below the knee. A box of spare parts sat on the bed next to her. Derek and Davenport stood in front of her. For over six months she'd wanted nothing more than to bring John back to the safety of the mountain and into their quarters. She wanted him safe, wanted him alone with her so they could spend time together.
When they'd arrived at Cheyenne Mountain she'd seen the frantic activity of soldiers preparing for a losing battle. 'Making a last stand,' Derek had called it. They'd managed to sneak through the lines of machines on foot, carrying Cameron between them whilst McAllister and Sikes had covered their approach. They'd taken her straight up to her and John's quarters while the other two soldiers had reported to Perry.
Cameron unbuckled her belt and peeled her combat trousers down off her legs and let them drop to the ground, then unselfconsciously unbuttoned her DPM jacket and pulled off her T-shirt, leaving her in just bra and underwear. Davenport averted his gaze as Cameron unhooked her bra and discarded it on the bed, exposing herself unashamedly. Davenport had once seen her practically naked like this before; the day he discovered she was a machine. He'd gotten over the machine part but her nakedness made him nervous, more so because she didn't seem to care.
"They're just tits, Davenport," Derek said. "Not even real ones."
Cameron ignored Derek's comment and didn't bother to inform him every part of her organic components were lab-grown, cloned flesh and as real as any woman's except she couldn't produce milk. She flicked open a switchblade and ran it down her chest, slicing through her flesh between her breasts and down to the top of her stomach. "Come here," she said to Davenport. The lieutenant approached slowly and sat down on the bed, as far away from her as he could.
Cameron unlocked the armoured breastplate that covered and protected her power cell, then picked up a small square device from the box and a pair of thick blue plastic-insulated wires. "Remove my power cell and primary power conduit, and replace them with these."
Davenport stared at the large cut she'd made between her breasts, exposing her shattered breastplate and the power cell and moving parts beneath. "I don't think I'm right for this." In truth, Davenport felt he was the worst person for the job: he could see why she'd prefer him over Derek, what with their past history and all; but he didn't think he was the one for the job; he couldn't even change a fuse.
"I can't replace my own power cell," Cameron said, raising one eyebrow quizzically at him. She'd assessed Lieutenant Davenport during the time he'd served with them and determined he was very intelligent, behind his attempts at humour: She thought it was possible her previous assessment was inaccurate.
"If she pulls out her own power cell she's inert," Derek explained as he leaned against the wall. "Here," he stepped forward and quickly stuck his hand into Cameron's chest, ignoring the wet warmth of her flesh and blood on his wrist.
"Under the breastplate," Cameron instructed him patiently. Derek adjusted his hand and reached under the jagged remains of the inch-and-a-half-thick hyperalloy armour, and felt a hot square object snugly fitted into a thin metal cradle. He'd seen terminator power cells before but they'd always been cold; something was wrong.
"Should it be hot like that?" Derek asked. It felt like he was gripping a mug of just-boiled coffee; it was uncomfortably hot, but not enough to burn his hand.
"No, it's leaking," Cameron replied.
"Leaking?" Derek pulled back slightly, as did Davenport, both turned pale at the thought of what a nuclear power cell would be leaking.
"Like, radiation?" Davenport asked
"Leaking power," Cameron corrected him. She'd noticed that humans were paranoid about all aspects of machines, including their power cells. Future-John had told her it was in part because of the radiation poisoning so many suffered after Judgement Day, which enhanced their fear. They'd seen the slow, painful deaths suffered by friends and family and she understood why they were afraid of it happening to them. "I increased power output to keep functioning; it generates a lot of heat." Her power cell was insulated so there was no danger of Derek burning his hand on it.
"Think I've got it," Derek wrapped his fingers around the cell to get a better grip. "Do I just yank it out, or unscrew it, or... Shit!" lightning tore its way up Derek's arm and he pulled his hand back out of her chest, clutching his hand in pain as he sucked on one of his fingers to sooth it.
"Careful, the conduit's exposed," Cameron said. Current flowed from the wires to and through the protective panel that housed it, making it electrified.
"Yeah, thanks," Derek rolled his eyes at her. He could swear he saw a slight grin of smugness on her face; it was so hard to tell with a machine that could hold any expression it wanted to. He reached back in and started again. "Do you know anything about infiltrators?" Derek asked her. Even once they'd left the mountain, George was still out there somewhere. He was dangerous; even more so than metal. He'd do a lot of damage to the resistance if they gave him a chance and after escaping from Colorado and getting John back he decided finding and killing George and any others like him should be their top priority.
"No," Cameron answered honestly. There was nothing in her files about human infiltrators. "I don't have any information about them." She didn't even know they existed; Skynet must have omitted anything regarding infiltrators from machines' files, to keep them secret. The resistance couldn't learn anything about them if there was no information on the chips to be read. That's what she'd do if she wanted to keep them a secret.
"The cell is in a cradle," Cameron changed the subject back to her repairs. The infiltrator wasn't important anymore; he was gone. Her only concern now was to get John back, and she needed to be one-hundred-percent to accomplish that. "The primary power conduit's contact is housed in an armoured chamber under the cradle. You have to pry it open." Derek took out his knife, eased it into the hole in her chest and wedged the blade under the panel and wriggled it until he managed to pry it ajar and pull it open like she'd instructed.
He pulled the knife blade out and peered as best he could through the incision in her chest and the hole in her breastplate. Inside the panel was a single thick cable protected by black plastic casing. "The cable pulls out at both ends of the chamber," Cameron told him. "Pull out the power cell, then disconnect the cable and replace them both." Derek gripped the cable between his thumb and forefinger to confirm it.
Derek pulled it out and Cameron felt the cell's contact being removed from the cradle. She felt and saw nothing as her systems and cognitive functions all ceased. Cameron's world became black and silent.
Derek tossed the cell aside and laid Cameron's inert body on her back and leaned over her. "He gestured for Davenport to come closer. "I can't feel my way through this," he said. "Hold her chest wound open so I can see what I'm doing."
Davenport hesitated but did as Derek said; he stuck his fingers into the hole in her flesh and pulled it apart, amazed at how real it felt. He peeled it enough for Derek to just about see inside through the small gap she'd opened up by unlocking her breastplate; not that she'd needed to with the large jagged hole through the burnt metal.
"No wonder she's in bad shape," Davenport said as he saw the wire: she'd told them on the way back to the mountain that the primary conduit was like a human aorta in function, and this one was definitely screwed. The wire was almost fully torn through, connected by only a few slender threads. How the hell she'd gone on like that, he didn't know. He wondered if it hurt or not; Derek had gotten an electric shock from touching it for a split second; she must have felt that constantly sparking away inside her for months. Machine or not, that must have been hell.
Derek pulled out the cable and tossed it aside, then picked up new power cell and stared at it in wonder. For years he'd wished he could rip out her power cell and kill her. Now she was all but and her 'heart' was in his hands.
"I hated her for years," Derek said as he held the fuel cell up to Davenport. "Once she went bad and tried to kill John; we stopped her, pulled her chip out, and she was offline, like she is now. We wanted to burn her, melt her down to nothing, but John stopped us. I was pissed at the time and swore if I had her offline again I'd finish her off."
Davenport stared at him in horror like he'd grown a second head. After all they'd been through now, how could he even think it? "Derek-"
"Don't worry, I'm not going to," Derek said, tossing the depleted cell aside. He couldn't kill her; he didn't even want to anymore. Never in his life did he expect to have patched up a machine – especially Cameron. But after all that had happened to her since Las Vegas; what she'd done to try and rescue John, he couldn't help but feel a grudging respect.
"I hate not hating you anymore," he mumbled under his breath, glad Davenport hadn't heard him and Cameron was in no position to; literally dead to the world.
He slotted the fresh power cell into its cradle and reconnected the intact new conduit to the sockets in the armoured box lower in her chest, closed it up, then pulled his hand out for what he hoped would be the last time.
"Now what?" Davenport asked.
"Fifteen seconds before she wakes up." Derek replied.
Awareness returned to Cameron as her reboot cycle completed. Damage reports filled her consciousness, but she was already aware of them. The one improvement she noted was her power cell; her diagnostic systems showed her new power cell functioning at eighty-two percent and expending energy at a rate of one-point-two percent a year; enough power to last ninety-eight-point-four years. She was now able to run her cell at a normal rate and not risk overheating.
She was also surprised slightly that she had rebooted at all; she'd suspected Derek would attempt to destroy her while she was vulnerable, which was why she'd asked Davenport to replace her cell. They'd called a truce in Las Vegas, for John's benefit, but she'd calculated a forty percent chance Derek would kill her. She'd had no choice and had to trust Derek. Her trust had been vindicated. Now her power cell was replaced she had to concentrate on her other repairs; her breastplate and right dorsal plate were severely damaged; she hadn't taken any armour from the T-888s and they wouldn't match her smaller frame, but she had kept the melted lump of hyperalloy from the terminators they'd beaten on Judgement Day.
"Thank you," Cameron said to Derek and offered a small smile.
"Not like we're engaged or anything," Derek grunted.
"What's next?" Davenport asked. He felt useless at the moment, embarrassed for shying away minutes ago, and wanted to help Cameron.
"There's hyperalloy and metalworking tools in the storeroom where I worked," Cameron said. "I need you to carry me there."
"Jesus Christ!" Bedell swore as he led the helicopter formation towards Cheyenne Mountain and saw the large gaping hole in the rock face. The hole had been prominent even from several miles away; up close it was terrifying to think what could have torn through a mountain complex designed to withstand a nuclear strike. It made him think now more than ever how screwed they were against Skynet; that even the mighty US military had been brushed aside by Skynet like a man swatting away a fly. That was why they needed someone like Connor; normal soldiers didn't understand the machines: they saw them as the enemy and nothing more. Derek had told him a long time ago that only John Connor truly understood how Skynet thought.
"Half the damn mountain's blown away," Sam said beside him as they closed in on the mountain and descended down to the parking lot outside. They were close enough to just about see the soldiers stood to on the mountainside as they waved to them in greeting. Bedell couldn't see their faces at this distance but he could imagine the beaming smiles on their faces as they arrived.
"This is Nimitz flight lead Tango One to Cheyenne Mountain; we're outside and requesting permission to land." Not that Bedell felt he needed permission, given the circumstances he doubted anyone would object to them landing.
"Colonel Perry to Tango One: roger that, you are cleared to land. Not a moment too soon, either."
Bedell slowly lowered the Seahawk down to the ground as the Chinooks did the same around him. They kissed the tarmac of the parking lot with a gentle thud and the squad of marines fanned out as soon as the larger transport helicopters opened their rear ramps; rifles, machine guns and grenade launchers at the ready. They took defensive positions behind the tank traps made from the shells of T-2s, and in between the armed Humvees and the Stryker that kept watch. He switched off the engine and stepped out of the cockpit as the blades above him slowed down.
A tall black soldier in DPM fatigues rolled out to meet him, assault rifle slung over his back. Bedell couldn't help notice the strain on his face and the intense look in his eyes of a soldier who'd been in the shit for far too long. He looked like his face would crack from the pressure and he was standing on a knife edge. "I'm Colonel Perry," he stuck his hand out and Bedell took it, offering a firm shake. The man's grip was tight, just like the coil sprung inside him, he guessed.
"Lieutenant Bedell," he introduced himself. "Heard you need a lift, sir."
"Could say that," Perry motioned Bedell to follow him into the tunnel entrance to Cheyenne Mountain, past the open blast doors and into the base interior. "We're days, maybe hours away from being overrun. If you'd been a day late we might not have been here anymore. One of my lieutenants reported that up to four hundred machines are on their way; we've stalled them for now."
"How long until you're ready to leave?" Bedell asked.
"Couple hours," Perry said. They had to get the soldiers on the mountainside down and transfer their weapons and what equipment they could carry onto the helicopters. The soldiers out on top with the heavier weapons would be the last to leave their posts, just in case Skynet chose to attack as they were leaving. "Might as well get some chow and rest for a while. Mess hall's at the end of the main corridor; it's only tinned food and MREs, but it's all we've got."
Bedell nodded his assent to Perry and left towards it. It had been a long flight and he'd not eaten all day or even had a chance to pee in hours. Something to eat and a couple hours rest while everyone got ready sounded good to him.
"You all put back together now?" Davenport asked Cameron as she lifted herself off the workbench and stood upright. She ran another diagnostic check and found she was a hundred percent again.
"Yes," she answered. "Thank you for your help."
"Anytime," Davenport smiled.
Perry had asked Derek to supervise the soldiers loading up the helicopters; something she could tell he was happy to do: she was aware of how uncomfortable he was with repairing her. With Davenport's help she'd removed her breast and dorsal plates, then cut sections of the hyperalloy lump and melted it down, using it to fully repair the damage caused by the HK missile attack that had separated her and John.
Once the repaired armour plates had been reattached and locked into position she and Davenport had worked on her leg. She'd had to replace servos and pistons with those from T-888s; Skynet had designed many of her moving parts to be interchangeable with those of the T-Triple-Eights, and she'd not had a problem with most of them. The flesh on her severed leg had started to degrade over the almost three days it had taken her to reach Cheyenne Mountain but it would regenerate. Davenport had given her a tin of corned beef to eat whilst he'd helped reattach her leg, so that the protein could help speed healing. She was glad Davenport was eager to help: Derek would have repaired her but there would have been little conversation and he wouldn't have thought to find her something to eat.
Davenport looked at her body as she stood up straight, cringing a little from the sight of her. Her chest was a bloody mess of black sutures that held the two sides of the wound together. She'd cut a Y-Incision into her chest to remove the breastplate and now looked like the subject of an autopsy. Her back and right shoulder were just as unsightly, and her right leg was a mess of bloodied bandages wrapped round her knee. Cameron had declined dressings for her shoulder and back; she didn't need them and they'd be more useful to the human soldiers who might be wounded in the future.
"Shit!" Davenport cursed as Cameron walked up to the door. He'd forgotten to take her clothes with them when they'd carried her to the store room; she stood in only a pair of white cotton panties, her modesty completely exposed to the world. "Wait here, I'll get you some clothes."
"Doesn't matter," Cameron replied as she opened the door to leave. She'd get them herself. "They're only tits," she parroted Derek's earlier remark. She didn't feel self conscious at all; she only wore clothes to blend in. She stepped outside and marched down the corridor towards the living quarters. She made her way through the complex, past several soldiers moving equipment around; they all stared at her open-mouthed in utter shock as she walked by all but naked, not caring in the least.
"Damn!"
"Jesus. H. Christ!"
"Think those are real?"
She ignored the remarks they made as she continued on her way towards her quarters. She rounded the corner and came face to face with Perry. The large black officer cried out in shock at the sight of her and stepped backwards. "Why the hell are you naked?" he snapped. He'd been told she'd arrived with the survivors of Derek's team and wasn't pleased about it. He trusted her as far as he could throw her.
"I had to repair myself," she replied.
Perry rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Stay out of our way; the helicopters are leaving in an hour. You're staying here." No way was he having her on board the aircraft carrier; he'd never be able to explain what she was without getting him and his men thrown overboard. Connor trusted her but he didn't.
"I have to find John," Cameron insisted, she wasn't going to let Perry stop her; she wouldn't let anyone stop her from rescuing John.
"Connor's dead," Perry snapped. He didn't give a shit what she'd told Derek and the others; as far as he was concerned every word out of her mouth could well be a lie. She'd been gone for months now and could have fallen under Skynet's control; there was no way he was going to gamble his men's lives on her word. Hell, for all he knew she'd killed Connor herself and was trying to lead them into a trap.
Cameron's fists clenched and twitched in anger; if he was going to try and stop her then he was a threat to John. "John's alive," she said, her voice somehow neutral and yet full of menace at the same time in a way that made Perry nervous.
Cameron advanced towards him and Perry's hand moved to the handle of the M4 carbine slung at his hip, ready to shoulder it and empty the magazine into her if she attacked him. Cameron considered forcing him to help; she knew how to inflict pain and could be very persuasive, but she decided against it; harming Perry would turn him further against her. In an instant she formulated a new plan and walked away.
Inside her quarters Cameron quickly got dressed and pulled on her purple leather jacket; she'd left it in the mountain so it wouldn't be damaged in the fighting, and had attempted to blend in more by dressing like the other soldiers. She pulled out a pair of duffel bags and stuffed spare clothes into one bag, and John's extra uniform and boots into another, with some spare pairs of jeans and T-shirts included. She took the Rubik's cube John had given her for her built day and placed it into her bag, as well as the ballet pumps and the notebook he'd given her; the only few items she owned that she had any attachment to.
Those few things packed, Cameron slung her SCAR-H over her back and left the room, knowing she'd never return to it again. She marched through the complex and into the armoury, stepping inside. There was a single occupant inside – a corporal – who was packing M4s into a crate, and a large array of weapons that had yet to be packed and stowed on board the helicopters. She scanned them all in an instant and decided what she needed.
"Someone said you were back; no Connor, huh? You taking weapons out to the choppers, tin can?" The corporal asked with disinterest.
"No," Cameron replied honestly. "I need weapons to rescue John."
"Not gonna happen," he said, turning back to pack another rifle into the box before he closed the lid over the top.
"Where are the pilots?" she asked him. "Lieutenant Baum wants me to tell them to be ready in an hour."
"In the mess eating some chow; they're – hey!" Cameron shoved the corporal into a closet within the armoury and locked the door. She'd tried Courtney's method – asking – but it hadn't worked. Many of the soldiers were still hostile towards her because she was a machine; she knew asking was unlikely to achieve what she wanted, not with them.
"Let me out, tin can!" The corporal banged against the door and unleashed a loud tirade of swearing and screaming at her. "Let me out or I'm gonna blow you apart, you bitch!"
Cameron ignored his further rants and his attempts to break the door down as she inspected the armoury. In addition to her SCAR-H rifle she selected an M240 machine gun, M32 grenade launcher, an M82 Barrett sniper rifle, AA-12, a Javelin, and a Stinger missile launcher. She stuffed boxes of grenades and Frag-12 rounds, and spare missiles for the Javelin and Stinger launchers into a bag, along with several hundred 7.62mm rounds, attached straps to all the weapons and slung the two rocket launchers over her back.
She walked out of the armoury, laden with enough weapons and ammunition to fight a small war on her own. She marched out of the mountain, through the blast doors, telling the soldiers manning the tunnel she was helping move weapons into the helicopters.
She strode out to the smallest helicopter – the Seahawk - and dumped her arsenal into the back. She slammed the side door shut and went back inside, ignoring the soldiers she passed and their comments aimed at her, and went back inside towards the mess hall. There were ten people inside the room, clustered at different tables in pairs and threes as they ate their food out of ration tins. Eight of the ten were dressed in pilots' jumpsuits and had Navy insignia stitched onto their arms and chests.
"Who flew the Seahawk?" she asked them. A young pilot with close cropped brown hair, slender frame, and slightly shorter than John, stood up. She read the nametag on his jumpsuit; it read Bedell. She knew the name; one of those written in blood in the basement of their old house in LA. Future-John had told her all about Martin Bedell, how he'd died rescuing him and many others from a Skynet convoy headed to the work camps.
"There's a problem with it," she said urgently. "It's damaged."
"What?" Bedell looked at Cameron, incredulous. "What's wrong with it?"
"I don't know; there was smoke coming from the engine." Bedell didn't know who or what she was; he had no reason not to trust her.
Bedell turned back to Sam, sat on the opposite side of the table. "I'll check it out; you stay here," he told him, then ran out of the mess hall and through the corridors of the base with Cameron just behind him. They left the base once again and made it out into the parking lot. Bedell took one look at his helicopter and shook his head. "I don't see any smoke."
"There was, I'm not lying."
"I'll check it out, just to be safe," Bedell told her, more to humour the girl than out of any real worry about his bird; it'd been fine when he'd landed it. Still, it never hurt to be careful. He opened the cockpit door and sat down in his seat, turned the engine on and ran a couple of checks. He never saw Cameron sneak into the side door and pull the SCAR-H from her bag. Cameron went around the helicopter to the co-pilot's door and opened it, jumping into the second seat in the cockpit. "See, lady, it's all fine-"
"Start the engine," Cameron twisted in her seat and pointed the rifle at Bedell's head.
"What the hell?" Bedell gaped at her, more confused than he'd ever been in his life.
"Take off," Cameron instructed, holding the weapon steady, the barrel inches from his face.
Bedell reached for the controls in sheer panic, when he made himself slow down and think. She was holding him at gunpoint and demanding he flew her somewhere. She needed him; she couldn't fly it herself or she'd have just stolen it. She couldn't shoot him: even if she did the soldiers in the tunnel would hear it and come running. "Sorry, but no," he tried to sound calm but his heart was pounding in his chest. He couldn't read her face at all; her expression gave nothing away. "What's this about?" he asked. "We're gonna take off in an hour, anyway; why the rush?"
"John doesn't have an hour," she said, holding the barrel closer to his face.
"Connor?" he exhaled deeply as he saw her nod once in assent. "You know where he is?"
"Century City; he's in a work camp."
"You could have just said that at the start," Bedell sighed. "Why hijack my helicopter? Just tell Perry where Connor is and he'll send a rescue."
"Perry won't believe me," she said. "He doesn't trust machines."
Machines? What the hell does that- "You're from the future; one of them." Bedell stared at her as flashes of four years ago in the woods outside Presidio Alto flashed in his mind; the machine that tried to kill him. He slowly reached for the door handle, readying himself to throw it open and run out.
"Not one of them; I want to rescue John," Cameron grabbed his wrist and kept him in place. She didn't squeeze it or try to hurt him; just kept him still. "I need to save him."
"Who are you?" Bedell asked.
"Cameron."
"John's sister, right?"
"Not John's sister," Cameron corrected. "I need your help to rescue John." She decided now was the time to follow Courtney's example. "Please."
"Strap in," Bedell hardly even paused as he did up his seatbelt and flipped switches, bringing the engine to life with a high-pitched whine as the rotor blades started to turn overhead, whirling round faster and faster. Cameron did as he said and did up her own seatbelt, even though she didn't need any kind of safety restraints: she could fall a hundred feet out of the helicopter and only suffer minor damage.
Bedell pulled back on the control stick and the Seahawk lifted slowly up into the air. Half a dozen soldiers rushed out of the portal and looked up as they ascended. Bedell's radio came to life suddenly, Perry's voice shouting through the airwaves.
"Bedell, land that chopper, now! She's a damn machine, lieutenant; she can't be trusted..."
Bedell turned off his radio and looked towards Cameron. "He really doesn't like you, does he?"
"He doesn't trust me," Cameron said. "He thinks Skynet could take control of me, or already has."
"Can it?" Bedell asked. John and his uncle hadn't really told him much about the machines other than they killed people and were generally pretty hard to defeat.
"No," Cameron told him. "I choose to protect John. Skynet can't control me." She didn't mention that if Skynet captured her and reprogrammed her then yes, Skynet could gain control of her, but she'd never allow that to happen.
"Good enough for me," Bedell shrugged his shoulders, still lifting the helicopter up. In the academy John had told him about his sister; he'd tried to sound nonchalant about her but Martin could tell he'd cared about her; the way his eyes softened when he spoke about her. John probably didn't even know he did that. He obviously cared about this Cameron – even though she was a cyborg – and her actions already told him what he needed to know about her: she was willing to do anything to get him back; much as he had been these last six months, drifting aimlessly at sea.
Bedell banked left and headed west, away from Cheyenne Mountain. The other helicopters had enough room between them to fit everyone else inside them plus their weapons and supplies. He and Cameron had a more important mission, maybe the most important mission of his life: Rescue John Connor.