Davenport marched down a back alley, his rifle raised to his shoulder, his eyes wide open and alert as he silently made his way down the narrow passageway in the middle of a city block. Behind him was a four-man fire team consisting of Charley, Privates Anders and McAllister. The other fire team under his command stalked quietly down the middle of the next block over, and the two halves of Derek's squad were making their way down even more alleyways, keeping a wide search pattern and sticking to the narrower channels that bisected the city blocks rather than the roads that ran between them. If a T-2 came on their position its arcs of fire would be severely limited and they could recess into the gaps between the tall buildings and fire rockets and grenades from the side with near impunity.

They'd marched for three days after they'd crashed, pepper-potting and advancing by fire teams in near total silence, only stopping for a few hours at a time to rest, and never staying out in the open for longer than absolutely necessary. Davenport could barely believe the sheer concentration of machines in LA County; it seemed like every few minutes they'd had to stop and hide from a machine patrol. Air patrols were almost constant, and since they'd set out marching Davenport had permanently heard the whine of jet engines somewhere in the distance as HKs scoured the ruined city for signs of human life.

Davenport reached the end of the block and crouched down on one knee with his rifle shouldered. McAllister took up position on the other side of the alley and covered the left as Davenport did the same with the right. Anders turned around to cover their rear and Davenport gestured Charley to move forward and cross the road to the other block while the rest covered him. Charley nodded nervously. They'd done this over a hundred times since they'd set out on foot and it never got any easier; they couldn't hear any tracks or footsteps but that didn't mean there weren't any machines stood idle or in position to pick them off on the main road. Almost as bad as the tin cans were other people; gangs of civilians who might attack them for their weapons; they were equipped well enough to take them on just fine but any exchange of fire would bring the machines down on them. They wanted to reach Connor as a rescue force, not a ragtag, withered force exhausted from fighting a running battle. They were no good to anyone like that.

Charley dashed across the road, pumping his legs as fast as he could, and all but threw himself against the gap between two clothing stores. He sighed in relief that nothing had shot at him; he was the only medic in the group and if he was shot, he'd be screwed and nobody would be there to take care of John when they found him. None of them had said it but they all suspected John would need medical attention when they got to him. He beckoned the others across and McAllister and Anders crossed, followed finally by Davenport. They continued their march down the next back alley that ran down the centre of the block, eyes and ears peeled for any movement.

Tank treads crunched over nearby ground and caused them all to pause. It was on the other side of the block, only a hundred metres or so from them. Anders and McAllister took up positions as Davenport crouched on the ground and Charley knelt down opposite him. Davenport took out a street map of LA County they'd found in a corner store – deciding a more detailed map of the city layout and the streets would be invaluable in finding the camp - and flattened it out on the ground.

"We're here," Davenport pointed to a city block on the map, close to the hospital. They'd be able to see the grounds as they reached the other side of the block. "Hospital's in open ground five hundred metres from the other side of this block."

"Let's hurry up and get there," Charley nodded as Davenport put the map away.

The rest of the trek through the block was uneventful and took little more than a minute before they reached the other side. Davenport led the way out of the block and they split into pairs as they moved out onto the road, which led out onto a highway that ran between them and the hospital, in sight a few hundred metres away. The scene in front of him looked like a warzone; chunks had been blasted out of the highway, nearby buildings had been hit with what looked to Davenport like missiles, a semi-truck had been cut in half and the shattered, burnt remains of an HK lay sprawled all around it. Either it had crashed or someone got lucky and managed to bag it with a rocket launcher. Whether it was the same HK Cameron told them had damaged her, he didn't know. He had to assume it wasn't and the camp still had at least one aircraft protecting it.

"Make for the trailer," Davenport pointed at the blasted semi-truck. It offered a perfect OP on the hospital and they could summon the rest of the unit once they'd made an assessment of the camp's layout and defences. "Two-by-two advance. Move!"

In pairs they moved and covered each other; Davenport and Charley, Anders and McAllister, pepper-potting down the road, using parked and crashed cars as cover. Davenport and Charley made it to the semi and the former moved inside to check it was clear...

And found a pistol pointed at his face.

"Contact," Davenport hissed to Charley as he trained his own weapon back at the offending form. It was human, laid prone on the ground and holding a Browning 9mm at his head. The person was obviously injured; Davenport could see the congealed blood on his legs that had soaked through his burnt and torn jumpsuit. The gun shook in his hand as if he was having trouble even holding it up. Davenport lowered his own weapon, realising he'd seen the man before. "You're the Navy pilot, right; the one who flew off with Cameron?"

"Yeah. Martin Bedell," he sighed and lowered his gun to the ground, relieved that someone had come. He'd fully expected to die out here; another day or so and he knew he would have.

"Charley," Davenport hissed. Charley came inside as the other two soldiers took positions outside. "He's hurt pretty bad."

"Both my legs are broken," Bedell grunted in pain as Charley took off his pack and opened up his medical kit. "And a couple ribs, I think."

"How long ago?" Charley asked as he cut through the legs of his jumpsuit and inspected the injuries. They were clearly broken; jagged bone poked through the skin and gleamed white beneath the dried blood.

"Three days."

"We're gonna have to wait a while before we can get you out of here, buddy," Davenport said apologetically. Connor had to come first.

"Been stuck here three days; what's a little more?" Bedell shrugged.

Charley couldn't imagine being stuck for three days out in the cold with a pair of broken legs and nothing to ease the pain; he didn't even want to imagine. Charley pulled out several wound dressings and bandages, and ripped the seal on a morphine syringe. He jammed it into Bedell's thigh and pressed the plunger down, forcing the strong painkiller to course its way through his blood vessels. Bedell sighed within moments as the morphine began to take effect, already dulling the tearing pain in his legs.

"We need to set the broken bones so I can put splints on them," Charley said to Davenport. He nodded grimly in agreement. He'd played soccer for 4th Infantry – having played it throughout high school and college – and had broken his leg in one game after being the victim of a particularly nasty tackle. He knew very well just how painful a broken leg was to set. It was worse for Bedell, though; he had to go through it twice.

Charley set to work and pulled on the lower leg, trying to force the jagged end of bone back under the skin. Bedell cried out in pain despite the morphine as the two sharp ends of bone poked and prodded the flesh of his leg. Davenport held him down and kept him steady as Bedell bucked and writhed against Charley's ministrations.

"Where's Connor?" he asked, wanting to know but also just talking to distract Bedell.

"Gone..."

"Gone where? They're dead?" The thought entered his mind and he tried to shake it off.

"Escaped..." Bedell grunted against the pain as Charley kept on manoeuvring his leg. "They got out... I covered them and shot down the HK. It crashed into me... we called it a tie."

"You look in better shape than the HK – if barely," Davenport quipped. "So what happened to Connor and Cameron after?"

"I blacked out... didn't see them. Probably made for the Seahawk..." he screamed out as Charley pulled harder on his leg and twisted. Davenport covered his mouth to stifle the sound until it died into a whimper. "Please can someone just knock me out because it's really starting to hurt," he cried, tears streaming down his face. They hadn't even set this leg yet and he couldn't go through this again with the other one. Even if they gave him a second dose of morphine it'd still be unbearable.

"I need one more thing," Davenport replied. "What's Cameron's radio set to? We need to see if she and Connor are alright."

Bedell screwed his eyes shut and grimaced, breathing in sharply. "The radio," he pointed to his broken comm. Piece on the ground beside him. "It doesn't work... but the frequency matches Cameron's."

Davenport nodded as he picked up the radio and looked at the numbers on the dials, then turned back to Bedell. "There's something else," Martin gasped out. "I kept my eyes on the hospital – nothing better to do, really – and security round the camp's doubled in the last three days; they just poured in from all over LA. I don't know why."

"Good work, buddy," Davenport said softly and held the back of Bedell's head in the palm of his hand. He drew back his arm and viciously punched Bedell's face, his fist connecting with a sharp slap of skin smacking skin as the pilot's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he fell loose and limp. Davenport held him steady and gently lowered his head down onto the ground as Charley looked at him in horror.

"What the hell was that?" he asked, aghast at Davenport's violent outburst.

"He asked me to," Davenport shrugged. "And we can't risk the machines hearing us if he screamed."

"You've been hanging around with Derek too much," Charley shook his head in disapproval as he carried on treating Bedell's injuries. He had to grudgingly admit it was easier without having his patient struggling to get away. Even with the morphine in his system the pain would have been unbearable.

In only a few minutes he had both of Bedell's legs straightened and the bones back in place, and splints attached to his limbs. He attached an IV drip into Bedell's arm to get some fluids back into his system and secured it in place with medical tape while Davenport switched his radio frequency to match what was on Bedell's broken com unit.

"Connor, Cameron, come in..."

John lay on the infirmary bed with Cameron sat at his side, her fingers entangled with his. John knew she was constantly scanning him as long as they were touching – checking for the slightest sign of his recovery stalling or relapsing - but he didn't care. He'd learnt a long time ago she only did it because she cared, and being honest with himself, after so long away from her he was just glad to be back together again. He'd been stuck in the infirmary for three days on doctor's orders – which Cameron told him even superseded his own, just this once.

Cameron had hardly left his side the entire time other than to bring him food and drink back from the ship's mess. He'd struggled with the food at first – his stomach being accustomed to taking in very little, had shrunk considerably – but on his second and third day he'd wolfed down every last morsel of his meals. Cameron had even brought him dessert in the form of tinned fruit. How she'd gotten it when such a thing seemed like a rare delicacy, he had no idea.

"How'd you get this?" John picked a grapefruit segment out of the tin and popped it in his mouth, savouring the sweet, juicy citrus of the fruit. After Century Work Camp every morsel of real food was going to be sheer bliss to him from now on. He thought for a moment and wondered if he really wanted to know the answer; Cameron was less than subtle and it didn't take much for him to imagine a chef laid out unconscious on the galley floor or locked in a storage closet somewhere and banging furiously on the door to get out.

"I asked the chefs," Cameron replied. She'd told them how badly injured John was and they of course had heard of his severe condition: she'd surmised that gossip and chatter were as common on board the Nimitz as it was in the bunkers in the future.

"That's it; you just asked them?"

"Yes." Cameron said. She knew people were surprised that she could be civilised when she wanted to be, and many formed the opinion she was only a killing machine and would destroy them if they stood in her way. She didn't mind; it often proved useful to her when people thought she'd harm them if they didn't do as she said. Fear was an excellent motivator, but she hadn't attempted to threaten anyone this time. "Are you surprised?" she asked.

"A little; diplomacy's not exactly your thing." He pulled her close and kissed her softly to show he meant no harm by it.

"Not yours either," Cameron replied. John usually asked first and then ignored people and did what he wanted.

"Good point," John conceded. "I guess we'd both suck at politics." He picked the last segment of grapefruit from the tin and offered it to Cameron. She accepted it and let John place it in her mouth, then chewed and swallowed it. She didn't need to eat it but John liked to share with her, so she let him.

"Connor, Cameron, come in? This is Davenport; do you read, over?" Cameron grabbed the radio as Davenport was still speaking and held it out for John. He was in command, even if Captain Wallace didn't realise yet.

"This is Connor, Davenport. I read you."

"Jesus, boss; you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice. Where are you?"

"In bed," John said.

"Say again?"

Cameron stared at John, a slight frown that John recognised as her serious face – despite most of her expressions being similar. He knew she wanted him to be serious. "We're on board the Nimitz, in the infirmary. Cameron's got me on bed-rest. Where are you?"

"Five hundred metres outside Century Work Camp; we've got eyes on it from here."

"Who's 'we'?" John asked. What the hell were they doing out there, anyway? Cameron had told him that Derek's plan was to land on the carrier and convince Captain Wallace – using those delicate skills of diplomacy his uncle shared in common with Cameron, no doubt. Why hadn't they just landed on the ship?

"Charley, Ellison, Derek, a squad of soldiers plus two pilots and Martin Bedell."

"Bedell's dead," Cameron leaned closer to the mic as she spoke.

"Nah, he's messed up but Charley says he's gonna live." John could barely believe it; how the hell had he survived an HK crashing into him? He felt a small surge of relief well up inside him: Bedell was alive; he hadn't died for him. He could cross Bedell of the mental list of guilt and shame he'd written, of everyone who'd died for him, one way or another.

"He's watched the camp for three days," Cameron said to John. "He'll know if they've improved their defences."

"You read my mind, Cameron," Davenport answered. "Before he... ah... passed out, he said there's extra tin cans prowling around. We've got an OP on the camp and we can see at least three, maybe four T-2s; looks like they've got a couple more HKs, too. If you wanna call in some fast jets we can stay here and guide in the beam-riders."

John looked to Cameron, confused. He was a general – of sorts. Everyone told him he'd done well and seemed to think he walked the walk, but he still couldn't much talk the talk. Military jargon was never really his thing.

"Missiles or bombs that home in on a laser-target designator," Cameron elaborated. John nodded in understanding at her then shook his head in response to Davenport's offer, despite the lieutenant being miles away and unable to see him.

"There's people inside," John said. "Not until we get them all out." He wasn't going to leave anyone in the camp – slaves, condemned prisoners, or those being bled dry upstairs – to their fate. He'd get them all out and then blow the hospital away, leave nothing left of it.

John got up out of bed, brushing away Cameron's hand as she tried to keep him sat down. She quickly understood he wasn't going to let her keep him in bed anymore, and saw the fire return to his eyes once again. "We're going on a rescue mission, Davenport. I'll get some help from here. Keep your radio on, I'll get back to you in an hour."

John bent down, wincing at his aching joints and muscles as he crouched, and unzipped the duffel bag Cameron had placed his clothes in. He pulled on his DPM uniform and laced up his boots, then moved across the infirmary to a mirror on a cabinet. The right half of his face was still covered in dressings and he realised he hadn't seen his burns just yet.

He turned away from the mirror, deciding he really didn't want to see it just yet. Maybe after they'd taken down the camp, but he still wasn't sure. It'd take him time to adjust, and they both knew it. He pulled out of Cameron's embrace and redid his DPM jacked once more. He saw Cameron looking at him and knew what she was thinking; he hadn't recovered, he should wait until he was better. "It's gotta be now, Cameron. Those machines were nearly ready; we wait and we might be too late. They could be gone by the time we get there and we'd never find them."

"We'll need help," Cameron said. She wasn't going to try and dissuade John; she knew it wouldn't work. She thought before that she didn't know what futility was; now she realised that futility was trying to talk John out of doing something when he was as determined as this. It was the same as the assault on Area 51; she'd have to restrain him to stop him and he'd never forgive her if she did. All she could do was stay with him and keep him safe.

"We need to speak to Wallace," John said to her. It was time to call in the marines.

George stood in one of the labs containing half a dozen cylindrical glass containers; each one holding an inert TOK-888 as their flesh slowly grew and formed into skin. They were mostly done now; these six were among the first to be created and the most developed so far. He looked through the crimson red solution and saw the machine underneath, encased in its organic sheath. It was completely hairless; not even eyebrows or lashes, and its skin was still pinkish, though no longer translucent at least.

"Are the organic components self sustaining?" he asked Richard, who had taken over running the project after Connor had killed Daniel and escaped.

Richard looked down at Daniel's notes and glossed over the Grey's latest report, then stared into the same tank that George was. "Yes," he said. "But they're not ready for activation yet. They need more time for the outer dermal layers to finish developing."

"Doesn't matter; it's what's inside that's important: hyperalloy combat chassis."

"You want to activate the TOK-Triple-Eights for combat?" Richard asked, taken aback. This was completely antithetical to the plans they'd painstakingly worked on for over fifteen years since arriving in the past. It had taken years to gather the resources and wealth needed to invest in the various projects linked with Skynet, and he had a hard time accepting they were just going to throw them unfinished into the front line. "Forgive me, George, but they weren't designed for this; they're no better off in combat than a Triple-Eight or basic endo." Probably worse, he thought, as their preliminary tests before Judgement Day – using the entrails of an unfortunate janitor working the nightshift at their laboratory – showed the organs couldn't regenerate like the rest of the machines' organic tissues and were much slower to heal. Enough damage could ruin them and destroy all their meticulous work.

"Do you want to leave the safety of this operation to a handful of Greys and the most primitive machines ever used by Skynet?" George asked. Even with the reinforcements they only had a platoon of T-70s, five T-1s, three T-2s, and two HKs. That should be enough to repel an attack of anything less than an armoured company, but George hadn't been chosen by Skynet to lead his brothers and sisters because he was careless. With Emily and Daniel gone there were now four of them left, plus four Greys. They'd fight, but not knowing what Connor would come back with made him uncomfortable; he wanted the machines in position, just to be safe.

"I get your point," Richard conceded.

"We can put them back in the tanks after Connor's dead," George said. "But we might need them to help win this fight and I'd rather have them activated and not need them than having to rush to bring them online when we're under fire."

Richard pressed the release button on the glass tube and the blood-based liquid inside started to drain into storage tanks under the floor so they could use it again if need be. It took a minute for the liquid to fully drain and then the top of it swung open from hinges at the top, exposing the machine fully to their view. The skin was noticeably pinker and looked slimy, yet the features were clear. The lips, nose and eyes were all fully formed. It even had fingernails.

George pried open its mouth to reveal two rows of gleaming white teeth. They'd yellow in time as the thinner layers of enamel wore off, about ten times faster than that on human teeth. They'd designed them that way so they could blend in better; this model even had a few crooked teeth so it wouldn't be betrayed by its own outward perfection. The tongue was fully formed and looked and felt just like the real thing. It still lacked taste buds in the tongue but they'd incorporated their own responses to tasting foodstuffs into the machines' programming so they had a set list of 'preferences' to different kinds of food they'd be likely to eat.

Richard pulled out a small metal box and inserted a small key into the lock, twisted it and opened the lid. Inside were twelve CPUs; the minds and souls of the machines. He picked on with a label that corresponded to the number on the tank and placed it on a tray. They weren't going to insert the chips at random; Skynet had programmed each chip in the future with enough information for the machines to portray an actual person, rather than a blank slate that looked human. Information the machines could access and pretend they were memories, or preferences for certain foods or items. They even had names. This machine – Number One – would assume the moniker of Dave Lancaster; an unmarried bus driver from Sacramento who enjoyed base jumping and watching college basketball. The real Dave Lancaster had been a corporal in the Resistance who'd been tortured by Charles Fischer for weeks until he'd divulged every aspect of his life prior to Judgement Day.

George took a scalpel and cut a semicircle just above the right temple until the flap of flesh hung loosely over the side of the head. He took a power screwdriver to the two rotating cylinders on top of the port cover and unscrewed them in turn. They'd made it even harder to get to the chips on these models; so even if someone managed to disable it then they'd take a lot longer than on previous models to extract their CPUs. The weakness to electric shocks had been designed out of these models – something they'd been able to consider when designing the machines in a world full of electricity, unlike in the future where it was a rare, sparse commodity among the Resistance.

Skynet had been unfortunate in the future: when terminators had been shocked they never came into friendly contact with Skynet again, so there had been no reports of the weakness to electricity until Connor had created a substantial army of reprogrammed machines. One of his brothers had had to infiltrate an important bunker to learn why so many terminators had disappeared, and by the time he'd discovered the vulnerability to electricity it was already too late; the war had turned in Connor's favour. He'd ensure that never happened again.

Once the locking cylinders were undone, he slipped the scalpel blade under the port cover and wedged it free, then placed it onto the same tray as the CPU. He pulled out the shock dampening assembly and slotted the chip into its socket in the centre of the skull. George started to reassemble the chip's protective housing and sealed the CPU back inside the skull, then took a bottle of superglue and squeezed out some onto the chrome skull and flattened the skin onto it. It would hold the skin to the rest of the scalp and to the skull until the wounds healed again in a few hours.

George and Richard stepped back and moments later the machine's eyes opened, revealing dull brown eyes that swept left to right as it scanned the room and analysed the two infiltrators. George accessed his neural implant and 'broadcast' a signal to the TOK that identified him as an ally and told the machine to follow his commands – a code that Skynet had programmed all its machines to understand.

"Say something," George ordered it. "What's your name?"

"I'm Dave," the machine smiled at him with false enthusiasm and held out its hand for him to shake. George shook its hand and smiled. It had instantly referred to its alias; that was a good sign. And it had sounded very, very human.

"Voice module seems okay," Richard said quietly.

"Run a diagnostic check on all systems," George commanded it. The machine's face dropped from its false smile into a blank expression and looked blankly forwards as it obeyed the order and only two seconds later reached its conclusion.

"I'm one hundred percent," 'Dave' answered in a direct, emotionless voice more typical of the machines. George figured that to the machine – born with its flesh incomplete – that it could well consider that state a hundred percent. Either way it was combat effective and that was all that mattered.

"The armoury is on the third floor," George said to the machine. "Put some clothes on, grab a weapon and ammunition, and report to Michael in the security office on this floor." As the machine marched out of the room George turned to Richard. "Let's get the rest online."

Wallace stood on the bridge and looked out in the direction of the California coastline, too far out to see with the naked eye. He couldn't believe what a fuckup everything had turned into: sending four helicopters out to extract Cheyenne Mountain's soldiers – against his better judgement – and losing two of them. That damned brunette girl had stolen one, according to her own account, and she and Bedell had flown in to rescue John Connor, and coming back with some damn kid and minus one of his ship's best officers.

What made it even more ridiculous was that 4th Infantry's acting commander – General Perry – had tried to assure him that said kid was indeed General Connor, and the girl with him was actually a machine. These people needed a goddamn psychiatrist, he thought. The kid knew about Bedell, though; knew about Presidio Alto, knew how Bedell had a fondness for running. Wallace had seen the lieutenant running the length of the ship and back every day more times than anyone cared to count every morning, going at it like he was training for a marathon. The kid claiming to be Connor had that right.

"We've got people out there," Perry grumbled behind him. Wallace had let Perry onto the bridge, seeing as the two respective commanders would have to pool their resources when they figured out what the hell they did next. "Yours, too," Perry continued.

"We don't know where," Wallace turned to face him, hands resting behind the small of his back. "And to be honest, I'm not crazy about sending more of my men to rescue your guys after we've already had one chopper hijacked by that girl you claim is a robot, and given your unit's disposition, there being a very good chance the other was taken over, too.

"It was," John pushed the door to the bridge aside and stepped in, followed by Cameron. The bridge crew all turned to face him and stared at his half-bandaged face. John knew he'd have to get used to the stares; even more so when the dressings came off eventually.

"I never gave you permission to enter," Wallace growled. He saw 'Connor' stencilled on the front of his uniform and frowned. It was all adding up but he just didn't want to believe it.

"I don't need to ask," John replied. "Everything Perry said is true; I'm General Connor, Cameron's a cyborg. My men hijacked your helicopter to rescue me and are in Century City." Wallace stared at John; saw the fire in his eyes. He'd never seen such hardness in someone so young. He had the same hard gaze in his eyes that Wallace had only seen in hardened veterans; men who'd seen things they never should have, and were forced to carry it in their heads for the rest of their lives. It was clear he'd suffered appallingly, but that didn't mean he was in charge, and he wasn't ready to follow someone half his age.

"Prove it," he said finally.

John grinned in reply; he could do that. He turned to Cameron, now stood at his side. "Show him," he told her.

Cameron considered the best way to reveal her true nature and ran through the options in the time it took a person to blink. She stared at Wallace and her eyes glowed bright, piercing blue. She then stepped forward and grabbed a handful of the captain's shirt, then lifted him up into the air, ignoring his surprised cry as he was lifted clean off the deck. The rest of the crew on the bridge shot out of their seats and stared, bewildered, as she held him up with one hand, unsure what to do. A couple of them started to advance towards Cameron and John.

"Easy," John held his hand out, palm facing towards them. "She's not hurting anyone." He knew Cameron wouldn't harm anyone unless they were a threat to him. A sceptical captain wasn't a threat; just an annoyance.

"Satisfied?" Cameron asked Wallace, using his own voice as she spoke. She sensed his raised heartbeat and temperature, saw his wide-eyed gaze and open mouth and could tell he was afraid. She held him in the air for five seconds and lowered him back down. Wallace nodded, unsure how else to respond.

"Good," John smiled, creasing the dressings covering his cheek. Even smiling was painful; he decided he'd have to act a little more stoically, like Cameron, or else every expression he made for the next several weeks would hurt like hell until his burns healed. "If you need any more proof I can have Perry here get all my guys to confirm it."

Perry nodded in response. He'd learnt in the siege of Cheyenne Mountain that he really didn't want to be in charge of everything; not against Skynet. He was more than happy for Connor to run the show; he'd never say it but he was glad the kid was back. All the way through the siege he'd wished he was a ranker. He hadn't been, though; he was an officer and it had fallen to him to take command. He hadn't liked it, though; he didn't mind organising men or directing a battle, but he just couldn't get in the machines' heads like Connor could. He realised, grudgingly, that the machine had something to do with that. As long as it didn't turn on them; he still didn't trust it.

"You might be in charge of your soldiers, Connor," Wallace said. "But this is still my ship; I'm not putting it or my men in danger for you."

John was getting tired of this; he'd gone through the same thing with his own men at the start of the war, then again in Area 51 with the traitor, Ryan's, men. He wasn't going to put up with this every time they met up with other people; it couldn't go on like that or they'd never get anywhere. The sailors and marines on board followed Wallace, and he wouldn't risk them to launch a mission to raze the camp. There was something he'd go in there for, John knew. He decided to play his trump card. "There's something else you need to know; Martin Bedell is still alive."

"Then we're getting him out of there," Wallace replied instantly. He'd lost so many pilots over the past months; he wasn't going to leave Bedell behind now. He couldn't live with himself if he just abandoned Bedell to his fate.

"We're getting all of them out of there," John said. He wasn't going to leave anyone behind to be worked to death, poisoned, or cut up and slaughtered like cattle for George's new breed of machines.

"4th Infantry is ready, Connor," Perry offered. He'd prefer to trust his own guys over jarhead marines, any day. They were all seasoned veterans against the machines now; each one of them.

John nodded to Perry in thanks, but he had a different idea. He turned to Wallace once more. "We're going back for them and I want your help."

The cold, hard gaze was back in John's eyes, making it clear to Wallace that John wasn't asking: it was an order. He still couldn't believe this kid was meant to be General Connor. How the hell had that happened, and why was Perry – a seasoned officer – taking orders from him? If he'd known all those months ago the voice on the other end of the radio was a twenty-one year old kid then he'd have laughed his head off and switched frequency to someone with a deeper voice. Still; according to Perry, this was the John Connor from Cheyenne Mountain, who'd organised several remnants of humanity and told them what to do, when nobody else had known what was going on. Things were so crazy after the bombs had fallen, so why should this be any different?

"Okay," he said simply.

Cameron lay prone next to John, only their weapons between them as they bounced up and down in the almost total darkness all around them. She turned her head slightly to watch him beside her, able to see in the darkness without any problems whatsoever. John stared out into the black in front of him, not bothering to shield himself as icy cold water blasted him in the face and drenched the dressings Cameron had administered. She sensed a slight flinch and the occasional hiss of pain as saltwater soaked into his wounds. The water would help keep it clean.

Cameron also clung onto the inflatable boat as it bounced on the roiling waves towards Santa Monica beach; her auditory sensors could hardly pick up anything over the loud buzzing drone of the outboard motor behind them, piloted by one of the four marines behind them. Another boat ran parallel to theirs and carried another eight of Nimitz's marine contingent, all armed to the teeth with machine guns and armour piercing weaponry. Wallace grudgingly agreed to follow John and had placed them under his command, and Perry had tried to convince him to use their own men. Cameron had agreed with Perry; the 4th Infantry soldiers were more loyal to John and more likely to follow his commands.

John turned to face her and smiled, then let go of one of the handles at the bow – clutching twice as hard with his left hand still holding on – and reached back to gently squeeze her fingers. Despite himself and the gravity of the mission they were about to undertake, he was enjoying the ride. He'd never been on a boat before, especially not a fast raiding craft like this; and the combination of speed, open air, the water, and the bumpy ride got the adrenaline pumping in his system. As long as he – or more importantly, Cameron – didn't fall out, they'd be okay. It wasn't so bad if he fell out; they could stop the boat and pick him up, but Cameron didn't float. If she fell out she was going straight to the bottom. He'd made her wear a lifejacket for that very reason but he didn't want to test its effects on cyborgs right now.

"How long?" John shouted at the top of his voice into Cameron's ear, struggling to be heard over the engine.

Cameron estimated they were five miles out from the shore, and were travelling at forty knots. "Seven minutes," she spoke loudly into his ear. She didn't bother saying how many seconds; she knew from past experience she didn't have to be that precise. "You should have taken more men," she added.

John shook his head, knowing she also thought he should have used his own soldiers. They were more experienced with machines, but they couldn't think of themselves now as 4th Infantry or the Marines, just the same as how people now shouldn't consider themselves American, or Russian, or Chinese... they were all just people, all fighting for the same thing. They had to all work together and that was why he'd insisted on using Nimitz's marines; he already had his own soldiers out there under Derek's lead, and what better way to integrate his men and Wallace's than with a joint mission? It was better in the long run.

"Just take a moment to enjoy it," John said to her, facing her so the water only splashed the undamaged left side of his face. Cameron took John's suggestion literally and suspended all other conscious processes, closed her eyes and just lay still, letting the water spray over her face and making no move to wipe it away. She enjoyed the feel of the icy cold spray as it struck her skin and made her organic nerves tingle, transferring the sensation through to her cybernetic sensors. She filed the sensation away to replay it again later when she had the opportunity.

"Cutting the engine," one of the marines called out, then the buzzing roar of the engine died down and the boat slowed down, ambling in the water silently as the second craft did the same. John and Cameron stayed prone on the ground and both shouldered their weapons – Cameron's SCAR-H and a Diemaco C8 carbine from Fort Carson's Special Forces armoury for John. It was lighter than the standard M4, which was one reason why Cameron had chosen it for him. They both stared forward and looked for the shore as the marines started to paddle forward, silently approaching the coastline.

John couldn't see the shore with the naked eye; there were no lights and any aircraft were flying too low to be seen from a mile out at sea. But his rifle's scope illuminated the scene before him and he could just make out land in the distance. Cameron didn't need her weapon's sights and had done away with the scope completely, only needing her own targeting systems. Somebody else would need it, so she'd placed it in the armoury after choosing John's weapon for him. She'd have preferred a larger calibre weapon for him but the only 7.62mm firearms on board the carrier were machine guns or sniper rifles: neither of which were suitable for John.

When they reached the shore John and Cameron were the first to step out into the shallow water and waded onto the once pristine golden sands of Santa Monica Beach. They both lay prone on the ground as the some of the marines joined them in a defensive semicircle and the others pulled the boats onto the sand so the tide wouldn't take them back out to sea.

Cameron kept a careful watch over John in case he showed any signs of struggling. If he did then she'd find a safe place for him and lead the mission herself under his authority. He'd resist if she tried but she wouldn't let him endanger himself any more than he already had if his condition started to deteriorate. She was surprised he had the strength to lead the mission. Future-John had told people that humans had a strength that couldn't be measured; that hadn't made sense to Cameron, who saw everything as quantifiable.

John should be resting, shouldn't be able to hold a weapon and lead from the front, but he was, and showed no signs of slowing down. She didn't understand where or how he found the strength to continue when all her scans indicated he was in such bad condition; even Future-John would have waited several more days or sent someone else. She couldn't help a small smile creasing her lips as she looked across at her lover. As far as Cameron was concerned he'd surpassed his future self.

The marines all lay out in defensive positions and remained still as they waited for any sign that their landing had been detected. After ten minutes of laying on the cold, damp sand John saw a small light flashing three hundred metres to their left and at the far end of the beach. It flashed twice and went dark, then repeated the action ten seconds later. John nodded to Cameron; that was their prearranged signal from Derek's group. John got up to his feet and jogged up the beach, slowed considerably by the sand as his boots sank slightly with each step. Cameron could have easily outpaced all of them still but she kept only just ahead of John in case she needed to cover him from incoming fire.

Derek stepped out of the darkness from underneath strewn debris and stepped towards John, Davenport just behind him. As soon as he was in arm's length Derek pulled him into a hug and slapped him on the back, a grin on his face like a Cheshire cat. "Jesus, John; the mess you got yourself into."

"Good to see you, Boss," Davenport stood to attention in front of John and gave a crisp salute.

"Cut that out," John snapped, returning the smile as he reached out and shook Davenport's hand instead. He hated being saluted and reckoned that was half of why Davenport had done it. After all Cameron had told him about the siege on Cheyenne Mountain John figured he was as glad to see them again as they were to see him.

"Charley and Ellison will be glad to see you," Derek added. "Ellison's in charge of the squad, half a klick north of the camp and Charley's taking care of Bedell. What the hell happened in there?"

"Infiltrators," John replied. "George."

"George is in there?" Davenport couldn't believe it. That guy just didn't know when to fuck off.

"He's farming people for blood and organs, making a new kind of cyborg; like Cameron but with organs and everything." Cameron disagreed that they were like her; she was unique and John had said so before, but she knew he meant in terms of their capabilities and decided not to comment.

"George set up the work camp," John added.

"That's why it's up and running early, then," Derek figured. Nothing was working out the way it should have in this time; Skynet was progressing much faster than in his future. It was pretty obvious to him now that George and his infiltrators were the reason why.

"We've got a score to settle with that guy," Davenport muttered.

"You're not the only one," John pointed to his soaking wet wound dressings. He wasn't going to leave Century until all the TOK-888s were destroyed and every last infiltrator and Grey in the camp was dead.

"What did he do to you?" Derek asked, looking closer at John's dressings. He placed a red filter over his flashlight and shined it on John's face. The bandages were soaked through and peeling off at the corners but they still held, so he couldn't see the injuries underneath; but he could imagine what that sadistic hybrid bastard had done to John. He was in bad shape; he'd been around a hundred-and-eighty pounds before he'd ended up in Century: now he was all skin and bones; the musculature he'd built up from his training had all but wasted away. His wet uniform clung to his shrunken frame and Derek couldn't help but feel guilty that he wasn't there.

"He tortured him," Cameron replied as she inspected his dressings. She'd have to change them at the earliest opportunity, preferably before they attacked the work camp.

John didn't want to go into details with anyone about what George did to him; he didn't want to relive it again. Maybe to Cameron later, but definitely not in front of all the marines around them.

"You held out," Derek smiled at him. "You didn't break." He looked at Cameron and remembered the torture he'd gone through in that godforsaken basement in the future, and never seeing Kyle again after. As bad as the machines were, he could easily imagine George being even worse; the sick bastard probably took pleasure in the act and got off on it; probably did it as much for his own amusement as for getting any information out of him.

"We should move," John changed the subject. He was wet and freezing and they couldn't afford to stand around chatting anymore.

They moved out in silence. Derek led the way through the ruined city, pausing several times along the way as machine patrols approached or flew overhead. John had spent so much time in the camp, surrounded by machines guarding them that he'd almost forgotten what it was like to have to run and hide from them. Especially since he'd taken command in Cheyenne Mountain they'd been on an almost even footing with Skynet in Colorado; this was the first time since J-Day that he actually felt like he was leading a guerrilla resistance rather than a company of soldiers.

Eventually the devastation cleared and gave way to the lesser damaged areas, and they passed by the ground floors of buildings John recognised from the inside of Century Work Camp. Derek led them to where the rest of his men had gone to ground and hidden themselves away. Derek put the marines in defensive positions, leaving Davenport in charge, and took John and Cameron to the interior of a red semi trailer.

John stepped inside and could barely believe his eyes as he looked down on the immobilised form of Martin Bedell sat on the ground, propped up against one of the walls as Charley tended to him.

"John!" Charley stared at him, wide-eyed in shock. John nodded back to him and shook his hand, pulling him into a hug and slapping him on the back. He pulled back and saw Martin Bedell on the ground, his back propped up against the trailer wall, his legs splintered and covered with bandages. One of his eyes had a ring of dark purple bruising emerging around it.

"Jesus, Martin! What the hell were you thinking?"

"Nice to see you too, Connor." Bedell said; Charley had set and splinted his legs and the morphine was kicking in nicely, reducing the pain to a dull ache.

"We thought you were dead," Cameron said simply. It wasn't an apology for leaving him behind; if she'd known he'd survived the crash she would still have left with John.

"You did the right thing," Bedell nodded to her.

"You didn't," John reached down and smacked the back of Martin's head like he was swatting a fly. He'd been hugely relieved when Davenport had told him Bedell was alive, but now he was just pissed that he'd so recklessly risked his own life for him. "When I tell you to run, you run. Next time you don't listen I'll shoot you myself."

"You wanna shoot me for disobeying orders, sir, you'll have to get in line behind the tin cans," Bedell shot back. He'd do it again in a heartbeat if he had to; though next time he'd think about running sooner or at least ducking.

"I'll remember that," John replied gruffly.

"Bedell watched the camp until we got here," Charley told John. "They've got an army of machines now."

"At least three T-2s, a pair of HKs now, and thirty or so T-70s, and who knows what else in the hospital," Bedell elaborated. "I hope you've got a good plan, John. The camp's a fortress and I can't see a way in without being caught."

An aircraft soared loudly overhead, sounding so low they could have reached up and touched it. John peered outside the trailer and saw the landing lights of an Osprey as it descended into the camp to drop off a fresh batch of prisoners. Night flights were uncommon but they did happen.

"That's how we get in," John pointed up at the descending aircraft. "George infiltrated Cheyenne, right?" Derek looked to John and nodded in reply. "Then we do the same."