Chapter seven

Even when it was new, the secondary road through the desert outside Los Angeles had never carried a lot of traffic. Now it constituted the first leg of a journey north for a single weather‑beaten jeep.

At least, Wright thought to himself as he scanned both the pavement ahead and the scrub‑covered hills off to his left, traffic wasn’t going to be a problem.

A glance at the passenger seat and in back revealed that his two companions were still asleep. He did not think of them as children. That identifier implied an innocence that was no longer present in this world. Competence existed exclusive of chronological age. He would far rather embark on the trip ahead in the company of a knowledgeable and experienced teen and a brave nine‑year old than some fat fool of a forty‑something.

In his short, brutish life he had known far too many of the latter.

Save for the comforting grumble of the jeep, the silence on the old highway was pervasive. Tough and resilient, the desert scrub appeared to have survived better than the largely transplanted and imported landscaping of Los Angeles.

Occasionally he thought he caught glimpses of movement among the stones, succulents, and cacti. Rats, mice, rabbits, ever‑opportunistic coyotes and cats gone feral. He smiled to himself. Small mammals had survived the age of dinosaurs by fleeing to burrows. Perhaps humankind would survive the age of machines the same way. Something dark and winged soaring overhead drew his gaze upward.

He was not at all surprised that among the surviving species of birds, buzzards seemed to be doing particularly well.

If the 7‑Eleven that hove into view was a mirage, it was a pleasingly solid one. Though for all that was left of it, it might as well have been vapor. Torn and battered, its windows and front broken out, with its filling island twisted as if by a tornado, it appeared to have been ravaged as much by the weather and human refugees as by Skynet.

Bent and rusted as they were, the presence of the gas pumps prompted him to glance down at the jeep’s dash. He was not surprised to see that the fuel gauge indicator was flirting with a large letter E. Determination would still get him to San Francisco–but another tankful of fuel would sure be a big help.

At the moment, he was not ashamed to admit that he needed the expertise of someone much younger than himself who knew about their present surroundings. Reaching over, he elbowed the sleeping teen awake. Reese muttered something unintelligible, but when his eyes opened, they opened fast. He was instantly awake, his awareness ignited like the flame on a gas stove.

Slowing further as he drew closer to the station turnoff, Wright indicated the silent structure.

“Looks dead. What do you think?”

Leaning out the side of the jeep, Reese squinted at the building. Excitement replacing exhaustion, he pointed to a symbol that had been spray painted on one wall. More than anything, it resembled a crude double helix.

“Hey...that’s it.” The youth pointed. “That’s the insignia of the Resistance. It means this place has recently been visited by its soldiers and found to be clean. Looks deserted, too. It should be all right to get out here–at least for as long as it takes to pick up what we can. Pull over.” Reaching into the back seat, he nudged the jeep’s smallest passenger.

“Star, wake up! We’ve found a store.”

Sitting up, the girl rubbed at her eyes, and looked at Reese as if to say, What kind of store?

Settling back down in the front passenger seat, the teen studied the ruins absorbedly, dividing his attention between the relic and the now alert and attentive little girl in back.

“It’s kind of a mess, but it looks like a mini‑mart.” At this her eyes widened hopefully. He had to smile at her reaction.

“Don’t get too excited,” he told her. “You know what these places are like inside. We went through plenty of ’em back in L.A.” He eyed the gaping, windowless front speculatively. “Maybe we’ll be lucky this time, maybe not.” He turned back to the older man. “Come on. You drive like a grandmother.”

His initial reaction after they parked the jeep and finally got inside was “not.” Star’s expression showed how her heart sank as she joined the two men in inspecting the rows of broken, crumpled shelves. The minimart’s interior had been ravaged and scavenged with a thoroughness fit to satisfy the most scrupulous barbarian. The store had been cleaned out. There wasn’t a paper clip to be had, much less anything edible. A long‑silent freezer contained a single empty carton of milk.

Wright wondered why whoever had drained the contents had chosen to place the empty container back in the silent freezer. A choice made out of reason, respect, or madness?

Following close on his heels, Reese suddenly froze. Star wasn’t the only one whose senses had been sharpened by years spent surviving in the shell of the Southern California megalopolis.

“Someone’s here.”

He had barely uttered the exclamation when half a dozen figures suddenly materialized from different corners of the store.

Wright froze in his turn. They had guns. Not that this would stop him if he felt compelled to defend himself, but while the scruffy shapes wielding the weapons were clearly on edge, their trigger fingers were relaxed. Had their anxiety exceeded their curiosity, they would have fired without bothering to emerge from hiding. That they hadn’t done so indicated that their preference was to talk–at least initially.

Of course they would, he told himself. In this world all human life was precious, because it meant one more individual alive to rage against the machine.

That didn’t mean every survivor welcomed every other one with open arms. Survival still trumped friendship. Confirming this belief, the man Wright took to be the leader of the group kept his shotgun trained on the intruders.

At the first appearance of weapons Reese had stepped in front of Star to shield her. He too had singled out the same man as the group leader.

“We saw your sign,” the teen ventured by way of a hello.

“The old lady put up the sign. Not me. We can’t help you.” The shotgun’s muzzle gestured toward the pump island outside where Wright had parked the jeep. “Wherever you’re headed, you need to keep on going.”

Stepping forward, an elderly woman regarded the trio of arrivals a moment before finally nodding and turning to the much younger man holding the weapon.

“Ease off, Len. They’re okay.” Her shoulder‑length hair had turned white as marble.

Licking his lips uncertainly, the shotgun wielder gestured with the end of the weapon again, this time singling out Reese and Star.

“These two might be. Ain’t seen a machine yet that tried to imitate a kid.” Cagey and alert, his eyes flicked back to the silently staring Wright. “But what about him?”

“We don’t want to cause trouble.” Wright kept his tone even and unthreatening. “We just need fuel.”

The man laughed bitterly. “Don’t we all. How about some steak and ice cream while we’re wishing?” His gaze narrowed. “The dark season is coming. We only have enough for ourselves.”

Wright stared back at him calmly. “Why? You planning on taking a long vacation some time soon?”

Tensing, the other man took a step toward Wright, only to be stopped by the exasperated elder.

“Len, put the gun down. You really think I’m going to let you send these children away starving?”

He looked at her sharply. “Virginia, we’re running out of food.”

Spreading his hands, Reese pleaded their case.

“We’re not asking for much. Maybe one meal and some gas for our jeep, then we’ll leave. We don’t want to stay. We’re trying to reach the Resistance.”

For the second time since they had entered the store, Len let out a burst of sharp, acrid laughter.

“The Resistance? What a joke! There is no ‘Resistance’. There’s only talk and wishful thinking. You can’t fight the machines. All anyone with any sense can do is try to stay out of their way.” He gestured at their teetering surroundings. “Why do you think this place is still standing?”

“Because the machines haven’t gotten around to it yet,” Wright opined quietly.

Len glared at him. “No! It’s because we don’t make trouble. We don’t shout our presence. We keep our heads down and they ignore us.”

“You keep your head down,” Reese told him. “They’ll come for you eventually. I’ve seen this before. They don’t ignore you. They don’t ignore anybody. What they do is set priorities. Pick their targets according to the possible threat they might pose, starting with any they consider potentially dangerous to them. Once those’ve been wiped out they start working their way down their list. No one escapes notice. No one gets left alive. They want us all dead.” In spite of Reese’s youth, it was easy to see which of the two men was the more mature.

“They want you dead. Whether you ‘make trouble’ for them or not. Maybe you can hang on here for a while longer yet, but they’ll get around to you eventually.”

Len was not about to have the agenda that had led to his continuing survival misrepresented by a garrulous teenager.

“We help you, maybe they will.”

Wright spoke up. “So give us some gas and we’ll get out of your hair.”

While the men had argued, the older woman had walked over to peer down at the silent Star.

“No one’s going anywhere,” she declared with resolve, “until this one has had something to eat.” Kneeling, she reached out to touch the girl’s cheek. Star did not flinch.

“Look how young you are.” The woman shook her head sorrowfully. “I had a granddaughter about your age. Before–everything. The world we’ve left to you, poor thing–I’m so very sorry for that. People acted without thinking. Not for the first time, but until now things always turned out all right. This time–I just don’t know.” She rose and smiled encouragingly. “Come on, let’s feed you. Unless, of course, you’re not hungry.”

Star nodded violently.

“I thought so.” Moving to a part of the store nearer the back, the woman called Virginia pushed aside an empty metal rack. Bending, she curled her fingers around a handle that had been painted to resemble the rest of the floor and pulled. A wooden hatch cover rose on sturdy hinges.

While Wright remained aloof, waiting, Reese could not help himself. Straining to see down into the opening, he was able to make out piles of packaged and canned food, vacuum‑sealed loaves of bread, a startling variety of canned beverages that ran the liquid gamut from beer to soda to water, even some bundles of semi‑fresh vegetables.

Len noted these actions with ill‑concealed displeasure.

“We haven’t finished evaluating this bunch. We still don’t know who they are, where they come from, what they’re doing here, or how they managed to get hold of a functioning jeep.” He indicated the open hatch. “What are you doing?”

Virginia did not bother to look in his direction. Kneeling and bending down, she began pulling an assortment of provisions from the subterranean storeroom. Reese eyed the apparently unending stream eagerly. He hadn’t seen so much food in one place since–well, he couldn’t remember when he had seen so much food. Plainly, living outside a major city and beyond Skynet’s immediate ken had its advantages.

“I’m using a mother’s intuition.” The older woman looked back at the disapproving Len. “Now put your paranoia away and come welcome our guests.”

Though she neither looked nor sounded like Reese’s conception of a survivalist leader, it was obvious who was in charge here. Around the interior perimeter of the ruined mini‑mart weapons were lowered, including Len’s. Hands came off stocks and triggers. Several of those present helped themselves to bottles and settled down to drink.

Gesturing at the assortment of food she had laid out on the floor, Virginia smiled at the newcomers.

“Help yourselves.”

While a famished Reese and Star dove unhesitatingly into a pile of goodies the likes of which had vanished from their memories, Wright held back and continued to regard the older woman. In welcoming him and the children unconditionally she was revealing a pair of character traits that had been more or less entirely absent from his life. Trust, and kindness. Being as unfamiliar with such ordinary human touchstones as he was with the cultural norms of central Africa, he hung back, uncertain how to react to an offer for which nothing was expected in return.

Marking his hesitation, she put some food into a weathered basket and brought it to him. He eyed the packages. Some were familiar to him, some utterly strange. He shook his head “no.” Lowering the basket, she tried another tack.

“Are you all right, son?”

Len’s gaze narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Life is lived moment by moment, Len. Choice by choice. It signifies what it means to be human.”

Lifting up his gun, he pointed it again. Not at Wright this time, or at Reese. At her.

“I can’t let you do this, Virginia. This is our food. Our fuel. It’s not your choice to make.”

Ignoring him, she turned back to the stolid Wright.

“You look so cold. We have a stock of spare clothing. I think some of it will fit you. Do you want a sweater?” Again he shook his head. This time not because he intended to further refuse the offering of food, but because he found himself distracted. His attention had been drawn to Star.

She had paused her feverish eating. Holding a sandwich halfway to her mouth, she had tensed visibly. Her eyes were wide. It was a posture and response Wright had seen before. Out of the corner of an eye he saw that Reese had noticed it too and was already racing for a far corner of the floor. He beat Wright to the spot by half a second.

A loud crack sounded. The bottle Len had been drinking from exploded in his hand. Startled, he gawked at the glass shards and the precious drink that was now dripping from his open palm. Blood oozed from his neck where some of the glass had struck.

The roof exploded.

The digits that plunged through the resultant opening were large, powerful, and metallic. Clamping around a stunned Virginia, they pulled her out through the newly made hole in the roof. Racing for the front door, one of the other survivors screamed at Wright in passing.

“ Damn you! You brought them here!”

Bashing its way through the rapidly disintegrating ceiling, a second mechanical claw missed the accuser but snatched up another survivor.

Wright didn’t have to tell Reese and Star to run. They were already sprinting madly for the store front. Around them was chaos and confusion as the remaining survivors scattered in search of an exit, any exit, while the pair of probing claws sought additional prey.

As they burst free of the mini‑mart’s confines, Reese and Wright looked back to see the attacker. Star did not–she just kept running.

“Harvester!” Reese exclaimed without breaking stride.

A mechanical marvel, the machine was many times the size of a human being. Powerful arms and legs sprouted from its body together with an assortment of sensors. Only some of these observed their surroundings by seeing via the normal visual spectrum. Others looked to be attuned to seeing in the infrared, still others in the ultraviolet. Gleaming limbs of dark metal held Virginia and the other snared survivor in an unyielding jointed grasp.

People were screaming and scattering in all directions. Many rushed toward a parking area packed with vehicles, some of which had been laboriously cleaned up and restored. Flanked by the children, Wright headed straight for the painstakingly repaired jeep. They did not reach it–which was fortunate. Looming over the crumpled roof of the store on girder‑like legs, the towering Harvester let loose a massive discharge that turned the jeep into an eye‑blinding fireball. Wright and his young companions were forced back toward the mini‑mart.

While he easily shook off the effects of the blast, the concussion had been too much for Star. Dismissing an odd and unfamiliar surge of emotion, he bent and picked her up. With a curt nod in the direction of a slowly accelerating camper, he led Reese toward it in hopes of intercepting the departing vehicle.

Len cut them off, though not intentionally. A fleeing Saab sideswiped him. He must have hit the fender and hood just right, because he rolled clear with no apparent injury. Reaching the camper, he yanked open the passenger‑side door and jumped inside.

The fleeing vehicle did not escape the attention of the Harvester. One shot reduced both the camper shell and the pickup on which it had been riding to flaming scrap. Having gained a head start, it looked to Wright as if the Saab and its occupants might make their escape. The Harvester’s range, however, was the equal of its precision. Blown high into the air, the Saab tumbled end over end to slam into the remnants of the metal canopy that partly shaded the single line of gas pumps.

Still carrying Star, he and Reese took cover behind an intact corner of the mini‑mart’s auto service bay. Glancing inside, he spotted a pair of unoccupied and possibly functional vehicles: a tanker and a battered heavy‑lift tow truck that had been kitted out to fight the machines. Loading the unmoving Star into the truck’s front seat, Wright pretzeled himself under the dash and began the process of hot‑wiring the vehicle. A hand on his shoulder made him pause and look back.

Meeting the older man’s gaze, Reese shook his head and used both hands to diagram a mushroom shape in the air while blowing out his cheeks. While Wright knew he might not be the brightest man on the planet, neither was he stupid. The teen’s meaning was as clear as it was correct: based on the action they had just observed and had barely managed to avoid, climbing into a car and attempting to speed away might not be the best strategy for avoiding the Harvester’s attention.

Then what? he thought furiously.

The big machine saved him the pain of having to think. Short bursts from its secondary weapon began to collapse the walls of the service bay. Years of dust and accumulated grime blossomed out to form impenetrable clouds as the Harvester pondered how best to remove them from the truck.

Glancing sharply at Reese, Wright mouthed the words, “Trust me” and brought wires together beneath the truck’s dash. The engine growled, stalled, growled again, and rumbled to life. Throwing himself into the driver’s seat as Reese slid in on the other side and shielded Star, Wright slammed the truck in gear–into reverse.

Ramming the tanker, the heavy truck strained for traction. Looking back, with one hand on the wheel and a foot jamming the accelerator into the floor, Wright saw that two‑thirds of his plan was working. Pushing back the tanker had slammed it into the legs of the Harvester and brought the collecting machine to a temporary stop. As a result of being smashed by the tow truck, the tanker was spilling gasoline from several ruptures in its steel body.

It might as well have been spilling milk. In the absence of the hoped‑for sparks, the pungent fuel was simply pooling up on the floor of the service bay. The angle at which the Harvester had been pinned prevented it from bringing its weapons to bear, but that was unlikely to last forever. As he was trying to decide what to do next, a hand tapped him on the arm. A small hand.

Now awake, a silent Star was proffering an emergency highway flare.

Taking it, he ignited the warning device, took aim, tossed it back and out the door of the truck, and floored the accelerator. As the tow truck streaked out of the service bay, the flare landed in the nearest stream of gas and flared back in the direction of the tanker. Seeing the truck flee, the Harvester raised the muzzle of its main cannon and took aim.

The result when the line of fire reached the immobilized tanker was most satisfying.

The explosion was even bigger than Wright had hoped. As flames balled skyward behind him, he gunned the tow truck away from the mini‑mart and headed for the highway. He didn’t smile at Reese, and the teen did not smile back, but the feeling of appreciation was clearly mutual.

Then the Harvester plowed through the wall of flames that had engulfed the service bay and started after them.

It fired–and missed. Since the beginning of the assault on the mini‑mart this was the first shot unleashed from its primary weapon that had failed to strike its intended target. The failing might have been due to the machine having suffered some slight damage from the tanker explosion and the resulting flames. Or it could have been due to the hasty evasive action taken by Wright. More likely the miss was due to the fact that the Harvester’s legs were still locked, entwined, and in several spots melted to the remnants of the tanker.

But while the machine’s mobility and ability to follow were seriously compromised, that of its component parts were not.

Reese had seen them in action on the streets of greater Los Angeles, and for his new friend’s benefit he identified the two‑wheeled machines that dropped clear of the larger machine’s body as Moto‑Terminators. Capable of speeds far in excess of anything the Harvester could achieve, they hit the ground and shot after the fleeing tow truck.

Like the rest of the old highway, the section Wright was speeding along was littered with dead and abandoned cars. Now, instead of driving to avoid them, he deliberately slammed the truck’s reinforced steel front bumper into as many as he felt he could safely impact. As pieces of abandoned vehicle went flying and bouncing down the road in the truck’s wake, the noise inside the cab was deafening. Neither Reese nor Star complained.

It was a clever effort–and a useless one. Steered by senses far more responsive than those of any human driver, the pursuing Motos deftly maneuvered around the careening debris without ever slowing down. The distance between truck and hunters closed rapidly.

Wright grew aware that Reese was yelling at him, screaming to make himself heard above the metal carnage that was fueling the truck’s wake. He could have argued with the teen’s declared intent, but there were two reasons why he did not. One, someone had to drive the truck. And two, he didn’t have any better ideas.

Climbing out the rear window of the cab, Reese carefully made his way to the rear of the rocking, swaying vehicle. The first sizable object he saw that wasn’t bolted down was a barrel of oil. Several kicks with both feet sent it flying off the back of the truck. Bursting on contact with the road, it sent a wide spill of black liquid slashing across the highway. The first of the two Motos managed to avoid the rapidly spreading pool. The second did not. Striking the slick, it spun wildly out of control.

Continuing to accelerate, the other machine was working to try and cut off the truck’s line of flight. Frantically searching the vehicle’s bed, Reese found a toolbox, opened it, and began throwing everything he could find at the red‑eyed machine. Screwdrivers, nails, a file–all bounced harmlessly off the machine’s outer shell, until a heavy mallet landed just ahead of the front wheel. Unable even with its superb mechanical reflexes to react in time, the Moto hit the bouncing mallet, skewed to the left, and disappeared beneath the heavy tow truck’s right front wheel. The truck bounced as first the front wheel and then the rear one ran over the machine.

Having recovered from its spin‑out, the second Moto had rejoined the chase and was once more closing in on the fleeing vehicle and its fragile organic occupants. Righting itself, the one that had gone down and been run over by the truck quickly recovered to rejoin its companion as though nothing had happened.

Fresh out of everything that was easily heavable, a frustrated Reese rummaged through the truck bed until his attention was caught by the main cable release. Slamming both hands down on the appropriate lever, he sent the heavy towing hook airborne off the back of the rocking vehicle as the now unrestrained cable began to unspool. Sparks and shards of asphalt flew as the steel S‑shape struck the road and began bouncing and jimmying wildly behind the truck.

Then the flying hook caught onto the frame of the nearest Moto and locked tight.

Finding itself fixed securely to the truck, which was sliding and shimmying unpredictably as Wright fought to avoid the pursuers, the Moto went fishtailing in all directions. Similarly, being forced to drag the unexpected weight made the task of controlling the truck increasingly difficult. As it lurched from side to side, skewing all over the road and occasionally onto the flanking dirt shoulders, Reese found it increasingly difficult to maintain his own balance. When one especially violent jolt sent him tumbling, he grabbed for balance onto the nearest projection.

This happened to be another of the tow control levers. A motor engaged and began to reel in the errant cable–as well as the homicidal machine to which it was presently affixed.

Struggling to bring its front weapons to bear on the source of this continuing annoyance, the Moto made repeated attempts to blast free from the restraining line.

Up in the cab, Wright had had about enough of trying to dodge the pursuing Motos. While he was perfectly willing to play defense when the situation required, after a while his natural instincts took over. It was time to go on the attack. Especially since they were now rocketing along a winding canyon road where room to maneuver was restricted by a steep slope on one side and a reinforced embankment on the other.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Star took it all in without mouthing a word.

Slowing slightly, he let the second Moto catch up until it was speeding along parallel to the truck. A hard wrench of the wheel trapped the Moto between the truck and the embankment, crushing it against the restraining wall. This untenable situation persisted until the barrier finally gave way. The hunting machine was fast and agile, but it could not fly. A brief fountaining of water showed where it struck the river that was churning through the canyon below.

Wright felt a lot better for about three seconds. That was the total amount of time that elapsed between his looking down at the river and returning his gaze to the road ahead. Looming immediately in front of them was a bridge spanning the river that had swallowed the Moto. Sitting in the center of the bridge and blocking the road completely was a hovering Hunter‑Killer. As he was trying both to absorb what he was seeing and figure out a way to cope with it, the waiting HK fired.

Able to rely more on brutal force than precision, since its directive did not include trying to take humans alive, its aim was not as precise as that of the Harvester. As Wright slammed on the brakes and cranked the wheel, the blast blew apart the road directly in front of the tow truck. As it spun wildly, centrifugal force sent the still‑hooked Moto swinging around in a wide arc. Smashing into the blockading Hunter‑Killer, the smaller machine erupted in a burst of flame and ignited munitions.

The force of the explosion was strong enough to buckle the narrow bridge. As Wright fought for control, the truck started sliding into the gorge.

“Hold on!” he yelled.

Screaming, yelling, and unable to grab onto anything to halt their fall, first Star and then Reese were sent tumbling out of the truck. Their plunge was halted by a pair of hands. Unfortunately, they were hands of metal. Scorched and dented but far from incapacitated, the trailing Harvester had caught up to the confrontation in time to pluck both children out of the air. Unyielding digits deposited both of them into a waiting Transporter.

That was enough for Wright. Grabbing an axe, he took a short run, jumped, and managed to grab hold of the hovering Transport. Reese and Star were clearly visible within the human‑proof enclosure. Bringing the axe up, he started to swing it around when the nearby Harvester swept him off the vehicle’s roof. Apparently deciding that this particular specimen was especially valuable, it prepared to deposit him into the Transport’s forward section.

“Marcus!” Reese yelled from inside the holding basket.

“Get back!” He raised the axe again.

A new presence marked by a double scream caused it to pause. The source of the sound was a pair of A‑10 Warthogs that came roaring across the top of the river gorge. Recognizing the appearance of this greater threat, the Hunter‑Killer ascended skyward on its impellers and immediately took off in pursuit of the two aircraft. Moments later another HK arrived on the scene, followed by a third.

“Williams–Harvester’s got a friendly pinned to that Transport. HK’s coming in to finish him off–get in there.” Connor barked into the radio. Kate and Barnes stood next to him in the control room, while the control operators worked with calm efficiency around them. Connor’s mission for his two A‑10 pilots–Williams and Mihradi–helping a few civilians through a dead zone had in the past few minutes become deadly serious.

A female voice came through on the radio.

“Got it, sir. Closing in–2,000 meters. Locking on–”

Above the gorge, the sky was suddenly filled with bursts of cannon fire as the two pilots found themselves unexpectedly outnumbered and outgunned. That didn’t keep the second pilot from blasting apart the HK that was pursuing the Harvester.

“Good hit, Williams. You nailed it.”

Barnes clenched his fist in silent victory as Mihradi’s message came through. He glanced over at Connor who was already working through the next move. He leaned in toward the radio, speaking intently.

“Mihradi, take out the Transport’s main engine–”

“What about the prisoners?” As if anticipating the pilot’s concerns, Connor barely paused in his instructions.

“It’ll auto‑land on passive thrusters–and we can get ’em out.”

The pilot’s voice was crisp and clear.

“Affirm, coming in 200 feet off the deck.”

The lead pilot banked sharply, dove, and shredded the rear half of the Harvester that was holding a large human prisoner.

Hit multiple times and losing power, it still retained control of its captive. The towering machine reached toward the slowly accelerating Transport for support.

The effort came to naught as an internal blast destroyed the Harvester’s processing unit. Still holding tight to its prey, the machine plunged over the side of the canyon and toward the river below. The man fought his dying captor all the way down, when they landed in the river, and as they sunk toward the bottom of the fast‑moving watercourse.

“HK’s on our six!”

As they heard Williams’ voice the three Resistance fighters watched the monitors intently as the red blip that represented the HK closed in on the two Resistance A‑10s.

“It’s got a lock on you–break off!” Connor yelled into the radio.

“No! He’s down; he’s down.” Williams’ shout came through as one of the green blips disappeared from the monitor.

High above, caught in an unexpectedly ferocious crossfire, one A‑10 disintegrated in a shower of metal and composite splinters. As the second plane banked and attempted to get away from the overwhelming firepower of the swarming HKs, it took a hit that blew away one engine.

***

“Evasive maneuvers–now!” Connor ordered and his knuckles turned white as they gripped the table. But his voice remained steady.

The same couldn’t be said of the pilot.

“It’s all over me. Can’t shake it.” Her words were taut as if Williams was gritting her teeth when she spoke. “Engine’s out! I got half speed only!”

Connor’s response was instant and his voice turned urgent.

“Eject, Williams! Eject!”

Swept away by the fast‑moving river, the dead Harvester finally lost its grip on its single human prisoner. Kicking free, Wright struggled toward the surface. He broke through the white water overhead long after the average swimmer would have blacked out from lack of oxygen. Long, deep breaths filled his lungs–as he saw the second A‑10, trailing flame, come plunging directly toward him.

Arching his back, he dove and kicked as hard as he could for the bottom he had just escaped. He moved fast underwater–faster even than he remembered being able to–but not fast enough to escape the pile of metal that landed almost on top of him. The river quickly quenched the flames that were pouring from the fatally damaged aircraft. It also dragged the plane and the man who had been trapped beneath it swiftly downstream.

He had no idea how long he had been underwater or how far from the destroyed bridge he had been carried. Of the downed A‑10 there was no sign. Coughing up river, barely conscious, wondering how he had survived, Wright grew aware that half of him was still submerged in the eddy that had deposited him on the sandy shore. He told himself firmly that answers to such questions could come later.

For the moment, being alive was enough.

Feeling that if a sudden rush of water came downstream and caught him he would not have the strength to fight it, he knew he had to get completely out of the river. Rolling over, he lay on his back exhausted, trying to recover some sense along with his wind.

This won’t do, he told himself. Out in the open and lying flat on the riverbank, the sun would dehydrate him quickly. Furthermore, sprawled helplessly he was completely exposed to the eyes of any patrolling machine. With a groan, he rolled over again and worked to get up onto his knees. That accomplished, he took a deep breath, stood, swayed for a moment, and steadied himself.

Since he had fallen into the river it stood to reason that any Terminators looking for him would begin by searching there. Checking the position of the sun, he headed inland in a northward direction and away from the water.

The wall of sand and loose scree that fronted the waterway was not easy to climb, but it did have one unexpected benefit. As he ascended, loose sand and gravel slipped downward to fill in and obscure his footsteps. He would leave no trail. Having no local destination in mind but retaining his northern bearing, he angled toward the only structure in the vicinity. If nothing else, it might offer some shade.

As it developed, the half‑collapsed high voltage transmission tower not only offered shade, but a surprise.

It was impossible to miss the parachute that was hanging from one of the tower’s twisted cross‑supports. The lightweight material fluttered slightly in what passed for a breeze. No doubt the chute had been deployed from one of the two downed fighter aircraft. As he drew nearer he saw that something was dangling from the lower end of the chute, at the terminus of the multiple nylon lines.

It was a body, sagging limp in its shroud.

The body proceeded to address him.

“Hey!” It was a feeble salutation, but certainly far more than Wright had expected to hear. The weakness of the shout notwithstanding, he determined that the suspended pilot was possessed either of an unusually high voice or a different set of chromosomes. Walking over to the ruined structure and peering upward, he saw that it was the latter supposition that was accurate.

“ Hey! ” Her second shout was slightly more vigorous than its predecessor. “Gimme a hand, will you?”

Standing on the sandy surface staring up at her, Wright studied the warped metal spire for a moment, chose an angle of ascent, and went up it like a gibbon. The speed and agility with which he reached her side took her by surprise. Took him by surprise, too, but then as a kid he had always been adept at tree climbing. He studied the surrounding landscape.

“Nice view.” Turning to examine the snarl of chute lines he started wrenching and pulling, trying to untangle her.

“Name’s Williams. Blair Williams.”

“Marcus Wright.” He continued wrestling with the lines. They were not cooperating. Standing atop the transmission tower he knew he was almost as out in the open as he had been lying on the beach, and he didn’t like the exposure. Hanging helpless in the straps of her ejection pack, the Resistance pilot was an even more obvious target.

Their thoughts and concerns coincided.

“I like to think I’m a tidy person, Marcus,” she told him, “but this is no place to waste time on neatness.” She nodded toward the ground. “How about we cut to the conclusion? I’ve got a knife.”

He stopped wrestling with the frustrating knot of ropes.

“Where?”

“Back of my left boot. Ankle sheath.”

Her right foot was hanging over emptiness. Holding onto a section of metal with one hand, he leaned out and flailed at the indicated limb with his other hand.

“Can’t reach it.”

“Hang on.” Dangling from the lines, she began to rock back and forth, building up momentum without regard to whether or not it might cause her to spill out of the harness. Wright waited, waited, and then timed his reach perfectly, locking his hand around her boot. Probing fingers released the catch on the sheath and he pulled the knife free. It was bigger than he expected; long, sharp, and with one edge lined with jagged teeth.

Sitting back on his perch, he eyed it admiringly. For the first time since regaining consciousness he had come into contact with a memory that was pleasing. In a life devoid of friends, knives had always been there for him, ready and willing to do whatever he wanted them to do. Sometimes too often.

He shook off the worthless reverie. “Nice knife.”

Something in his voice, maybe, or something in his expression caused her to keep her response short.

“Thanks. My knife.”

Without comment, he began sawing at the thickest part of the tangle. He was halfway through when he realized that with nothing to hold her back she was going to take a hard tumble when he cut through the last cords. The sand below the crumpled tower was thick and soft, but it was still a substantial drop. Turning slightly, he extended his left arm toward her.

“Take my hand.”

She nodded, and had to swing briefly again to reach him. Gripping her right hand firmly with his left, he resumed slicing at the cords. He didn’t have to cut the last one–unable to hold her weight by itself, it snapped with a soft pop. Dropping a couple of feet, she came to a sudden stop and found herself dangling high above the ground. Though she was not small, he held her easily with his one arm.

Bending down as much as he could without releasing his grip, he swung her like a toy until she could grab one of the metal struts. Their eyes met and locked for several seconds.

“You can let go now,” she told him softly. He released her hand, and together they made their way back to the ground. He watched her with admiration. Most of the women he had known couldn’t climb worth a damn. Those who could were usually responding to unusual motivation, such as the shouts of pursuing police to stop where they were.

She was dusting herself off as Wright started walking away. His attention was focused not on her, but on a specific point in the distance. One he could not see, but seemed to know was there.

“That thing the machines put the people in–where is it going?”

Still checking her gear, she glanced up at him.

“The meat Transport? I don’t know. Nobody does. There are all kinds of theories. Nobody talks about it much. Doesn’t make for pleasant dinner conversation.”

He nodded, and promptly started off in the direction he had last seen the machine traveling. She gaped at him.

“Where the hell are you going?”

He spoke without looking back. “After it. They took my–friends.”

She shook her head. What part of the sky had this doof‑us–an admittedly very strong doofus–dropped from?

“I hate to break it to you, but if you’ve got friends on that thing, they’re as good as dead. The machines don’t swap prisoners. When they lose fighters, they just build new ones.” He was still walking, forcing her to shout after him. “You’ll be dead too if you keep going in that direction!”

This time he did look back. His tone was stone cold.

“I’ve been dead for a while now. I’m getting good at it.”

She jogged after him until she caught up. Part of her said just to let him go. You couldn’t stop a fool from going on a fool’s errand, especially one as determined as this idiot seemed to be. On the other hand, every live person was one more who could raise a weapon against Skynet. If there was anything the war had taught even the most cynical, it was that every human life was worth preserving. Having seen that common sense had no effect on her rescuer, she switched to persuasion.

“You can’t do anything for your friends on your own. You’re making a noble gesture that will end in your death–and there are easier ways to commit suicide.”

Reaching out, she put a hand on his arm. “Come with me back to my base. It might take some time to hoof it, but there’ll be others out looking for me. We might be able to help your friends–though I’ll be honest and say I doubt it. If the regular military doesn’t have any ideas, Connor might know a way.”

The mention of that name stopped Wright in his tracks.

“Connor? The man on the radio? I just heard him speak. He was–positive.”

She smiled encouragingly. “That’s Connor, all right. He puts out a regular regional broadcast, same as every base commander. Goes with the job. But Connor’s not like ‘every’ base commander–leastwise that’s what I’ve been told. He knows as much about the machines as anyone.”

Though still gazing longingly at the horizon, Wright found himself forced to temper desire with reality.

“Where is your base? You said we might be able to walk there.”

She relaxed, relieved to have gotten through to him.

“Should be one or two days hike. If nobody picks us up in the interim, I’m pretty sure I can get us back. I’ve flown over this part of the country plenty of times.” Digging into a pocket of her flight suit, she pulled out a compass. Like so much of the equipment humans had been reduced to using since the rise of Skynet, the compass was functional but low‑tech.

Still he hesitated. “Are you sure you know which way to go?”

She smiled reassuringly. “The base is there. You coming?” Her smile twisted. “It’s got a great view.”