Chapter two

Animals appear and thrive and then go extinct. Plants cover ground like a green blanket, retreat, and return with greater fecundity. Life expands, contracts, shatters and recovers, sometimes falling to the margins of survival.

But the Earth endures. No matter the number of species that swarm its surface or fall victim to flood, earthquake, plague, tectonic drift, or cosmic catastrophe, the planet continues its methodical swing around its unprepossessing yellow star. The waves of the ocean roll on, the molten iron at its core seethes and bubbles, winds fitful or steady continue to scour its surface. Ice forms and retreats at the poles, rains drench the equator, and heat shimmers above its deserts.

One such desert in the south‑central part of the continent called North America was about to receive a momentary upsurge in heat that was not normal.

The missile came in low and fast on a trajectory designed to evade even the most advanced detection systems. The warhead it carried contained considerably more bang than would have been suspected at first glance. Guided by both its programming and its internal sacrificial intelligence elements, it skimmed along the surface so low that it was forced to dodge the occasional tree and still‑standing power transmission tower.

Its target was a flat, burnt‑out plain from which dozens of huge satellite dishes rose like shelf coral on a reef. The only sign of life in this technological forest of parabolic growths was a single bipedal figure. Marching at a steady, untiring pace among the dishes, it occasionally reached up to reposition the oversized rifle that was slung over one shoulder.

A sound drew its attention. Turning, searching the sky, it quickly focused on the incoming ordinance. Slipping the heavy weapon free, it aimed and fired with exceptional speed and precision. A shell struck one of the missile’s fins, knocking it off‑heading–but only for an instant. The weapon’s internal self‑governing guidance system instantly corrected course.

Even as the projectile inclined downward toward a patch of bare ground in the center of the expansive array, the guard was lining up his weapon to fire again. It was not at all concerned with what was about to happen to it.

The bunker‑buster slammed into the earth with a thunderous whoom! The guard staggered, gathered himself, and prepared to aim his weapon again. Except that now there was only a hole in the ground to show where the missile had burrowed deep.

Then the world erupted in fire and sound as the warhead, having reached a preset depth, detonated.

Dirt and pulverized rock vomited skyward. Along with everything else in the immediate vicinity of the blast, the single guard was thrown helplessly skyward. He landed hard, rolled over, tried to rise, and sank back to the ground. Heat and flame had melted away skin to reveal the skull beneath. It should have shown white.

Instead, it gleamed.

Red eyes flickered.

Battling against the terrible damage it had sustained in the blast, the T‑600 struggled to rise. Directives screamed for response. Servos whined and hydraulics pumped. But internal mechanics had been mortally impacted. That did not keep the Terminator from trying to stand.

Oblivious to the dogged determination of the severely impaired bipedal machine below, a flight of A‑10 Warthogs roared past overhead, coming in low and slow. Unlovely and deadly, disdaining the sleek aerodynamics of much faster but less lethal aircraft, they began chewing up the ground in front of them with heavy cannon fire and rockets.

Instead of governmental insignia that had long since ceased to have meaning or validity, they were clad in a riot of colors and flurry of graffiti that reflected the tastes and attitudes of those who flew and serviced them: all of it wild, much of it obscene.

Popping up out of the ground, a single anti‑aircraft weapon tracked, took aim, and fired. Striking one of the Warthogs behind its armor and hitting the vulnerable rear‑mounted engines, it blew the Resistance fighter out of the sky. Before it could zero in on a second attacker, another aircraft hit it with a guided bomb that left only a smoking crater where the defensive weapon had once stood.

As the Warthogs whirled and danced overhead to provide cover, a flurry of helicopters appeared. Touching down, they began to disgorge squads of Resistance fighters clad in a mismatched array of uniforms, hunting gear, and civilian clothes. The attackers were armed with a hodgepodge of unusually hefty weapons that were as varied as the mix of military and civilian choppers that had transported them. Not one of the assault group would have passed muster in a proper military parade. On the other hand, all of them were alive.

One of the helicopter’s landing skids set down directly on the skull of the T‑600 that had been patrolling the dish array, crushing the metal and pressing it deep into the ground. Reacting automatically to the proximate presence of human feet, the crippled killing machine still struggled to strike back. Its critically damaged servos whined loudly.

A narrow metal tube made contact with the red‑eyed skull: the barrel of a rifle. A single large‑caliber shot blew half the glistening cerebellum off, sending it flying and bouncing to one side. Exposed to the light, internal circuitry flared, fizzled, and went dark.

John Connor regarded the lifeless T‑600, waiting to make certain it was good and dead. The damn things had a dangerous habit of simulating death and then leaping up to bite you in the ass. This one, though, was good and demised. He lifted his gaze as another Warthog sputtered past overhead, trailing smoke. He did not look around as the weary but determined figure of Captain Jericho approached.

“Are you Connor?”

Grunting something unintelligible, Connor looked up.

“ The John Connor?” Even as he addressed the other man, Jericho was keeping a wary eye on their immediate surroundings. “The guy who, according to the plan, was supposed to land his unit on the ridgeline and hump it in?”

Connor’s gaze met the captain’s.

“The plan was no good.”

Jericho looked as though he was about to say something else, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Connor’s unit. Spilling out of a nearby chopper, they assembled behind their leader and focused their attention on him.

“Trouble?” The grizzled trooper who spoke shifted his gaze from Connor to the captain.

Connor let his eyes linger a moment longer on Jericho. Over the last several years of fighting, the term “chain of command” had been transformed into an expletive that had more in common with the traditional SNAFU than with actual military procedure.

“No, no trouble. Let’s go.”

Jericho watched as Connor’s team joined the others in racing to the rim of the gaping breach the first missile had opened in the ground. There was plenty he still wanted to say. Wisely, he said nothing.

Leaning over to peer cautiously into the cavernous maw, one of Connor’s men declared with assurance if not eloquence, “That is one big‑ass hole in the ground.”

“Wonder what’s down there?” His neighbor nudged him, just enough to unsettle but not unbalance his companion.

The other man snorted. “Want to bet we’re gonna find out?”

General Olsen was young for his rank and older than his years. Unrelenting combat had aged him. To save one soldier’s life he would throw procedure out the window. Now, in concert with his troops, he too found himself peering down into a darkness than was as metaphorical as it was literal.

“Make no mistake, men. We don’t have a goddamn clue what’s waiting for us down there. Hell, for sure. But what kind of hell we don’t know and we need to find out.” He glanced back. “So I need a volunteer–”

He broke off as a shape went shooting past him, seemed to hang in the air above the pit for a long second, and then went arcing downward. Like a spider’s silken support strand, a single braid of climbing cable trailed from Connor’s harness, glistening in the desert sunlight.

Away from the edge of the abyss, one of his men kept a watchful eye on the link where the other end of the cable had been secured to a twisted, seared hunk of aircraft debris.

Unable to decide whether to curse or cheer at Connor’s unhesitating initiative, Olsen settled for waving at the clusters of men who stood gawking at the younger man’s rapid descent into darkness.

“All right, single file! Everyone after Connor! Let’s go, go go!”

Swinging slightly at the end of the cable, Connor could not hear the general. Pulling a flare from his service belt and igniting it, he tossed it outward. It sank into blackness, revealing only fleetingly the extent of the underground labyrinth that marched off in all directions. The subterranean facility was enormous. Like the others, he had expected it to be sizable, but this was far beyond anything they had been led to expect.

He hung quietly at the end of his tether, not making a sound, waiting for his fellow spider‑soldiers to join him.

Jet swings gave them access to the side corridors. One by one, individual teams fanned out into the depths of the vast complex.

The human infection is coming, Connor thought with satisfaction as he led his men into one flooded tunnel. Waist‑deep in water, he took his usual position at point. Other team leaders preferred to stay in the rear or move forward only when surrounded by their troops. Not Connor. He looked forward to leading the way physic‑ally as well as tactically. It was a decision that had taught him something early on: Soldiers are far more likely to follow a leader who actually leads.

Weapons at the ready, David and Tunney hung close behind. As they advanced, David was muttering under his breath. Connor knew why but said nothing. David didn’t mind dirt, wasn’t afraid of action, would take on half a dozen enemy all by himself without bothering to call for backup–but he couldn’t swim. Not normally a cause for concern in the southwestern deserts, and yet here he was up to his collywobbles in water.

Tunney flanked David, and Connor suspected it was all he could do to restrain himself from commenting on his partner’s obvious discomfort.

The burrower bomb had done its work well. Ceilings had collapsed throughout the tunnel, unattended flames ate at advanced instrumentation, and the distinctive red lighting typical of Skynet environments flickered unsteadily. Connor would have been perfectly happy to see it all wink out, turn black and lifeless. If that happened, he and his men had come equipped with adequate illumination of their own.

The percussive chorale of distant gunfire echoed faintly through the corridor they were probing. Evidently some of the other squads were encountering more than just dim lighting and broken plumbing.

Something stirred the water behind them, and it wasn’t a consequence of collapsing infrastructure. By the time the T‑1 was half out of the water both David and Tunney were whirling on it. It was David who got off the necessary burst. Shards of metal and carbon fiber splinters went flying as the would‑be assassin was blown apart.

“Hey bro, I thought it was my turn.” With the muzzle of his own weapon, Tunney nudged a floating scrap of Terminator.

David shrugged. “Gotta be faster than that, Ton. I’m going for a new high score. But I’ll sit back and watch while you take out the next two.”

His partner grinned tightly. “’Preciate it, bro. Anyway, if you’re going for T‑1s, you’re not even in the game.”

“Over here.” Connor interrupted, calling to them from just up ahead. Instantly the two soldiers were all business again.

Shouldering his weapon, Connor used both hands to tug on the large handle of a heavy door set in the tunnel wall. It refused to budge. Another man might have put a foot on the door to gain leverage or asked his companions to assist. Having better things to do and insufficient time in which to do them, Connor instead removed a brick of C‑4 from his backpack, followed it with ignition cord and a detonator. In his hands the complete explosive package came together like a pizza in Naples. Clustering nearby, his team looked on in admiration.

“Don’t lose any fingers there, Chief.” Nervousness was apparent in the voice of one of the younger soldiers as he watched Connor’s fingers fly. A far more relaxed David glanced back at the concerned speaker.

“Shit, Connor’s been a Class A terrorist his whole life. How many fingers is he missing? Right–none. Only thing getting blasted here is that door.” Turning, he started wading back the way they had come. “Might want to put a little distance between you and the show. Otherwise you might lose face.”

As soon as everyone had cleared, Connor set the timer and sprinted to join them. Time passed with interminable slowness before another soldier could not keep from whispering.

“I know how experienced he is, but it’s sopping down here and mayb....”

The thunder of the C‑4 was magnified by the narrowness of the corridor. The effect was not unlike hearing a dozen trumpets sound off all at once–with the listener crammed inside one of the instruments.

Several of the soldiers flinched. Not Connor or his two backups, Tunney and David. The explosion was just one more peroration in an interminable concert scored for instruments that consisted of expressively volatile compounds. Even before the air had cleared, Connor was leading them forward.

The room they entered was large and filled with smoke. While the haze was already dispersing, it was still difficult to see. Difficult enough so that Connor slipped on something and nearly fell. Looking down, he expected to see more water. Instead, the liquid underfoot was dark and sticky. For an instant he held onto the hope that it might be machine oil. But the color was wrong, too red.

The blood was reasonably fresh.

New sounds distracted him. For the first time since he and his squad had entered the complex they heard voices other than their own. The strongest of them was subdued, the weakest barely audible. Moans and pleas. Reaching down to his belt, he pulled and ignited another flare and lobbed it forward. It lit up the still diffusing mix of smoke, debris, evaporating liquid–and cages.

The voices were coming from multiple knots of humanity who had been packed with inhuman lack of concern into numerous holding pens. As Connor and his men drew close, hands extended toward them. His gaze flicked over pleading faces, gaunt bodies.

Some of the internees were in the last stages of exhaustion or starvation.

Tunney surveyed the unfortunate detainees with a jaundiced eye. As he contemplated a situation that, based on experience, made no sense, movement at the far end of the room caused him and his companions to hastily raise their weapons.

Almost as quickly, they relaxed. David even smiled. A larger compliment of their colleagues had broken into the chamber from another corridor.

Pushing his way through the internment area, Connor forced himself to ignore the pleading and extended hands. He was making his way toward a set of illuminated screens that fronted compact consoles. The latter, thankfully, were still functioning–but for how much longer it was impossible to tell. One thing he did know–they’d better work quickly. Hefting his communicator, he spoke into the pickup.

“Olsen, objective located. There’s something else you have to see.” Putting up the hand unit, he moved to the computation complex.

The general arrived soon after. Taking one glance at the glowing, living complex, he turned and barked a name.

“Barbarossa!”

Immediately, the team’s lead technician hurried to join the two men. Soldiers moved around them, sealing the location. The tech halted, stunned by what he was seeing.

“Come on, man,” Olsen prodded him. “We don’t know how much time we’re going to have here. Get to work.” Nodding silently and slightly dazed, the tech drew his battlefield laptop and began fumbling with a handful of cables. Down here they didn’t dare risk broadcasting their presence or any attempt at entry by trying for an over‑the‑air hookup.

“Spread out,” Olsen told his troops. “Secure the perimeter.” He pointed. “I’ve got a big gap over here. We’re busy and I’m not in the mood for any surprises.” Turning back to the silently watching Connor, he lowered his voice. “Why didn’t we know about this?”

The tech chief interrupted him.

“I’m in. Looks like the central server cluster. I think it’s still intact.” Like a wasp assaulting a termite hive, he tore into the protective programming to expose still active links, circuitry diagrammatics, relays. Some of it was like nothing they had ever seen before, incredibly advanced and distressingly incomprehensible. Some of it was familiar.

Enough of it was familiar.

Overall, the hack was accomplished with admirable speed. Imagery soon filled the brightly lit screen directly opposite the three men. There were no pictures, no accompanying music. No video and no shout‑outs. It was all code and schematics, cold and disciplined. Sometimes it read right to left, sometimes top to bottom. Over time, the techs had learned how to interpret Skynet‑speak.

So had Connor.

If you’re going to understand an enemy, you have to know how to speak its language.

“Here we go.” Barbarossa muttered as a flood of information began to spill across the screen. “Seems that these people here were to be taken to the northern sector for some kind of R and D project.” His fingers danced across the portable keyboard in front of him.

“There’s more.”

Something on the screen caught Connor’s attention.

Olsen turned. “Hardy! Front and center!”

Connor ignored the general, his attention focused on the screen and the tech chief.

“Wait. Go back.”

Barbarossa hesitated, realized who had made the appeal, and immediately complied. Connor’s eyes widened as the section he had requested reappeared and was played back more slowly. David crowded close to his commander for a better look.

“Jesus, Connor,” he muttered, “it’s just like you said it would be.”

“No.” Connor exhaled sharply. “It’s not. It’s worse.” He nodded at the tech. “Okay, I’ve seen what I needed to see. Resume.”

Noticing that Connor was paying attention to the readouts rather than the prisoners, the impatient Olsen turned back to him.

“Sir.” Staring wide‑eyed at the screen, Barbarossa’s voice was almost inaudible as he tried to understand what he was seeing. “Sir....”

Olsen had moved closer to the other man.

“Connor, this isn’t your business. Get your nose out of there.” He jerked his head to his right, in the direction of the pleading prisoners. “Let’s cut these sorry bastards loose.”

Intent on the information that was pouring across the screen in front of him, Barbarossa finally managed to raise his voice even as his fingers continued to race over his laptop’s keyboard. Pausing the info flow, he glanced back at the general.

“I’ve found something else, sir. Looks like intel on our people.”

Olsen nodded dourly. Such a discovery was hardly surprising.

“This isn’t the time or the place to try extended analysis. Just send everything you find on to Command. Let them break it all down. We can’t do anything from here.”

Another pair of techs came forward and began compiling a temp surface feed utilizing the officer’s computer. With a number of satellite dishes on the surface still intact it was just a matter of locating a live contact within the cluster, hacking the feed, and taking over the uplink.

Those soldiers not engaged in freeing and assisting the prisoners or guarding the entrances crowded around to watch. Most of them couldn’t follow the procedure. Tech wasn’t their business–killing was. But it raised morale to see how efficiently the tech team was going about its work.

Olsen barked into his radio.

“Jericho! Come in!” The only response was static. Not good, the general knew. “Jericho,” he repeated. “Shit.”

The room shook. Not an earthquake. At least, not one that had been propagated by a tired Earth. Olsen snapped into his radio again.

“Jericho, what’s the damn ruckus up there?” The response was more static, which was soon drowned out by a second, louder roar that reverberated through the entire chamber. Dust and dirt sifted down from the ceiling; a slow earthy rain. The shouts from the remaining imprisoned grew frantic, the looks on the faces of the soldiers strained.

“Jericho, come in!” Olsen’s fingers tightened on his communicator.

Jericho didn’t come in. Neither did any of the captain’s colleagues. The communicator’s locked frequency was as silent as the grave. A bad simile, the general thought, especially considering his present subterranean location. As he had done on previous occasions, he found himself turning for advice to one particular squad leader. Unlike Jericho, he was not reluctant to do so. Like any good administrator, good soldiers are able to suborn their egos to necessity.

“Connor, get your ass topside and remind those men they need to answer me when I call, even if they’re dead. Connor!”

Solemn‑faced as ever, Connor acknowledged the order and headed for the hatchway he and his men had blasted wide. Olsen followed him with his eyes for a moment, then gestured toward the holding pens as he turned back to his immediate subordinates.

“Let’s cut these people loose. Seeing them like this makes my stomach turn. Listening to them hurts my heart.” Nodding agreement, the small circle of officers and noncoms that had clustered around him dispersed to see to the opening of the last cells.

By this time the world was supposed to be swarming with inventions designed to make life easier, Connor thought to himself as he worked the hand‑held ascender that was taking him up the cable. Jet packs and synthetic food. Colonies on Mars and rejuvenated oceans. Computers that could be controlled by thought.

Those things had not come to pass because of one unfortunate oversight: Machines that could be controlled by thought had indeed come to pass.

The problem was that they were thinking for themselves, not for their creators, and their thoughts had turned out to be not at all nice.

A tremor ran through the ground as he reached the surface. He hesitated there until he was able to identify the source of the deep‑throated rumble.

Passing almost directly overhead, a huge Skynet Transporter thundered past. Part of it was open construction, allowing him to see that the interior was crammed with more human prisoners. The ones who had been dumped in the top of the container were crushing the life out of the poor beggars trapped at the bottom.

On the other hand, he mused as he pulled himself out of the hole, those on the bottom might be the lucky ones.

Though he doubted there was anything he could do for them, he knew he had to try. Had to keep trying, until there was no more try and no more life left in him.

It was his destiny.

Scanning the battlefield and the remnants of the Skynet satellite array, his gaze settled on an apparently intact chopper idling nearby. Whatever it was, its original mission was about to be changed. Hefting his gear, he raced toward it and clambered inside. A glance showed the big Skynet Transport picking up speed as it angled northward.

“They’ve got human prisoners on board that thing!” he yelled as he pulled himself into the cockpit. “Get after it! If your weapons systems are operational maybe we can....”

He broke off. The chopper’s weapons might be operational, but its pilots were not. Both slumped dead in their seats, a single hole in their respective foreheads. Telltale Terminator work. A hasty look around indicated that whichever machine had killed them had moved on in search of other organics to exterminate.

The Transport full of hapless prisoners was nearly out of sight. One reason Connor was still alive was because he had learned to move fast. Linger too long over a notion and the machines, which were subject to no such hesitation, would splinter your skull before you could conclude your thought.

Working fast, he unbuckled the dead pilot from his harness, dragged him backward, and laid him gently if not reverently in the chopper’s hold. The steady whup‑whup of the idling rotors rose to a whine as he threw himself into the now vacant seat and took control.

While the pilots had been coldly executed, the craft had been left untouched. No minion of Skynet would harm another machine, even a non‑sentient one, without cause. Connor himself had seen tanks and other heavy vehicles from which their human occupants had been extracted left unharmed on the field.

The chopper was responsive, undamaged, and full of fuel. It rose obediently at his touch. Trailing the by now almost out‑of‑sight Transport, he accelerated in pursuit.

Far below, the work of Olsen and his troops was slowed as liberated prisoners threw themselves into the arms of their rescuers. Soldiers tried to comfort them as best they could while continuing to break locks and wrench open oddly welded cage doors.

Behind the sob‑filled commotion, Barbarossa continued to probe the server cluster they had hacked. Frowning at something on the main monitor, he once again paused the flow of information. As he looked closer at what he had found, his thoughts surged back and forth between a steady flux of technical analysis and a serious attack of whatthehell.

“I’ve found something else, sir,” he called out. Seconds later Olsen was looking over the tech’s shoulder.

“What’ve you got, man?”

“I’m not quite sure, sir, but it’s readable.” His fingers flashed over the keyboard before him.

Buried within the reddish illumination that lit the chamber, a deeper crimson began to glow. An edgy drone unlike any human alarm began to rise above the continued wailing and crying of the freed prisoners.

Away from the techs and the civilian babble, Tunney looked at his friend David. Their eyes met. Having served together and been in the field a long time, their senses had grown battlefield sharp. Unlike the techs they were unable to interpret the flow of information that continued to stream across the multiple monitors.

Unlike the techs, they also knew that the flashing lights and keening whine that now enveloped them portended no good.

High above but insufficiently far away, Connor was banking the commandeered chopper when a few square miles of southwestern desert heaved upward, seemed to hang in the air a moment, and then collapsed back upon itself. Gouts of flame shot from depths unmeasured, volcanic eruptions of dirt and smoke, and a shockwave that sent the chopper careening off its axis. Hard though Connor fought to maintain control, the blast was of such magnitude that puny human muscles were helpless against it.

It was a miracle that he managed any kind of landing. Striking the ground at an angle sheared the rotors, sending potentially lethal metal blades screaming in all directions.

The engine died but Connor did not. Arms, legs, head–he was far more intact than the machine that had cushioned him from the crash. Staggering out of the harness and the now mangled helicopter, he found himself gaping at a gigantic depression that marked the limits of the obliterated subterranean Skynet facility.

It was all gone, entirely destroyed. A very good thing–except that his entire company, from commanding officers down to the lowest‑ranking member of his own squad, were also gone. Friends, fellow fighters–there was nothing left.

Well, not quite nothing.

A grotesque mass of mangled metal, the T‑600 he had put out of commission earlier, slammed into him from behind. Behind what remained of the battered skull, emotionless eyes glowed a deep, burning red.

His arm slashed, a surprised and dazed Connor stumbled clear. As single‑minded of purpose as all of its brethren, the T‑600 came lurching after him. Pulling his sidearm, Connor took aim and fired several times. He might as well have been throwing spitwads. The small‑caliber shells pinged harmlessly off the T‑600’s face, and Connor was unable to hit either of the eyes.

If the machine had been intact, Connor knew he would already be dead. But while they were both hurt, the machine was more badly damaged than the man. Staggering backward and trying to keep clear of the crippled killing device, Connor banged into something else unyielding: the downed chopper. Protruding from the nose, its mini‑gatling gun drooped downward, but was still attached to its swivel mount.

Reaching into the cockpit, he fumbled at the controls, working from practice and relying on memory. Equally unbalanced, the Terminator lunged at him. Connor jerked to one side and the stabbing claw‑hand just missed his face.

Recovering, the T‑600 re‑triangulated its apparently helpless target and came forward again. As it did so, the human used his other hand to swing the barrel of the gatling hard around. The muzzle slammed into the Terminator’s faux human jaws as Connor yelled and activated the trigger.

A shriek of metal‑piercing rounds blew the T‑600’s head into a hundred pieces of scrap metal. Breathing hard, Connor slumped back against the side of the chopper. Small flames from ignited circuitry flared from the neck of the decapitated machine–Terminator terminated.

When the voice reached him the shock of it was nearly as great as the reappearance of the T‑600. But this was a recognizably human voice. The source was the helicopter’s radio. Garbled at first, the transmission gradually became fully intelligible as the operator at the other end worked hard to clear the frequency.

“Bravo Ten, come in,” the exhausted Connor was able to make out. “Bravo Ten, this is HQ. Anyone there? Respond, come back.”

Reaching inside the cockpit, he located the compact mike, brought it to his lips, and switched it on. What should he say after what he had just been through and had just witnessed? What could he say?

“Here,” he gasped.

There was a pause at the other end, as if the caller was trying to derive whole reams of information from the one‑word response.

“Who is this?” the mike finally crackled afresh.

“Connor.”

“John Connor?”

“No. Lucy Mae Connor.”

That prompted another pause, followed by a query voiced in a stronger, no‑nonsense tone.

“Is the target destroyed?” When Connor didn’t respond, the voice tried again, more forcefully. “Connor! You’re in a hot zone! You have no time. Acknowledge. Do you copy? I repeat–is the target destroyed?”

Gathering himself, Connor gasped out a one‑word reply.

“Affirmative.”

The radio voice turned from demanding to anxious.

“You have a location on General Olsen? We can’t raise him.”

This time Connor took a deep breath before replying.

“Olsen’s dead.”

A longer pause.

“Proceed to ex‑fil point. We’ll send pickup. How many survivors are there?”

Straightening, Connor regarded the new valley that had appeared where formerly there had been flat desert and a few low, scrub‑covered hills. Still settling dust continued to obscure the view. The vast satellite array, the rest of the Skynet center, all the poor, pitiful human prisoners, every one of his comrades–dead and buried as the ages. Remembering that he was isolated only physically, he lifted the mike once again.

“One.”

The voice on the radio came back much subdued.

“Repeat–please.”

“One!” Connor snapped.

Perhaps surprisingly, nothing further was heard from the mike. After waiting to make sure the connection had been cut, Connor put it down, straightened, and started limping away from the chopper. Not because he had a destination in mind–he wasn’t even sure exactly where he was. Not because he feared a resurgence of the T‑600 he had finally and definitively put down. He started walking because, if nothing else, he desired to put the scene of colossal devastation and destruction as far behind him as he possibly could.

If he was lucky, he mused as he trudged toward an increasingly stormy horizon, maybe he would find a lizard. In the world in which he now found himself, any companion not made of metal and circuitry was one to be cherished.

***

The storm brought darkness to the desert sooner that it would otherwise have arrived. Frequent flashes of lightning illuminated the scorched and shredded fragments of the day’s reckoning: bits of bone, limbs both human and metal that had been divorced from their owners’ bodies, pieces of machine that had served humans, pieces of machine that had been motivated by their own ruthless and uncompromising drive. Among the organic and metallic debris, nothing moved save clouds and bursts of torrential rain.

Even the birds and insects had fled.

Amid the destruction, a patch of mud stirred. Wormlike shapes emerged from the sodden earth and thrust skyward. Not snakes, not centipedes–human fingers. The fingers were attached to a hand, the hand to a wrist, the wrist to....

A shape arose, cloaked in mud and dripping fragments of debris. Eyes opened, vitreous but not glowing. Dazed by the reality of itself, arms at its sides, the figure tilted back its head to stare at the storming night. Driving rain lashed mud and dirt from face and ribs, limbs and torso. The shape was that of a man.

Naked and in shock, Marcus Wright parted his jaws wide and howled at the sky.

Shivering slightly, Wright wrapped his arms around his naked chest and lowered his gaze to the tormented earth on which he stood. Then he noticed the crashed chopper. Slowly, cautiously, he started toward it. Leaning into the ruined aircraft, a disoriented and bewildered Wright found himself gazing upon the dead body of one of the pilots, a bullet hole punched neatly through his helmet.

Wet, cold, confused, and very, very alone, he could only stand, stare–and wonder.