Chapter twelve

The clothes Williams had brought were snug, but they fit the struggling Wright without splitting. He ought to have been acutely cramped from having hung suspended for so long. Neither he nor Williams remarked on the fact that he was not.

For that matter, his arms and shoulders ought to have been dislocated. They didn’t discuss that absence, either. Nor the fact that the holes in his wrists where the steel bolts had been punched through were closing with unnatural rapidity and with little loss of blood.

As he pulled on the jacket she had brought for him there was no ache in his muscles, no tightness in his arms. Had he chosen to dwell on the lack of bodily damage it would likely have upset him even more than he already was.

Then emergency lights flared to life within the silo, a klaxon began to bray insistently, and there was no time to think about anything except the one possible way out that remained available to them.

A large vent dominated one side of the silo. Its purpose was to allow the exhaust from now‑vanished missiles to escape safely during launch. Integrated into the wall, a single service ladder led up to the opening. Wright headed up, moving easily hand over hand–so rapidly that he had to wait for Williams to catch up. Thereafter he took the rungs more slowly, glancing back occasionally to make sure she was still with him.

The next time he looked up it was to see figures gathering at the rim. Connor he recognized immediately, Barnes a moment later. The others were new to him, but their identities were not nearly as important as the weapons they were unlimbering.

Frantic and furious, Barnes was first to spot the would‑be escapees. Leaning over the edge, he pointed and yelled.

“Get ’em!”

Though it was a long way to the bottom, there was no place for anyone to hide within the silo. Spreading out, the heavily armed soldiers gathered around the rim. Inclining their weapons down into the cylindrical depths, they took aim–and wavered. Looking to Connor for instructions, one corporal hesitantly voiced the same concern each of them was feeling.

“What about Blair, Lieutenant?”

Barnes wasn’t waiting for the conflicted Connor to make up his mind. Grabbing the weapon from the guard, he yelled, “She made her choice,” and began firing. He was not lying when he’d told Williams that he was a fine marksman. And just as before, when he had been toying with the bound Wright, the shots he fired bounced harmlessly off the prisoner’s metal components. Williams had no such inherent protection. She didn’t need it. Judging the angle of fire perfectly, Wright leaned back from the ladder and aligned his own body to protect her.

Reaching the opening of the vent, they prepared to start in–only to spot a large ventilation fan some eight feet farther on. It wasn’t running, but there was not enough room between the blades and their axis for Williams to slip past, much less Wright. She didn’t hesitate. Taking out the cutter she had used to sever his chains, she turned it on, positioned it near the fan mounting, retreated, and fired a single shot in its direction. With Wright shielding her, they both turned away as the shot set off the cutter’s volatile contents. The side of the vent that supported the big fan was blown away in a satisfying eruption of blue flame.

Seeing the futility of trying to stop the prisoner with small arms, Barnes took aim with an RPG and let fire. The grenade impacted in the center of Wright’s back. By the time the resultant smoke cleared, the aghast guards at the top of the shaft could barely make out their target and the renegade pilot as they made their way into the ventilation shaft.

Connor hadn’t waited to see if the resumption of small arms fire was having any effect. As familiar with the layout of the base as he was with the permanent frown lines that had incised themselves into his forehead, he knew where the vent opened to the outside. From that, it was pretty easy to extrapolate Williams’s intentions.

“They’ll head for the river. We’ve got to cut him off!”

Barnes nodded once, turned, and joined Connor in racing for the exit. As the remaining soldiers continued firing down into the silo, neither of the two retreating men mentioned Blair Williams. This was not the time or place to discuss what she had done–or why.

***

Connor wasn’t the only one familiar with the maze that was the base. The need to be aware of potential escape routes in the event of an overwhelming attack by Skynet obliged everyone who lived or worked there to memorize as many entrances and exits as possible. In any event, Williams knew that the ventilation shaft could only run in two directions–back into the silo or out into the open air.

She and Wright halted at the end of the shaft, using the outer vent cover to shield themselves while they scanned the surrounding grounds. The terrain here was different from what they had encountered in the course of their original disastrous attempt to enter the base. Low scrub gave way quickly to forest. Thick clouds scudded across the sky, blocking what little starlight reached the ground. Perfect for an attempt at flight. At least, it was for Wright, whose night vision was preter‑naturally sharp. Even so, he was less than sanguine about the prospect.

He studied the line of trees.

“We’re not going to get out of here.”

“But you can,” she told him. “Now that you know what you’re capable of.”

He looked at her, trying to read her expression in the near darkness.

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

She shrugged, smiled slightly. “A lot of things in this world bother me. You deal with them or you go mad. This happens to be my way of dealing with this.” Her gaze met his. “Of dealing with you.”

He considered. “What if Connor and the others are right about me?”

She stared back. “What do you think about you?”

“I don’t know.” He turned away. “I don’t know what to think.”

Reaching out, she put a hand on his arm, felt metal where skin and clothing had been blasted away. Where another might have recoiled at the contact, she did not.

“That doesn’t sound like a machine reaction to me, Marcus. Machines don’t equivocate. They always know exactly what to think. In contrast, you sound very human.”

His voice dropped. “Thanks. Small consolation, I guess.”

“Better than none.” She indicated the surrounding forest. “You’d better make your move. The whole outer perimeter will be crawling with patrols any minute now.”

He started forward, paused to look back at her.

“What about you?”

Another shrug. “A little treason, that’s all. How bad can the punishment be?”

He knew the answer to that even if she didn’t want to admit to it. Reaching out, he took hold of her forearm.

“Come on. We’ll discuss your prospects later.”

Having commandeered the first rejuvenated Blackhawk that was armed, fully fueled, and available, Connor took the swift chopper up and headed toward the area where he expected to find the escapees. Almost immediately, something rose from the treetops in the vicinity of the silo and sped southward. Tracking it with the chopper’s infrared spotter, he took aim–and held fire. Unless the thing called Marcus Wright was capable of greater transformations than he had thus far demonstrated, the soaring shape was exactly what it appeared to be.

Connor could have blasted it anyway, just to be certain, but chose instead to let the startled great horned owl continue with its interrupted nocturnal hunt.

The helicopter was heavy with a full load of ordinance; everything from rotating mini‑guns to napalm canisters. When they reached the location Connor had designated, he cut speed. They began to circle the forested area by the river, sometimes slowing to a hover, as he searched for movement below.

When Wright punched through the protective grid that covered the outside of the shaft, he and Williams emerged onto one of the concentric minefields. They knew immediately they were in the midst of a minefield because when it hit the ground the heavy cover he had knocked to one side set off one of the subterranean explosive devices. If Connor and the others back inside the base were still uncertain as to their location, that oversight had now been inadvertently rectified.

No shots came screaming in response. No one had seen them–yet.

Flares lit up the minefield. In response, Williams dug once more into her bag of tricks. The spool of detonation cord she produced was slender but powerful. Unreeling all of it, she rose and heaved it forward. Implanting the detonator, she turned her head away from the opening and depressed the igniter. One mine immediately blew skyward, setting off another next to it. Within seconds it seemed as if every mine in the immediate vicinity was going off. Without waiting to see if that was indeed the case and ignoring the dirt and debris that was now raining down on them, they rushed out of the vent and headed for the temptingly close line of trees.

***

On the ground, pursuing troops who had emerged from the base tried to separate the fleeing figures from the erupting smoke and chaos. Doing so in broad daylight would have been difficult enough. At night, anything taller than a rabbit could be mistaken for a human. Additionally, care had to be taken so they did not shoot each other.

Notwithstanding the lousy conditions, several thought they had the fugitives in their sights. They had been told, if it was at all possible, to try and take the prisoner alive. Or functional, as the official order had put it.

For one squad of hunting soldiers, it appeared as if the smoke‑ and noise‑filled environment was not going to present a barrier to success. Having spotted the stolen clothing the prisoner was reported likely to be wearing, two of them managed to jump the jacketed figure while the others stood back and took careful aim, just in case.

The immobilized individual struggled hard but was unable to throw off the determined fighters. Rolled onto its back with the two husky soldiers pinning its arms to its sides, it smiled up at them.

Right jacket, wrong wearer.

A sergeant glared down at the prone, pinned shape.

“Where is he?”

Williams pondered the question, stalling for time until one of the glowering fighters pointedly chambered a round in his weapon and aimed it at her.

“Oh yeah,” she declared, as if just remembering something. “Said he had to run.”

***

The intention of the soldier on the motorcycle that was speeding along the single narrow path was to locate the escaped prisoner and deal with the creature himself. He got his chance, though not exactly in the way he intended. Bursting out of the trees, Wright struck the rider in full stride, knocking him clean off the bike’s seat. The two figures went one way, the errant cycle the other.

Rising, Wright hurried toward where the bike was lying on its side, its wheels still spinning. It appeared to have survived the crash with only cosmetic damage. This did not trouble the escaped prisoner. He had no intention of taking it on parade.

Its dismounted rider had other ideas. Rolling from the impact and rising to his feet almost as quickly as Wright, Barnes pulled his pistol and began firing steadily. Marksman or not, taking potshots at a stationary target suspended in good lighting was not quite the same as trying to hit something fast and powerful that was weaving its way toward you in the depths of night. What shots did hit home bounced without harm, as they had previously, off Wright’s increasingly exposed hybrid body.

An increasingly panicky Barnes tried to steady his aim long enough to get off a shot at Wright’s eyes, but by then the other figure was on top of him. Wrenching the weapon away, the former captive threw the lieutenant to the ground and aimed the powerful handgun. Faced with imminent death, Barnes raised a hand in futile defense and half closed his eyes. Wright’s finger tightened on the trigger–and relaxed. Waiting for the shot that didn’t come, the lieutenant finally opened his eyes again.

Wright was standing directly over him, the gun still clutched in his right hand. Reflexively, Barnes’s eyes dropped to the pistol as he considered his options.

***

With a single backhanded slap that bordered on the contemptuous, Wright knocked him out.

He didn’t even marvel that he was able to lift and straighten the heavy motorcycle with one hand. Throwing his right leg over the seat, he straddled the big bike and gave the ignition a try. To his relief it started right up. Not every machine, he reflected, was the enemy. That thought reminded him that he might be the enemy, and he quickly put it out of his mind.

Shots rang out and slugs began to rip into the ground around him.

What he wanted as much as anything else was time to examine himself, and time seemed to be the one thing he was not going to be allowed. With soldiers advancing behind him and still dynamic minefields remaining off to his left and right, the only possible escape route lay directly ahead.

That meant jumping a high berm that stood between his present location and the far side of the river. Gunning the cycle’s engine, he spewed dirt in his wake as he roared toward the high hillock. Tires dug into the soil as the bike accelerated, hit the take‑off point he had chosen, and soared into the air.

He almost made it.

The resultant wipe‑out would have killed an ordinary human. It would have mangled most man‑sized machines. Marcus Wright, however, was neither. Rising from where he had stopped bouncing, he started toward where the motorcycle had landed and now lay spinning its rear wheel. He had only taken a few steps in its direction when it disintegrated under the impact of a napalm shell. Flaming jellied gasoline engulfed everything within a significant radius of the strike site. The bike was gone, as were the bushes and smaller trees unlucky enough to have been within the target zone.

Emerging blackened and scarred from the intense flames, his clothing mostly gone, Wright sprinted for the taller trees that lined the riverbank.

Above and behind him, Connor stared at the impossible survivor as the figure dashed for the cottonwoods that lined the river’s edge. Grimly, he eased forward on the controls, sending the chopper in pursuit. Behind him, soldiers crouched at both open doors were firing at the target.

“We’ve got him,” he exclaimed into the radio’s microphone. “He’s between outer perimeter markers forty‑six and forty‑nine, trying to dodge fire. Converge on the river. If we don’t take him down before he reaches it, we’ll trap him in the water.”

Other explosives and shells joined additional napalm in erupting all around Wright. They jolted him, occasionally slowed him, often enveloped him–but they did not stop him. He reached the river.

Moving far faster than Wright, Connor’s ’copter now hovered just above the water, its searchlight scanning the surface, hunting for him. One of the gunners tossed out a flare, further illuminating the scene.

Something bubbled within the river, as if the water was being brought suddenly to a boil. Then the surface erupted.

There were at least a dozen Hydrobots. Segmented like worms, wholly serpentine in shape, eyeless but equipped with a host of other sensors, they exploded out of the water to clamp razor‑lined metal jaws on the underside of the low‑flying chopper. Though barely four feet in length, the weight of their numbers caused the helicopter to skew wildly to one side.

Screaming, one of the gunners fell out of the open door on his side while his counterpart scrambled to maintain a grip and footing inside the sharply slanting cabin.

Connor could not help. With the hydraulics already damaged by the initial attack from below, it was all he could do to maintain minimal stability and stay airborne. Meanwhile several of the rapacious steel serpents had chewed their way into the main cabin where they were wreaking havoc on anything within reach of their whirring jaws.

Frantic kicking and firing didn’t save the surviving gunner. As his desperate shots spanged harmless off the armored intruders, one bit through his right leg. Blood spurted in all directions. A sharp crunching sound filled the cabin as metal teeth began to munch their way through bone.

In the water below, the soldier who had been dumped out of the helicopter barely managed to fight his way to the surface before he was pulled under, eyes wide and shrieking as he was sliced up from beneath.

When the last of the chopper’s hydraulic fluid ran out, control was lost completely. As it lurched toward the dark surface below, Connor half jumped and was half tossed from the mortally crippled machine. Slowing blades barely missing him, the ’copter crashed into the shallows that fronted the riverbank.

Gasping for air, he floundered in the water a moment before realizing that it was barely hip‑deep where he had landed. Drawing his pistol, he struggled shoreward. The ground underfoot was a maddening composite of sand and mud that did everything it could to slow his progress. Somewhere behind him the Hydrobots were butchering the last remaining soldier.

Then they found him.

Even in the dim light it was hard to miss their gleaming, reflective, deadly surfaces. One after another took a slug from his oversized pistol and went down, writhing and convulsing in a horrible approximation of real life. A stride at a time, he battled his way toward the shore.

At last the muck underfoot gave way to more stable gravel and rock. Water drained from his legs as he staggered out onto dry land. Designed to operate and survive in water, the limbless Hydrobots could not follow. But they could still fling themselves high out of the shallows. One did, aiming to lock its cutting jaws on his skull. Detecting its prodigious leap out of the corner of an eye, Connor whirled, trained his lethal pistol on it, and fired. Nothing.

Dry round.

Instinctively, he brought one arm up in a desperate attempt to ward off the attack as he struggled to eject the bad round and chamber another shell. The Hydrobot plunged toward him–but metal never met flesh. Hands snatched the writhing machine out of the air and as easily as they would break open a chicken leg, snapped it in half. Spasming independently, both sections were thrown back into the river. Connor did not linger on their sinking shapes. Instead, he straight away trained the muzzle of his weapon on the man who had saved him.

Correction, he told himself. On the thing that had saved him.

His clothing and skin largely gone, not even breathing hard from his flight from the base, Marcus Wright stared back at Connor. In the shallows, a mass of Hydrobots had gathered. But none attempted a repeat of the aerial assault on the human. A gasping Connor used his free hand to gesture in their direction.

“Look at them. They’re not attacking. Not attacking me because you just indicated how you want them to behave. Not attacking you because they know what you are. Even if you don’t.”

Wright replied without rancor, indicating the pistol gripped tightly in Connor’s fist.

“Guess that means that gun isn’t going to do you much good, even if it’s still functional. No gun’s going to stop me.”

Connor studied the powerful figure confronting him, letting his gaze rove over the remarkable amalgamation of the metallic and the organic. Napalm having burned away much of the carefully nurtured epidermal layer, the details of the unparalleled fusion were more visible than ever.

“Nobody’s shot you in the heart,” he wheezed. “I see that thing’s beating a mile a minute. I’d bet that it’s been modified, adapted, and juiced just like the rest of your ‘human’ components, but it still looks like there’s enough of the original left to respond badly to a heavy slug.”

The observation gave Wright pause. Then he nodded.

“That seems pretty close to the mark.” He straightened. “Do it then. Kill me.”

Still shaky from the crash and the frantic flight from the Hydrobots, a panting Connor struggled to fix his aim. His finger began to contract on the trigger.

Wright did not look away, showed not the slightest sign of fear. That was hardly surprising, Connor told himself. Fear was something the creature’s adaptive programming could doubtless cope with easily.

“Kyle Reese is alive.”

Connor tried not to react to the claim, but exhausted and exposed as he was, this time he could not keep his expression from giving his feelings away. His finger eased off the trigger.

“How can you be sure?” Connor spoke guardedly. Though his finger had eased off the trigger, he did not lower the pistol.

“I told you before, but you wouldn’t listen. He and a little girl who befriended me were part of a group taken captive by the machines. Along with the others, they’re probably both inside Skynet Central by now. I want to get them out. That’s the reason I came with Blair Williams to your base, even though you refuse to believe me. I still want to get them out.” Eyes that were at least part human burned into Connor’s. “I think you’d like to get them out, too.”

Here was something upon which they could agree.

“Of course I want to get them out,” Connor said.

Wright nodded. “In order to get them out, you first have to get in. And I’m the only one who can get you in.”

Connor shook his head doubtfully.

“Get into Skynet Central? How?”

Wright approached with deliberation. Connor raised his gun. He could see the beating, modified, augmented heart clearly now. The new, improved model, he thought wildly to himself. If he shot Wright and the–man–went down, and they tried to fix him up, would he more properly be a candidate for surgery–or a tune‑up? And what, really, was the difference between the two, anyway? Flesh and blood, machine and hydraulics, weren’t they all machines by any other name? Was what really mattered attitude and outlook, not construction and fabric?

Confused, tired, worried about Kyle–if not himself, he slowly lowered the muzzle of the heavy pistol until it was pointed at the ground.

“Even assuming that you’re telling the truth, why should I trust you?”

“Two reasons,” Wright shot back. “One, I need to find out who did this to me. And two–so do you.”

With the river full of murderous Hydrobots behind, the sound of gunfire and barking of search dogs rising steadily in front, Connor found himself marooned in a quandary. He had a decision to make, perhaps the most crucial of his life, and no time in which to analyze it closely. But then, he had not become such a successful Resistance fighter because he was indecisive. His response was a mix of defiance and pleading.

“You get me in. I’ll be on the bridge–it’s an unobstructed shot from there to Skynet Central and we should be able to communicate freely. You find Kyle Reese for me.” Digging through his pockets, he located a communicator. After a quick check revealed that its batteries were good, he tossed it to the singular figure looming opposite him.

Wright snatched it out of the air without even looking in its direction.

“No problem. They think I’m one of them.”

Though the night was warm, Connor felt a chill. Was he in the process of making the greatest mistake of his life? Maybe this thing’s mind was as clever as its engineering.

But if it was all deception, to what end? When first introduced to the creature that called itself Marcus Wright, Connor and his advisors had been convinced that it represented a wickedly clever attempt to breach base security in order to kill him. Now that it stood free, functioning, and unimpeded barely a yard away and could kill him easily with a single blow, it spoke instead of trying to rescue Kyle. Marcus Wright was as full of surprises as he was contradictions.

Had he not said as much himself?

Connor gestured toward the river and the now quiescent Hydrobots.

“You said they think you’re one of them. Are you?”

It was a question Wright had been asking himself ever since his intermingled insides had been revealed. It was the question above all questions that he needed answered. And naturally, it was the one question to which he could not assign an explanation. Spreading his arms wide, exposing as much of himself as possible to the man standing warily before him, he admitted the only truth he knew.

“I don’t know.”

Moving past Connor, keeping his hands at his sides, he started backing into the river. Raised again, the muzzle of Connor’s pistol never left him, not even when Wright’s head disappeared beneath the rippling surface. He continued to stare at the spot where Wright had vanished until movement on the far side of the river drew his attention. Emerging after a span of time spent underwater far longer than any human could hold his breath, Wright turned, waved once, and vanished into the brush on the far side. He had crossed the river not by swimming–perhaps he was too heavy–but by walking across the bottom.

Holstering his weapon, a contemplative Connor let his gaze linger a long time on the spot where Wright had disappeared, half certain he had just made the biggest mistake of his existence. Then he turned and started walking in the direction of the base. He had barely made it back into the woods when shapes rose sharply from the bush to confront him and he found himself staring down the barrels of three rifles.

“Halt and identify yourself!” the noncom in charge barked.

“John Connor.” What a pity, he mused halfheartedly, that he could not be someone else.

But he knew he was John Connor. In that respect if no other, at least, he had the advantage over the poor creature called Marcus Wright.

Lowering their weapons the soldiers hastened to gather around him, flanking him as they resumed walking toward the nearest base entrance. Their relief was palpable when they were able to identify him visually.

“Sir? Are you all right, sir?” one of them asked.

Connor nodded. “A little bruised, nothing serious. Chopper went down.” He gestured back the way he had come. “We were too low, searching. Hydrobots got us. I was the only one to make it to shore.”

The noncom’s lips tightened, comprehending. He glanced in the direction of the riverbank that was falling farther behind them with every step.

“Sir, any sign of him?”

Connor halted, turned, and looked back. Some sections of the river were still visible in the dim light. Of Wright there was no sign. No sign, in fact, that anything had ever been amiss along this winding stretch of dark water. Increasing his pace, he shook his head.

“No sign, soldier. Nothing to be done about it now. I guess he got away.”

The base brig was neither fancy nor extensive. It did not need to be either, since the great majority of its residents were transient. By far the most common reasons for temporary internment were the need to get some secured sleep as a result of an excess of drinking, to cool down from fighting with fellow soldiers, or to allow disputed gambling debts to be settled from adjoining cells.

Blair Williams’s case was very different.

For one thing, unlike the usual tenant she had not been left alone to stew in her own perfidy. A round‑the‑clock armed sentry had been posted outside her cell. She did not try to engage the rotating guards in conversation and they showed no inclination to want to talk to her. They had no idea what she was in for. It was none of their business. Within the constricted confines of the base it was an unspoken rule that you did not pry into the affairs of those around you lest one day the tables be turned.

Of the two men who were now standing outside the holding area, one had every intention of disregarding that rule. Vociferously.

As soon as the officer who had escorted him to the rearmost cell turned and departed, Williams sat up on the edge of her cot and regarded her visitor.

“Connor....” Solemnity quickly gave way to casual curiosity. “What brings you down to this humble abode?” She gestured at the enclosing walls. “It seems I’ve been reassigned.”

Her visitor had no time for small talk, or for jokes. Whatever he had on his mind, he was not in the mood for delay.

“Why’d you do it?”

Williams blinked back at him, her reply leavened with innocence.

“Do what?”

“Let Marcus go. Why would you break him out? He’s a machine. Just one more thread in Skynet’s web. I don’t get it.”

She had no intention of letting Connor lord it over her, even if she was a prisoner. Rising, she moved toward him. He did not back away. John Connor did not back away from anything, least of all a renegade–and possibly deranged–attack pilot.

“You say he’s part of Skynet’s planning. Not to me he isn’t. He’s–something else. Something we don’t understand, sure. But I saw a man. Not a machine. A person struggling with the same things we struggle with every day, John. Our own humanity. He’s a man trapped inside of a machine.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “I don’t know how it was done or for what reason, but he’s not a tool of Skynet. I don’t know how to explain it, but he’s–independent.” She met his unwavering stare without flinching. “Why d’you ask? Does it matter? You’ve already formed your opinion, haven’t you?”

Her interrogator did not reply. Sunk deep in thought, Connor was quiet for a long time. Then he looked up at her, and spoke.

“How’s the leg?

She winced.

“Hurts.”

There was another long moment of silence. Then he motioned to the soldier on guard.

“Let her go.”

The man hesitated. “Sir? Orders were to....”

“Let her go. On my order. I’ll take full responsibility.”

With a shrug, the soldier stepped aside. Of the very few people on the base whose commands were to be complied with implicitly, John Connor was foremost.

Williams watched Connor depart. He was clearly lost in thought. While she did not want to disturb him, it would have been nice to know why he had summarily ordered her released. Among the few words they had exchanged, what had convinced him to change his mind about her?

More important, and more maddening–what had caused him to change his mind about Marcus Wright?

Date: 2015-12-13; view: 442; Нарушение авторских прав