Chapter thirteen

The base had not seen this much activity since a flight of six surviving F‑15s had managed to avoid Skynet’s attention and arrive safely from Seattle some six months ago. Out on the heavily camouflaged tarmac, a wide variety of aircraft were being armed and prepped for the all‑out attack. Pilots chatted with one another while mechanics worked to render even the most badly damaged planes airworthy. On one side of the veiled runway a cluster of technicians were putting the finishing touches on the transmitter unit that would join with others across the planet in the worldwide attempt to shut down Skynet.

Connor wended his way through the organized confusion until he reached the communications center. They were expecting him, but to help prevent tracing, the connection that had been on hold would not be completed until he was present. As soon as he arrived, the operations tech passed him a handset.

“Connor, Command for you.” Connor took the handset.

“This is Connor.”

Ashdown was on the other end, his tone exuberant.

“Connor, are your people ready? Everything’s in motion. Tomorrow we’ll be able to look out on a different dawn. It’ll be a new day for mankind. Myself, I’m going to have a house built right on top of whatever’s left of Skynet Central. With a fence made out of deactivated T‑1s. The timer is running.”

“Negative,” Connor told him tersely. “Nobody’s ready. We are not. You are not. We need to stop the attack. The game has changed. I repeat; changed.”

Despite the imperfect connection, the astonishment in the general’s voice came through loud and clear.

“What are you talking about? All our elements are past their release points and in assault positions. Do you have any idea what’s gone into coordinating this assault? Do you realize what it’s liable to cost us to stand down now that everything’s under way? I don’t mean in old‑line expense–I’m talking about wasted resources, lowered morale, sacrificed surprise. What possible reason could there be for calling off the attack now?”

Connor swallowed once before responding. He knew how difficult it was going to be to convince Ashdown, but knowing what he knew now there was nothing for it but to try.

“The strategic components of the conflict have been altered. Or to put it another way, something new has been added. Something no one could have predicted and that we can’t account for. Being unable to account for something means it needs to be studied carefully before any large‑scale undertakings that involve it are initiated.”

Ashdown’s impatience filtered through the transmission.

“Connor–what the hell are you talking about?”

He tried another tack.

“Delay the attack. I have a chance to infiltrate Skynet and rescue the prisoners. Give me that opportunity, General.”

“No. Absolutely not. This is not the time for a rescue mission, Connor. What you are asking would undermine the whole operation.”

“You’re not hearing me, sir. I support the attack. But not at this price. I will not kill our own people.”

“We’re not ‘killing our own people.’” Ashdown was losing patience. “It’s called collateral damage, Connor. I said that when the time came I’d do the right thing. And I’m doing it. This shutdown signal works. It’s our key to victory. We stay the course–and that’s an order, Connor!”

“I’m telling you, General. We stay the course and we are dead. We’re all dead. Who do you think you are–General Sherman? Tamerlane?”

“Personally, I think Sherman would have approved of what we’re doing today. I know who I am, Connor. Right now it’s who you are that’s troubling me.”

Connor looked over his shoulder. Behind and around him soldiers, pilots, mechanics, tech and support personnel were putting the last touches on the impending attack. The attack that somehow he had to stop. He returned his attention to the handset.

Ashdown wasn’t through.

“We’ve got victory in our grasp and at the last minute, the last second, you and you alone suddenly decide it’s out of reach. All your prattle is bullshit, Connor. This is no time for defeatism. We’re going to win, and I’m not going to let you do anything to put a crimp in what will be the greatest military victory in the history of mankind.”

It was all so familiar, Connor thought wearily. How many times in his remarkable, anguished, astonishing, grief‑ridden life had he been forced to suffer through this sort of uncomprehending obstinacy on the part of others? Why, when events came to a head, when critical moments in the confused litany of the future and past materialized, wouldn’t they listen to him? One thing was certain–Ashdown was beyond listening to him, or to anyone else. He tried yet another tack.

“Skynet has Kyle Reese. He was number one on their kill list.”

Ashdown’s reply was as cold as the waters through which Command’s sub was cruising.

“Then that’s his fate, Connor.”

“No! I have to save him. He is the key. The key to the future. The key to the past. Without him we lose everything.”

Ashdown was not listening. Or not hearing. Or both.

“We stay the course.”

“We stay the course and we are all dead.” Connor struggled to control his emotions. “We are all dead. I’m asking you one more time, General. Delay it. A few hours. Enough time for our tech people to finish some simulations I’ve got them working on, and for me to make an attempt to try and rescue Kyle Reese and the other prisoners being held in Skynet Central.”

Ashdown turned deadly calm.

“You get in the way of this assault and I’ll kill you myself. You do any thing to jeopardize the plan, I’ll wipe out your entire base. Too much has gone into this, Connor. We can’t take any chances with this attack.”

“That’s just what I’m asking you to do, General. Not take chances.”

“Negative again, Connor. We strike now. ”

The communications officer looked up at his leader. So did Barnes, who had stopped by to listen.

They were running out of time.

Always running out of time, Connor thought resignedly. Only this time around, it might be for real. It might really be the last time, in every sense of the term.

“I’m going to Skynet,” he said flatly into the pickup. “With your permission or without it–sir. Those people being held prisoner deserve at least that much. Maybe they don’t want to be remembered as heroes. Maybe they’d rather be remembered as survivors.”

Ashdown had no difficult communicating his fury via the encrypted frequency.

“Then as of now you’re relieved of your command, goddamit.” His voice echoed as he addressed men on the sub. “Get back to your stations.”

The encryption timer hit zero and the transmission cut out. Connor slowly put the headset down. As he did so, Barnes took a step forward. The lieutenant’s expression was unreadable.

“Transmission got pretty garbled there at the end, sir. I didn’t make out that last statement.” He nodded toward the communications officer.

“Neither did I.”

Barnes stiffened, almost to attention.

“We’re with you ’til the end–sir.”

Connor nodded tersely. Handing the comm set back to the officer, he turned and walked away, his pace increasing as he left the communications station behind. A weight had been lifted from his shoulders and from his heart. Once again he was back on the outside, where he understood the rules.

Not least because he had made so many of them.

***

At the speed he and Barnes were moving it did not take long to reach the broadcast stack. Though a ramshackle compilation of antennae, signal boosters, cabling, and isolated computer components, he had no doubt that when turned on it would send out the signal sequence that had been programmed into it. Incongruously, the whole high‑tech pile was powered by a single clattering, reasonably intact diesel generator.

Entering a storage room nearby, he studied the contents. Grabbing a roll of C‑4 det cord, he passed it across to Barnes.

“Here. Wire the broadcast stack for detonation.”

Barnes looked uncertain. “Our own?”

“Yes.”

The lieutenant fiddled with the loose end of the cord.

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir–why?”

The expression that came over Connor’s face was one the lieutenant had seen before.

“The hunter just became the hunted.”

While Barnes and the communications officer wrapped the cord around the just completed broadcast stack, Connor picked up the handset for the short‑wave radio. Activating it, he hesitated, trying to gather his words. Then he just started talking.

“This is John Connor. If you’re listening to this, you are the Resistance.

“I once knew a woman who told people to fear the future, that the end was coming. That all would be lost. Nobody wanted to hear her truths. Society locked her away. That woman was Sarah Connor, my mother. Now we know that what she was predicting all came to pass. And so I ask of you to please, please believe in me, her son, as we all should have believed in her.

“Command wants us to fight like machines. They want us to make cold, calculated decisions. But we’re not machines. And if we behave like them, if we make the same kinds of decisions they would make, then what is the point in winning?

“Please. Please listen carefully. I need every one of you now. We have to stand down. Believe me when I tell you that if we attack tonight, our humanity is lost. Our hope for a future–is gone. Sarah Connor told me a moment would come when we would need to make our own fate. That moment has arrived, and that fate will not come to pass without you. Without all of you. You must stand down until sunrise.

“Everything we’ve fought for, everything we’ve achieved, comes down to this one moment.” He paused a moment, then rushed onward.

“Our fate is created not in the past, and not in the future. It is being created right here and right now. If even one bomb is dropped on Skynet before sunrise, our future will be lost. Please stand down. Give me the time I need to finish this. Give me the time to protect the future that we–that all of us–are fighting for.”

He started to say more, only to realize there was nothing more to say, and quietly put down the handset.

The contents of the base armory reflected the eclectic nature of the Resistance, but it was well stocked. Connor went shopping.

As he was making his selection he was joined by a second figure. After a brief glance in Kate’s direction he continued choosing his weapons. She watched him for a while as he worked, then moved closer. Her voice was calm, but tight.

“What do you think you’re doing, John?”

He replied without looking over at her as he checked a brace of heavy ammo.

“Skynet has Kyle.”

“We’ve discussed this. How can you be sure?”

He pulled a heavy pistol, turned it over in his hands, put it back in its rack.

“A machine told me. A wind‑up toy. A cuckoo clock with a conscience.” He smiled humorlessly. “It might be wrong but I think it’s Wright.”

He shook his head.

“This is how my mother must’ve felt in that nuthouse. She tried warning everyone. She knew the future and no one listened. I hope to God somebody out there is listening to me. Kate, you promise me that you’ll listen and that you’ll evacuate. That you’ll leave here and you’ll get to someplace safe.”

She had already put it all together.

“You’re going to try to save Kyle, aren’t you?”

He didn’t reply.

“John, this doesn’t make sense. It’s you Skynet wants. You just admitted that the only reason you’re sure it has Kyle is because a machine told you. They’re using him to bait you. This is a trap.”

Halting his work, he favored her with a sad smile.

“Maybe it is a trap. But we’ll use their traps against them.”

Reaching to a high shelf he pulled down a 25mm semi‑automatic grenade launcher, then a box of thermobaric shells.

“If Kyle dies, Skynet wins.”

Her hands balled into fists at her sides. She moved closer, pleading now.

“John, you can’t go in there alone. Reese gave up his life for you. Throwing away your own like this, in a futile attempt to save him, would be the last thing he would want you to do.”

Connor’s expression was grim.

“That’s exactly why I’m going. Because he went. Because he saved my mother’s life and he gave me mine. Because I owe him that much. To at least make the attempt.”

“This is suicide, John. I will not stand by and watch you kill yourself.”

Looking away from her, he loaded a shotgun with sabot shells, then began packing grenades and plastic explosive into a waiting pack.

Kate watched him for a long moment. Then she picked up a handgun and very carefully placed it against her temple. Pausing in his work, he slowly turned to face her, his eyes flicking from her face to the handgun and back again.

“Look at me. How does this make you feel? This is what you’re doing to me.”

Connor’s expression softened. “Kate, please....”

Slowly, she lowered the gun. But not her gaze.

“What about our child?”

He took a deep breath. “If I don’t stand up for what I believe in, what kind of father am I going to make?”

She gestured slightly with the muzzle of the weapon.

“We said we would get through this together. That’s the only reason we’ve made it this far. If you die....”

Her voice trailed away, unable to complete the sentence, unable to countenance the thought. Her strength was wavering, as was her conviction. She had been fighting a long time, and she was tired. She knew he was too, but somehow he always managed to bounce back. Always managed to summon strength from depths unknown, find confidence even in the darkest moments. She was strong, but not that strong. Not as strong as John Connor. That was why he had to stay alive. For the Resistance. For everyone. For her.

He saw what she was going through even as he sensed her emotional exhaustion.

“You live–and that’s all that matters to me, Kate. You’re the reason I’ve kept fighting for all these years. You have my whole heart. You always have, and you always will. You’re what I live for.” As he moved toward her, she let go of the gun. It dropped to the floor beside her, silent and no longer threatening.

Tears were running down her face, streaking her cheeks. Smiling affectionately, he placed his scarred hands gently on her stomach. Reaching up with one hand she touched his face, let her fingers trace the side of his jaw.

“This is not ‘goodbye,’” she whispered to him.

“No.” They kissed.

She pulled away. Someone had to. “See you later–okay?”

“Yeah.”

She managed a smile. “Every time I look into your eyes I know we’re still headed in the right direction,” she murmured softly. “I know that, somehow, we’ll make it. And I’m not the only one.”

She gestured to her right, toward the armory door that stood slightly ajar.

“You have a responsibility to those people out there, John. They believe you’re going to lead them to victory. What am I going to tell them when they find out you’re gone?”

She paused, sniffling and swallowing, trying to keep from breaking down completely.

“What am I going to tell myself?”

Looking into her face, unable to avoid the naked longing and desperation on display, he wondered what he could possibly say in response. Then he smiled anew, reassuringly, and gently wiped at her tears.

“I’ll be back.”

He turned, picked up the pack, shouldered his methodically chosen weapons, kissed her long and deep, and headed purposefully toward the doorway. Silently, she watched him go. Though his words hung in the air, she doubted them. Then she gathered herself and headed out in his wake. By the time she exited the armory he was gone.

Realizing there was nothing to be gained from trying to follow him, she strode purposefully toward the infirmary. Unable to do more than internalize her own suffering, she could at least help to alleviate that of others.

For the pain and the ache she was feeling, there was no medicine.

Like all scavengers, the crow and its brethren had done well out of the war. Not every person could be accorded a fit burial, far less the thousands of domesticated animals who had been left to live and die on their own when their human masters had been murdered by the rampaging machines. In addition, there were the wild creatures who perished of natural causes whose corpses could no longer be neatly swept up and disposed of by park authorities, ranchers, and others now occupied with simply trying to survive.

The crow had no reason to avoid the huge wall it was approaching. Though abnormally stark and utilitarian, it did not differ (at least from a crow’s perspective) all that much from the urban ruins it and its cawing relatives had inherited. When the twin turrets began to whirr softly and alter their attitude, the crow simply dipped a wing and angled to its left.

Detecting the presence of an organic creature in the forbidden zone, the automated gun emplacements made no distinction between a small feathered avian and a trained member of the human Resistance. Programmed to destroy anything carbon‑based that entered the zone designated as Skynet Central, they responded to the intrusion with typical machine overkill.

The relative still of the evening air was shattered as the weapons of both turrets let loose with a barrage of intersecting rounds that utterly obliterated the intruder. When seconds later they quieted, there was nothing left of the passing passerine. Not even a single black feather survived to reach the hardscrabble ground outside the wall.

The solitary figure that emerged from the stream advanced in silence through the surviving trees that lined its banks. Wright knew he did not have far to go to reach the outer limits of Skynet’s death zone. Assuming he succeeded in crossing that boundary in one piece, then things would really start to get interesting.

It was just as the information from the Resistance people had indicated: there was the enormous wall, the integrated gun emplacements, the sensors spotted along the length and breadth of the structure–and not a moving shape in sight.

Well, that was a lack easily rectified.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped out from the trees and deliberately exposed himself.

As speedily as they had trained their muzzles on the unlucky bird, both massive turrets now swiveled around to bring their weapons to bear on this new profile. If they fired once, it would all be over. All the confusion and hurt he had suffered since being revived would vanish in a single explosive inferno of fire and destruction.

A part of him wished for it, hoped for it, desired it. No more wondering about what he had become. No more speculating on how it had come to pass. There would be peace, at last.

But not for a while yet, it seemed. The guns remained trained on him for several seconds. Then they shifted back to their original watchful positions, once more awaiting the appearance of the unauthorized. Wright slumped. Plainly, that did not include him. Within the exposed portions of his upper body a vast variety of mechanical components hummed softly, helping to keep him alive.

Alive, he thought solemnly, but not human. Not necessarily machine, either. Having crossed Skynet’s boundary, passed the test, surmounted the critical obstacle, he found (somewhat to his surprise) that he was after all glad to still be living. The corollary to that quiet elation was that he was disappointed in the reason he still was.

The automated turrets continued to ignore him as he hurried across the intervening landscape between forest and wall. Reaching the base of the massive barrier, he tilted his head back and regarded it thoughtfully. It was a long way to the top and there was little in the way of visible handholds.

He went up it like a spider, periodically using his fists to punch holes in the sheer wall where none otherwise existed.

Though he hesitated before topping the obstacle, he needn’t have worried. There were no sentries pacing the crest, no ambulatory patrols, no razor or barbed wire. There was no need for such traditional defensive fripperies. Not with the high‑powered instantly reactive automated cannons mounted in gimbaled turrets that protected Skynet Central. They would detect and annihilate anything organic that attempted to violate the perimeter. Only machines could pass, and then only those that continuously broadcast their assigned identification according to recognized Skynet protocols.

That realization had already told him far more about himself than he wanted to know.

Dropping down the far side of the wall, he rapidly made his way deeper into the complex that had been raised atop and in some cases made use of the ruins of greater San Francisco. An approaching rumble caused him to swerve to his right. Had he continued on his course he would have found himself in the path of an automated, self‑aware bulldozer. The giant demolition machine was methodically razing what had once been a lovingly decorated church. Watching the process, Wright found he was unable to identify the congregation from what remained of the ruins. The sculpted statues that were being ground to powder beneath the ’dozer’s treaded weight spoke to nothing but the machine’s cold indifference.

What if I had stopped in the ’dozer’s path? he found himself wondering. Would it have stopped also, until he moved out of its way? Would it have tried to go around him? Or would it have called for additional instructions? Better not to challenge something that massed a thousand times more than himself, he mused. Even if it might be a distant relative.

All was not destruction within the perimeter. Arc lights flared and building materials were being busily shuttled to and fro. Strange superstructures rose into the night, illuminated by lights that were part of the buildings themselves. The machines were remaking the city in their own image, according to their own plan. Would the buildings themselves be self‑aware?

As he continued to advance, striding along smoothly and effortlessly, Wright wondered at their possible function. What use did machines have for buildings? It was impossible to divine their purpose merely by looking at them. Perversely, this incomprehension made him feel a little better.

At least there were some things about the machines he did not understand intuitively. That meant that his programming was incomplete or–that his imperfect human brain was still in control of his heavily hybridized body. For the first time in his life, he allowed himself to revel in the ignorance that in his previous existence had brought him so much grief.

He pressed on, passing self‑aware loaders, individually propelled welders, driverless trucks, tiny scavenging devices, multi‑wheeled clean‑up containers, and a host of other machines. Their diversity was staggering, their single‑mindedness of purpose intimidating, their indifference to him reassuring.

You may recognize me, he thought to himself as he ran, but I refuse to recognize you. The slightest of grins creased his face.

There was a man in the midst of the machines, and they could not even see him.

Among the wide assortment of antiques that had been accumulated at the base anything that was still capable of playing music was highly valued. Barnes had therefore been understandably reluctant to sacrifice his old tape player.

“You sure I’ll get this back?” he had challenged Connor when he had inquired about requisitioning the player.

Connor had replied with a knowing smile.

“If you don’t, you can take it out of my hide.”

The lieutenant’s tone was grim.

“According to what you’re telling me you’re going to try, if it doesn’t survive, you won’t have any hide left.”

Despite his reservations, Barnes had helped Connor with the set up. It was all highly non‑procedural, of course. Entirely off the record. When Connor had described what he had in mind, the lieutenant had felt duty‑bound to point out that engaging in such action off‑base in the absence of authorization could get them both court‑martialed.

“I’ll take all the blame,” Connor had assured him. “I’ve already been relieved of command and placed under arrest.”

“They can still put you in front of a firing squad,” Barnes reminded him.

It was clear that Connor understood the risk he was taking.

“First they have to catch me. In fact, I hope they do try to catch up with me. Come on–let’s get this stuff emplaced.”

To all intents and purposes, the forest by the side of the road was deserted. It was, however, far from quiet. Running on half‑empty batteries, a carefully concealed tape player belted out a mix of heavy‑metal music from the time before Judgment Day. It had been doing so for several hours now.

A new song started and was almost drowned out by the high‑pitched whine of the machine that was fast approaching.

The Moto‑Terminator was traveling at a shade under 200 mph as, weapons armed and ready, it sped toward one of the many sounds the machines had learned to associate with human presence. The sounds themselves, the music, meant nothing to it, of course. To a machine such amplified sound wave modulations had no meaning, since they carried no digital instructions. The Moto‑Terminator was confident of locating and eliminating those to whom the sound waves were directed. At the speed it was traveling, no humans could escape it.

By the same token, it could not escape the consequences of its own extreme velocity. This was graphically illustrated when a concealed cross cable suddenly sprang up out of the sand that had been used to disguise it, catching the speeding machine and sending it crashing into a pile of nearby rocks. Sparks flew not only from the machine’s armored exterior but from its more vulnerable innards.

Springing from hiding, a triumphant Connor was on the Moto‑Terminator the instant it came to a stop. Tools in hand, working swiftly, he ripped off the protective security panel to expose the tangle of wires and chips that comprised the bike’s neural ganglia. From the pack he had brought with him he removed a crude but functional hand‑held computer. Self‑adhering hackwire attached itself to the relevant portions of the exposed machine brain. A couple of clicks, a few buttons pushed, and the small monitor on the device he was holding sprang to life.

Binary code filled the screen, scrolling faster than he could follow. In less than a minute the incomprehensible numbers were translated into lines of language, then to a single options list. Perusing this, he took action accordingly.

When he was finished, he repacked the hacking gear and strained to return the machine to an upright, two‑wheeled position. One wheel spun furiously as the Moto‑Terminator strove to comply with its revised programming to rush back to its home base–inside Skynet Central. Mounting the back of the machine, which while sufficiently broad for the purpose had never been built to carry a rider of any kind, Connor wrapped the nylon tie‑down he had brought with him around the bike’s head.

With one hand he pulled out the last hackwire, restoring the device to full functionality. Spitting sand and gravel, popping a wheelie no human could have managed, the now partially lobotomized killing machine accelerated rapidly as it raced for home.

His hands wrapped around the ends of the tie‑down, the heavily armed Connor lay prone on the back of the Moto‑Terminator and resolved that come what may, he would not fall off.

Behind him, Barnes emerged from the rocks and the shadows to recover his tape player. Standing there alone in the scrub, he watched until the distant blur of fast‑moving red and white lights and their accompanying alien whine had receded into the distance. Then he shut off the player and turned to retrace the path back to the base. He would listen to the rest of the music later, but not now.

Despite the evening’s success, the decades‑old songs did not provide the emotional lift he had come to expect.

As far as everyone in the line was concerned, they were already dead.

They kept moving because those who did not were prodded by the Terminators that were guarding them. Those who were prodded and did not move were pulled out of line–and never seen again. Some murmured that they were the lucky ones, and considered copying their recalcitrance in hopes of putting an end to days of horrid anticipation. But survival is an ingrained trait and the strongest motivator of all. When there is a choice, suicide is rarely a majority option.

So they kept moving, continued to follow wordless directives, and speculated on the manner of their impending demise. Options ranged from the abrupt to the fanciful. A few fatalists even pointed out that their deaths were likely to be less painful than the destruction humans had inflicted on other humans down through history. Where people had all too often proven themselves sadistic, willing to inflict pain for pain’s sake, the machines were only efficient. Except in isolated instances where there was a specific desire to extract information from the otherwise reluctant prisoner, no machine would kill by torture. Not because they regarded the use of torture as immoral, but because they considered it an inefficient allocation of resources.

As they shuffled forward, the prisoners conversed, or muttered to themselves, or were taken away by the Terminators, or quietly or loudly went mad. The machines were indifferent to it all so long as the line kept moving.

Kyle Reese estimated that he, Star, and Virginia were somewhere in the middle of the queue. Stepping as far out of the line as the guards would allow, he squinted to try and see what was happening at the front of the column. It took him a moment to understand what he was witnessing.

A T‑600 was supervising as one prisoner after another was tattooed with a bar code. Though Reese couldn’t see clearly given the distance between them, when the prisoner who had just been stamped raised his hand in a clenched fist, the swiftly applied tattoo on his arm looked exactly like those the youth had seen identifying ordinary packages and goods in ruined stores.

What, he found himself wondering, was the bar code for “human”? Was everyone receiving the same code, or were there variations? Were male prisoners coded differently from the women? Adults from children? What happened when your code indicated that you were past your usefulness time? Did they contain expiration dates?

Could they be altered, to the benefit of the prisoner in question?

He hoped they wouldn’t find the slim length of metal he had slipped up the inside of his sleeve, nor the extra shoelace that was attached to it. Holding it tightly, he considered how he might make use of it. Not yet, he told himself. Don’t give anything away. There had to be a way to make good use of it. Going up against an alert T‑600 without anything bigger or more potent would not be the smartest of moves.

In addition to the flanking illumination, a series of more intensely focused lights had been playing over the line of prisoners. Occasionally a beam would linger on a prisoner, as if the light itself was being used to examine the individual. Then it would blink out, or move on. As he contemplated a plate increasingly bare of options, one such bright beam settled on Reese. He ignored it, as did his silent companions.

He could not, however, ignore the powerful mechanical arm that reached down from the ceiling to pluck him out of the line.

Star let out a squeal of fright as her friend and protector was whipped upward and out of sight. When Virginia tried to comfort the little girl, another T‑600 approached and separated them, pushing Star off to the right. Attempting to follow, the older woman found the Terminator interposed between them. Gritting her teeth, fighting back the tears that wanted to flow, she pounded on the machine’s chest as she tried to push past.

It did not strike back, didn’t even raise its weapon. It merely shifted its position to block her path. Unable to hurt it, to knock it over, to impress herself upon it in any way, she finally gave up and dejectedly rejoined the shambling procession.

So fast had Reese been snatched away that he had not even had a chance to yell goodbye.