Chapter seventeen

He was alone. Star was gone, Virginia was gone, Marcus Wright–who he had thought of as a friend–was gone. Reese sat in the tiny cell and waited. He knew not for what, except that at the hands of the machines he could only hope it would be quick.

It was not much longer in coming. The door drew back unexpectedly. As he scrambled to try and get away, the T‑600 grabbed him and dragged him, kicking and fighting, down a short corridor and into a larger chamber. In contrast to his holding room this space was larger and more brightly lit.

It also was not empty.

Mostly, it was clean. No, not clean, he told himself with rising dread. Sterile. Everything was shiny and chromed and gleaming. The instruments, the machines of varying sizes, the overhead illuminators. Everything except the blood that was draining off a metal table in the room’s center. Its smell contrasted sharply with that of the otherwise all‑pervasive disinfectant. The latter was of course unnecessary for the protection of the machines. They made use of such chemicals because they did not want their specimens to become contaminated.

Hauling him toward the surgical table, the T‑600 paid no attention to the human’s kicking legs and flailing arms. Effortlessly, it forced him inside. A flurry of activity in the hall beyond did not dissuade it from its assigned task.

A group of fleeing prisoners raced past, having escaped when the system shut down. One of them, smaller than most of the others, suddenly came to a halt. Star stared into the room, her eyes fixed on Reese.

The gesture did not go unnoticed. Still pinning Reese in place, the young man saw the T‑600 rotate its eyes toward the line of prisoners and home in on the little girl. She froze instantly.

“Star!” Reese yelled frantically. “Go!”

Altered programming engaged the T‑600’s memory. Releasing him, it raised its minigun and aimed it toward the hall.

Reese struggled to sit up.

“No!” he howled as he grabbed the T‑600’s shoulder. He slid the shiv from his sleeve and started to bring it down.

Striking his chin, a glancing blow from the Terminator’s elbow knocked him halfway off the surgical table. The shiv went flying.

But not far.

It was secured to his wrist by the shoelace. Reese yanked it back into his waiting palm and slammed it as hard as he could into the single small exposed space at the base of the Terminator’s neck that John Connor had identified as its one vulnerable spot.

“Magic....” he hissed.

Reaction was instantaneous. The T‑600 went into a paroxysm of mechanical spasms, flailing wildly as it sought the source of the interrupt to its motor controls. Uncontrolled, its minigun sprayed slugs in all directions, riddling the surgical chamber. Thankfully, it was locked in an upward position. Rolling off the table, Reese sprinted for Star and the hallway beyond, dodging back and forth as the machine fired wildly behind him.

Flanking the table, the automatic vivisectors stood immovable and emotionless, waiting patiently for their next flaccid, screaming subject.

Connor heard the gunfire. Unless the machines had suddenly gone crazy and begun shooting at one another, the rapid‑fire bursts could only mean that someone–some human –besides himself was inside Central and raising havoc. If nothing else, the cacophony provided a destination. Breaking into a run he headed toward the source of the noise, homing in on the percussive bedlam like a bat on a bug.

In his wake and not far behind, the Terminator methodically clawed itself up out of the blackened hole in the floor. Standing, it surveyed its blasted surroundings, took samplings of the air and the floor, and resumed pursuit of its quarry as though nothing had happened to interrupt its mission.

Turning a corner, Connor nearly ran into Reese and Star. Both fighters regarded one another warily as Star clung to her protector’s arm.

“Who are you?” Connor blurted. “What’s your name?”

“Kyle Reese.”

There was no time for hellos. They hurriedly ducked around one of the surgical bays. Why no other machines had come to the aid of the T‑600 that he had incapacitated, Reese could hardly imagine. Perhaps the fact that he had only temporarily impeded its motor skills was not reason enough to cause it to generate an alarm requesting assistance.

Regardless, the malfunctioning T‑600 that Reese had immobilized could be seen lurching down the hallway toward them, firing erratically into the air.

Searching wildly for a way out, Reese saw none. There was wall behind them and in every other direction. It was over–again. Maybe if he could occupy the killing machine for a few moments, draw its attention wholly to him, it might give Star enough time to dash past the gleaming metal legs and get away, if only for a little while longer. If she could make it to the streets outside there was a chance she might survive, even in the depths of Skynet Central. Terminators wouldn’t be hunting humans here, in their haven.

Star was nothing if not a survivor, and....

As the T‑600 stumbled toward them, it crossed paths with the Terminator that was pursuing Connor. Mechanical joints whirred. Programmed to deliver Kyle Reese to the vivisectors and to kill the small human, the T‑600 refused to give ground. Programmed to eliminate the human John Connor, its superior brother jammed its hands into the midsection of the obstructing machine and tore it in half like a bale of hay. Tearing off the arm mounting the minigun, it promptly let loose with rapid fire in all directions. Several arriving Resistance fighters pouring into the complex were unlucky enough to find themselves in the line of fire.

All interruptions having been appropriately dealt with, it pivoted, pointed the weapon at the three humans huddled in the surgical bay, and activated the gun again. The only response was a series of clicks, followed by a metallic clang as the empty ammo belt dropped to the floor.

“Run!”

Giving Reese a shove, Connor rushed for the other exit. Behind them, the Terminator regarded the now useless weapon, let it fall to the floor, and started after the fleeing trio.

Pausing in the hallway, Connor swung his grenade launcher off his back, loaded a round, and took aim. The instant the machine came into view, he fired. The heavy shell slammed into its shoulder and knocked it ten feet into another surgical bay.

Recovering, it came toward them again. A second round spun it like a top but failed to knock it off its feet.

Racing along the main hallway, searching for another exit to the outside, they encountered instead a line of massive shafts that ran from ceiling to floor. A glance up and down the corridor showed no route out except the way they had come.

Maybe, Connor thought, he could make one.

He blew a hole in the wall of the nearest shaft. Leaning into the gap, he could feel warm air rising from below. It wasn’t hell down there, then. Peering harder, he thought he could see a reflection of light on a solid surface. Clutching the two children to him, he took a deep breath.

They all jumped together.

His perception had been accurate. Though uneven, the floor was not dangerously far below. As they picked themselves up, a symphony of sounds became audible. Clanking, whirring, humming, buzzing and banging, as if they had landed in some kind of factory. Which made perfect sense, Connor thought. There was neither need nor reason for the more mundane manufacturing activities of Skynet to be situated above ground.

Brushing himself off, Reese squinted into the surrounding darkness.

“What is this place?”

By way of reply, Connor fumbled with his remaining gear, located a flare, and ignited it. The harsh, bright magnesium glow illuminated their surroundings, including the bumpy surface underfoot. This was composed of hundreds of gleaming, chromed, rounded shapes: all new, all perfect, all horrifying. Red eyes flickered, awaiting full activation. As the human intruders stared, a softly whirring robotic arm appeared out of the darkness to select one of the humanoid skulls. Swinging to its left, it flawlessly positioned the head on the neck protruding from the top of a waiting metal skeleton. Connor now knew the answer to Reese’s question.

They were in a Terminator factory.

“Move.” His voice was barely a whisper as the full import of where they had landed closed in around him. “Keep moving. Don’t stop. ” When Reese, semi‑paralyzed by the sight, didn’t move, Connor gave him a gentle but firm shove. Blinking, the younger man nodded comprehension and started forward, holding Star firmly by the hand.

The automatons that comprised the factory floor were designed to build, not to hunt. They were powerful but single‑minded. None of them were programmed with the motivation or the means to challenge the humans’ presence or try to block their path as the silent trio hurried onward, simultaneously fascinated and horrified by the sights around them.

They passed dozens of Terminators in various stages of assembly. Legs and arms, torsos and internal components were arriving continuously from many directions. All converged on the main fabrication line Connor and the children were paralleling, until at last they reached the point of final assembly.

Yet even that was not the end.

Though individually terrifying, the long line of completed Terminators still had to be powered up, still awaited activation. Perhaps that was done in clusters, Connor mused as he warily studied the finished but dormant factory product.

One thing was undeniable: that process was not taking place at the moment. It was even conceivable that activation of additional units had been put on hold until the worldwide destruction of the Resistance had been completed. Or the pause might be nothing more than a coincidence, a matter of timing. Activation of this latest batch of killing machines might occur at any hour, at any minute.

In which case it would behoove human intruders not to wait around to watch.

As he and Reese stared at the glow of a massive finishing furnace, something else drew Star’s attention. Wandering away from the two men, she reached out toward a stack of glistening metal and silicate boxes. Before she could make contact, Connor’s hand reached in to stop her.

Reese stared at the stack. “What are these?”

“Fuel cells.” Connor stared at the mound. “The source of life and energy for the Terminators.” Along with programming, here was something else of critical importance that had yet to be installed in the otherwise completed machines.

Slinging his backpack to the floor, he rummaged inside until he found the coil of detonation cord. Working deliberately, he began wrapping one length of it after another around the stacks of cells. Seeing what Connor was doing, Reese broke off his examination of the inert Terminator and came over to join the older man.

“Let me help you.”

Connor didn’t need any help. But the earnestness in Reese’s voice–coupled with the knowledge of who he was–compelled him to acknowledge the offer.

“Sure. Do as I do.” He proceeded to demonstrate. “This is det cord. Wrap it once around. String it, one to the others. When you run out, let me know and I’ll bond them. Be careful.”

A mechanical humming sound startled them. Looking up and back, their eyes were drawn to an elevator cage. It was moving–down.

Hurriedly, they retreated toward the nearest empty hallway. Behind them, the lift came to a stop and the doors opened to reveal–nothing. Connor grunted.

“False alarm. With everything that’s going on here, all kinds of equipment is likely to short out and start acting funny.” He started to return to the work of wiring the fuel cell stack–and noticed Star. She had gone immobile.

Reese noticed too. Warily, both men scanned their surroundings. The only Terminators in view were on the assembly line, motionless and incomplete.

Except for the one that had been pursuing Connor, which leaped free of the line as it threw itself at its target.

Thrown several feet backward, Connor slammed into the floor and winced as his left shoulder dislocated.

Rolling clear, Reese searched frantically until he spotted Connor’s grenade launcher. As he picked it up and fumbled with a load, he glanced up and saw Star’s eyes fall on the detonator for the C‑4 cord. She was picking it up as Reese uttered a silent prayer that he had done everything correctly and pulled the trigger.

He was almost surprised when it struck the Terminator squarely in the back.

Approaching the prone Connor, the Terminator was knocked down the corridor. Rising to his feet and clutching at his shoulder, Connor joined Kyle and Star as they stumbled toward the empty elevator.

Though the elevator welcomed them, it was slow to react as Connor pounded on the switch.

“Come on, dammit!” Please, he thought anxiously. Don’t let it be another short. While they waited for the instrumentation to respond he swapped weapons with Reese, passing him the shotgun and taking control of the grenade launcher. “We gotta get to the Transports.”

As he spoke, his gaze fell on the fuel cell stacks that he and Reese had been wiring. Two of them stood ready. Studying the heap, he wasn’t sure it would be enough. As the doors began to close, he abruptly burst forward. Reese gawked at him.

“ What are you doing?”

Connor looked back at the cage.

“I’ve got to end this.”

“I can’t just leave you!”

Despite the pain that was lancing through his shoulder, Connor grinned at the younger man.

“You didn’t.”

“Who are you?” Reese’s fingers laced through the wire of the elevator cage as it began to rise.

“John Connor....”

Behind him, the Terminator had recovered from the momentary interruption and regained its feet. Though the other two humans were now out of reach, their possible escape did not concern it. Its directive to kill this particular human overrode everything else. Once that had been accomplished it could then turn its attention to any ancillary programming.

Backing away, Connor turned and ran for the nearby stairs. They led to a catwalk. He didn’t know where it ended, but what mattered was that it led away from the elevator and the children. His face contorted in a grimace at the pain in his dislocated shoulder, he yelled back at his pursuer.

“Come on, you metal son of a bitch!”

Turning, he pulled his sidearm and emptied it into the oncoming Terminator. At close range, the slugs slowed but did not stop it. This time when Connor turned, he had no place to hide.

He tried to duck, tried to dodge, but the machine was far quicker than its predecessors and he was too tired and too hurt. Grabbing him by the neck with its remaining hand, it lifted him off the floor. Holding him motionless, it regarded him for a moment out of glowing red eyes. Then it tossed him over the side of the catwalk.

He landed hard on the ground below.

Leaping easily from the edge of the walkway, the Terminator followed. Picking him up, it threw him into a wall and held him there.

Connor smiled at the killing machine. Its face was close, the remorseless red eyes staring unblinkingly into his own. This moment had been a long time coming, across not only many years but many futures. The two of them, man and machine, were at last alone together.

“Go on then, asshole,” he said tightly. “Finish it. Do what you were programmed to do. Terminate.”

There was no reply, nor had he expected one. Drawing back its arm, the machine closed one hand into a fist. It seemed to pause for an instant–but that might only have been time slowing down in Connor’s mind.

The punch would penetrate the damaged flesh and bone, reaching deep enough to strike vital organs. The Terminator aimed its clenched hand to land directly over Connor’s heart.

The incipient blow never landed as the individual called Marcus Wright slammed into the machine from behind and sent it sprawling. Released from its grasp, an enfeebled Connor collapsed to the ground.

Righting itself, the Terminator whirled on its unexpected assailant. Sensors probed, circuits evaluated. After a moment, it turned silently back to the helpless human.

It managed only a single step before Wright, head lowered, let out a howl of defiance and barreled into it again, sending the two of them smashing through a wall.

Wracked with pain, Connor could only look on in amazement. It struck him as he watched the battle rage that the newcomer’s cry had been as much mechanical as human.

Reaching out, the Terminator locked its hands on its unexpected assailant. Wright promptly head‑butted the machine, breaking its grip. Advancing, he struck out with a back left elbow, then a right. Swinging his right arm in a sweeping arc he delivered a tremendous blow to the Terminator’s skull. As it staggered he picked it up, spun around and slammed it into the floor, following it down with both body and fist.

They rolled, the Terminator coming out on top. Drawing back a fist, it punched directly downward, as straight and efficient as any pile‑driving machine. Twisting, Wright just avoided the blow, which cracked the floor tiles. Frustrated, the machine lifted him off the ground, swung him around, and repeatedly rammed him into a standing I‑beam.

Counter to programming, the target refused to shut down.

A metal fist pounded Wright’s chest, followed by a concrete block that shattered against skin and metal. A final blow sent him flying backward. Striking the I‑beam one last time, Wright crumpled to the floor and lay–motionless.

Primary programming reactivated, the Terminator returned its attention to its principal target.

Connor, however, was no longer lying where he had fallen.

Up on the catwalk again, the Resistance leader gazed down to see Wright lying immobile and the T‑800 searching, scanning.

Ducking back out of sight, he spotted the grenade launcher on the floor. Then came a voice, rising above the surrounding din.

“Connor! Connor, quick, help!”

Kyle.

Staggering toward it, he rounded a corner.

The Terminator was waiting for him.

“Connor,” it said one more time, in perfect imitation of Kyle.

Staggering backward, Connor drew his sidearm and fired again. The heavy slugs had the same minimal effect on the killing machine as they had before.

This time, he didn’t wait to be thrown. Having backed up to the point where he was closest to the launcher, he turned and went over the edge, continuing to fire up at his metal tormentor as he did so. Following, the Terminator was close behind.

Rolling as he hit, Connor grabbed up the launcher and backpedaled. He took careful aim at the oncoming machine. But he didn’t fire at it.

As soon as the Terminator was in position, Connor whirled and let loose with the last grenade at the finishing furnace. As he threw himself backward, the explosion sent a gush of molten metal spewing onto the Terminator below. Awash in fiery, glowing metal it maintained its steady advance.

Which was when Connor took his pistol and blasted away at the cooling pipe running across the room directly overhead.

Gushing outward and flooding the room, the indust‑rial coolant contacted the layer of molten metal dripping off the Terminator. Lock‑up was instantaneous. As the metal casing solidified around it, the machine slowed, kept coming, slowed. Reaching out, an arm extended toward Connor. Open fingers extended to grab hold and–stopped. One made contact, lightly, with Connor’s left cheek.

“Do it, you son of a bitch!”

Functioning but unable to move its limbs, the Terminator stared at him.

Wiggling clear, Connor edged around the frozen machine and stumbled toward the inert body of Marcus Wright. Searching the walls, he found a panel, opened it, and tore live cables free from their connections without a thought for his own safety. Sparks jumped. More flew as he jammed the open leads against Wright’s body.

“Come on! Move!”

Intent on Wright, he did not see the Terminator move behind him. Did not hear the slight cracking noise as frozen metal flaked free from its arms, its torso, its legs.

Absorbing the fury of the cables, Wright’s body jerked once, twice. Connor opened his mouth to offer further encouragement–but nothing came out. Staring blankly, he slowly lowered his gaze. A metal bar was protruding from the lower portion of his chest.

Eyes flashing open, Wright grabbed the bar and rolled. Standing above Connor, he pulled the bar free, turned, and as the machine charged, drove it forcefully into the Terminator’s neck. Grimacing into the staring red eyes, he twisted the bar sharply.

A metallic squeal came from the Terminator’s head as it flew off. It bounced a couple of times before coming to rest against a far wall. For the first time, its eyes were blank.

Picking up the severely injured Connor and placing him over his right shoulder, Wright headed for the nearest exit.

Appearing out of the darkness outside the processing plant, a pair of T‑600s began firing into the throng. Screaming, the freed prisoners tried to scatter. Then one of the machines came apart, shredded by heavy‑caliber machinegun fire. Its companion was decapitated as a flurry of heavy shells tore into its upper body.

The spotlight from the helicopter played over the crowd as the chopper set down. Flanked by Barnes and a small but determined clutch of soldiers, Kate Connor stepped out onto the surface of Skynet Central.

Using the cover provided by surviving Resistance aircraft, they had managed to make their way into the compound by flying low and fast.

Running to a downed prisoner, Kate bent over the woman.

“Can you hear me?” Lifting her head, she yelled back in the direction of the chopper she had just exited. “Chris, Chris! She’s hypovolemic. Start a line.”

Rising, she found her attention drawn to nearby conversation. Confronting an attentive Barnes, an anxious young man holding the hand of a small girl was gesturing frantically in the direction of a blazing building.

“John Connor’s in there! John Connor’s in there!”

Hearing his words, Kate rushed over to join them, her attention shifting between the youth and the sergeant. She cried out.

“Barnes, Barnes! Find him!”

“I will.”

It was not necessary for her to ask. It was what they had come for.

The sergeant checked the tracker he was carrying. Linked electronically to the one Connor had used to find Kyle Reese, it had enabled the chopper to get the rescue party this close. From here they would have to proceed on foot, to try and extricate Kate’s husband. Commandeering two of the soldiers who had piled out of the helicopter behind him, Barnes led them off into the darkness.

Finding herself alone with the two children, Kate shepherded them toward the waiting helicopter.

“Who are you?”

“Kyle Reese.”

She stared at him, then led them on board.

“Come on. Are you injured?”

“I’m okay.” Reese smiled at her–but then his attention was back on the factory he and the little girl had just fled.

Kate’s spirits remained down until Barnes and Marcus Wright appeared. Between them they were supporting a bruised and badly injured figure. The man’s wounds were disfiguring, but through all the blood and bruising she still had no difficulty recognizing her husband.

“John!”

They laid him out gently in the back of the helicopter. As her eyes traveled over the length of his battered, tormented body she gradually realized the full extent of his wounds.

“John!”

He didn’t respond. She told herself that his injuries, while severe, were not life‑threatening. They couldn’t be. She would save him. She had to save him.

Barnes was hovering nearby, dividing his attention between the domestic drama immediately in front of him and the crowd of prisoners who continued to mill about on the outskirts of the factory. Those who had started to run, to try and hide themselves in the far reaches of Skynet Central, were now returning, drawn back by the sound and light of the idling chopper.

“How the hell are we going to get all of these people out of here?”

A voice sounded from inside the helicopter. It was weak, but still commanding.

“Transporter,” Connor gasped. “There are some parked between here and the bridge. I hacked the nearest one. Overrode the receive and command component.” He fumbled at a pants pocket. “Here–bypass unit....”

Stepping toward him, Barnes took the compact device. Their hands made contact, just for an instant. The sergeant smiled down at the Resistance leader.

“I’ll do it. You hang in there, Connor.”

The man on the floor tried to nod, could not, and managed only the faintest of smiles.

Turning away from him, Barnes gestured to the remaining soldiers. Following the sergeant out of the helicopter, they raced toward the nearby field where the motionless Transporters were parked. Finding the one Connor had indicated Barnes saw right away that it was big enough to do the job. He only hoped it held enough fuel. As he entered the unsealed craft and made his way toward the control pod, his men began to organize the survivors and lead them to the waiting craft.

Back in the chopper, Kate Connor yelled forward. Up in the cockpit, Blair Williams nodded understanding and turned her full attention to the controls. Overhead, the whine of the engine rose. Then it began to spit. A hissing sound made itself heard above, over the noise of the fleeing crowd.

Williams uttered a curse, added more loudly, “Something’s wrong with the turbine!”

Leaning out the open side of the aircraft, Wright peered upward. Spraying from a stray bullet hole, hot fuel was running down the side of the helicopter, sizzling as it struck the metal. Some of it hit him in the face. Casually, he wiped it away, along with part of his cheek. Reaching up, he deliberately slapped a hand down over the puncture. Steam rose around the edges of his fingers.

“Try it now,” he suggested calmly.

Williams complied. The turbine hesitated, coughed, and began to spool up. Rotors began to turn, accelerated, picking up speed.

In the back, Connor continued to flit in and out of consciousness.

“Charges,” he mumbled. “We set charges. But the detonator–there was a fight. Leave me here. Need to find it, set it off–after you’re out of range.”

Screams sounded from outside. Something massive and monstrous was coming toward them out of the night. Single‑minded as it advanced on the chopper, the Harvester ignored the remainder of the crowd that was piling into the waiting Transporter.

Leaning out of the opening, one hand still clamped righteously over the hole that was leaking fuel, Wright reached across the gap with his free hand. Exhibiting strength prodigious even for him, he hoisted up the door gun in his other arm and took aim at the approaching machine. Finding the trigger, he let loose a mad barrage of shells. Tearing into the oncoming Harvester, they shredded section after section, until one shell finally struck something volatile.

The big machine whoomed skyward, bits and pieces of it raining down on the remaining survivors.

Parts of it landed on the factory. Hissing and sparking, they also struck the ground in the vicinity of the legless but indomitable Terminator that had just crawled clear of the building. Searching its surroundings, its crimson gaze settled on a nearby helicopter. Dragging itself along the ground, it started determinedly toward the idling aircraft. But the chopper was already lifting off, rising above the devastation beneath it, leaving only destruction, flames, and a single pair of hate‑filled red eyes in its wake.

Behind it, a deeper rumble filled the night air as the Transporter, now packed with men, women, and child‑ren who had once given themselves up for dead, lifted off, banked sharply to the north, and began to accelerate in the direction of Mount Tamalpais.

Inside the chopper, Kate Connor leaned toward her husband.

“The others–the rest of the survivors–they’re on their way.” Reaching down, she wrapped the fingers of both hands tenderly around his. He nodded slowly to show that he understood.

“But the charges–have to go back–find the....”

He broke off as his gaze fastened on a small shape hovering nearby. Star moved closer. Silently, she unfolded her closed hand, the fingers opening like the petals of a flower. Still intact and full of quiet promise, the detonator lay exposed in the center of her tiny palm. As their eyes met, her lips trembled with the effort of trying to speak.

Fighting through horror, she formed words. Two.

“End this.”

Connor nodded. Gently, he took the detonator. Then he rolled his head to one side so he could see out the open side of the chopper. After everything that had happened, after all that had transpired, he did not want to miss the fireworks.

He squeezed the trigger.

In order for any designated Terminator to operate and carry out its programmed functions, an enormous amount of energy had to be packed into the small, portable container that powered it. Thousands of such containers lay stacked in a secure corner of the main Terminator factory below. When the C‑4 cord that had been wrapped around them detonated, so did they.

This in turn set off a great many unstable substances that were also stored within the factory. When the factory went up, in a blast sufficiently wide, deep, and loud enough to satisfy the most vengeful Resistance fighter, this in turn touched off similar explosions in every facility nearby.

By the time the chopper was well on its way across the bay, a good deal of machine‑transformed San Francisco was blowing itself skyward in a series of sequential eruptions that were little short of volcanic. The moonlight that glistened on the placid water below was in complete and peaceful contrast to the cataclysm that was ripping apart the land falling steadily farther behind them.

One hand still clamped over the fuel leak, Wright hung half in and half out of the chopper. He did not mind the wind that whipped at what remained of his face and hair. Despite his awkward position he could clearly see those who were safely inside the helicopter.

Lying on its floor near the back, Connor–badly damaged but still alive. His wife tending to him with a mixture of professionalism and affection. Kyle Reese, tougher than he knew. The little girl Star, silent but aware.

Reaching into the chopper, the moonlight softened and seemed to heal all of them, rendering Kate Connor’s face angelic instead of just determined, making Reese look as young as he actually was, glinting redly off one of Star’s eyes....

Wright blinked. The glint was gone. As if it had never been.

It was nothing at all, he told himself with assurance. There had been nothing there, nothing to see. The briefest of flickers of moonlight on cornea. Nothing more than a second of reflection, singular twinkle.

Or a singularity.

The disparate collection of fighting aircraft, from helicopters to converted civilian planes to A‑10s, sat in the broiling sun of the desert dawn like so many shiny carapaced insects waiting for the rising heat to bring them back to life. That would eventually be done not by the sun but by the exhausted yet triumphant crews scattered nearby. Tired as they were, they did their best to offer succor and reassurance to the prisoners they had just rescued from Skynet.

Considerably less joy was present in the wind‑stirred tent that had been set up nearby. Inside, the leaders of the attack on San Francisco stood in silence. Their attention was focused not on the victory they had just won, but on a single figure lying at the center.

The great spark of life and defiance that was John Connor was slowly but inexorably fading away.

Struggling to sustain the life of the prone human to which it was attached, a portable heart‑lung machine muttered softly. It made more noise than any of the somber onlookers. Connor’s wife held his arm–gently, reassuringly, but without hope. Certainly less than her husband evinced. He managed a feeble smile.

“Don’t worry, Kate. See you later....”

She nodded, then rose to confront the others. The words she spoke were her responsibility to them.

The tears in her eyes, however, belonged to her alone.

“He’s dying.”

Hat dangling from one hand, Barnes kept his voice low.

“How long?”

She tried to shrug but was unable to lift her shoulder.

“Any moment. His heart can’t take it.” Her eyes meet the sergeant’s, and she continued. “The Terminators have beat him up and history has worn him down.”

Barnes tried to think of something to say. Of the right thing to say.

“It’s going to be okay.”

The smallest figure in the tent moved forward to take the hand of the most complex. Star’s small soft fingers slipped into those of Marcus Wright, and she felt the warmth of his response through the cool metal. From the cot, Connor looked toward Kyle Reese, then to his jacket. Interpreting the glance correctly, Wright picked up the jacket and handed it to the younger man.

“Kyle,” Connor croaked, “take it. You’ve earned it.”

Nodding, the teen accepted the jacket. As he stepped back he saw that Star was holding Wright’s hand. Marcus eyed him evenly.

“Remember the difference.”

Remember the....? What was Wright talking about? As he pondered the cryptic command Wright gently eased the little girl toward her original protector. Kyle took her hand as the bigger man moved back.

“Kate. Take mine....”

John Connor looked at him, visibly uncertain. Only one person in the tent was certain of what the big man’s words implied. Blair came up to him without hesitation. There were tears in her eyes and when she spoke, her voice cracked.

“Marcus....”

He gazed down at the woman who had saved him, who had made the great, grand difference in his recent existence.

“Everyone deserves a second chance. This is mine.”

Smiling, she stood tall and regardless of what anyone in the tent might think, kissed him affectionately.

“Thank you.”

He eyed her a moment longer, out of eyes that had already seen too much. Then he turned away and began to strip off his shirt....

Wright and Connor lay side by side on tables in the portable operating theater. Two warriors: one dying and the other–the other....

No words passed between them. None were needed. Knowing looks, a respectful nod, were enough for these two. Prepped for surgery, Kate Connor moved first to the side of Marcus Wright.

A host of conflicting emotions raced through her as she stared down at the powerful, silent, strangely calm figure. She had been wrong about him, all wrong, and now it was too late. She might have said something, but she couldn’t find appropriate words. Not for the sacrifice he was about to make. A surge of compassion rose within her.

She made herself force it down. Deeply as she might want to express it, there was no time for that now. All she could do was what she had been trained to do.

The syringe she wielded was substantial. It had to be....

A single slab of smooth river rock constituted the tombstone that stood at the head of the grave site. Despite the heat, the young man patting down the last shovelfulls of dry earth wore a heavy jacket. Sweat streamed down his face but neither the heat nor the dripping perspiration dissuaded him from his work. He had carved the obituary on the stone himself, with his own knife.

MARCUS WRIGHT

A GOOD MAN

A short epitath, he knew, but no better one could have been composed.

Taking a break before placing the last spadeful of dirt, he dug into one of the jacket’s pockets for the handkerchief that rested there. Deeper, his fingers encountered something less flexible, less soft. Brow furrowing, he pulled out the old photograph. It showed a single woman, attractive but stolid, her expression resigned. It was just a picture, nothing more than a photograph–but the eyes of the woman he was staring at seemed to burn into his soul. A tremor ran through him. He was not looking at an old picture–he was gazing at his destiny.

The woman in the picture was Sarah Connor.

More than a little to everyone’s surprise, including that of Kate Connor, the transplant not only took but held. But then, John Connor had always been just a little stronger, just a little tougher, just a bit more resilient than any other human she had ever met.

Face sutured, chest swathed in heavy gauze, he stood outside the chopper and regarded the surviving core of the Resistance. He was not the only survivor. And, he knew in his heart as well as in his mind, there would be more. Many more.

Would there be enough? Only time would tell.

“ Move out. ” The order rang out crisp and clear in the desert air of evening.

One by one the surviving functional aircraft lifting into the sky and headed off into the sunset, leaving behind only the usual detritus typical of temporary human occupation, regrets, and the single grave of a human being....