He had little time to wonder at his apparent ability to precisely gauge temperature before she brought the blue-white flame close and began working on the steel posts that had been driven through his wrists to secure him to the chain. He couldn’t see her eyes behind the pair of heavy-duty sunglasses she was wearing, but there was no mistaking her familiar grin or the sardonic tone in her voice.
“I’m guessing this doesn’t hurt.”
He wanted the flame—so close to his skin—to burn. He wanted the glowing metal to sting, to send shivers of agony running through his nerves and up his arm and down his spine. But all he felt was a mild warmth. The contradiction between what he was seeing and what he was feeling verged on the otherworldly.
“Guess not,” he muttered.
Cut through, half of the bolt securing one hand fell to the floor, allowing him to shake off the chain. He looked on impassively as she went to work with the cutter on his other hand. Gazing down at the one that was now free, he clearly saw a black streak where the skin had been scorched. It was already starting to heal. He felt nothing.
And not only in his unchained hand.
Connor sat alone in his private quarters listening to his mother.
“...you sent Kyle Reese back to protect me. Together, your father and I terminated the machine that was sent to kill me. In the future, I suspect more machines will arrive. Advanced models in many disguises, with an intellect far superior to that of humans. They’ll use anything in their power to deceive you. Do not trust it, John. Never forget what they are. Machines. They only have one objective: to kill you....”
How many times had he played back her recordings; memorizing every word, drawing on her advice, and learning how best to fight back against the machines. The recordings were a part of him now, just as she would always be a part of him. Despite his age, despite his experience and his maturity, he wished she could be with him. It was not only the knowledge she imparted. He missed her confidence, her assurance that come what may humanity would triumph and Skynet would be defeated.
It was a belief that had been sorely tested lately.
And now this—this thing had appeared in their midst. This insane hybrid of human and machine, insisting even in the face of incontestable evidence to the contrary that it was a man. Clinging resolutely to a claim mocked by its own guts. If it had not been sent to kill him, then what possible purpose could it have?
The more Connor thought about it, the greater his certainty that it needed to be destroyed at the next opportunity. Whatever it thought of itself, it was self-evidently a creature of Skynet. Whatever it might have done for Blair Williams, plainly no further good could come of allowing it to continue to exist. Many capabilities could be ascribed to Skynet, but until the advent of the creature that called itself “Marcus Wright” it had never been credited with subtlety.
It was a dangerous development; one less easily countered with bombs and bullets.
He was still playing the recording when Kate walked in. She listened for a moment, then nodded in the direction of the player.
“Your mother was a strong woman.”
Leaning forward, Connor switched off the recording. It didn’t matter that she had interrupted him. He knew every word by heart anyway.
“There’s nothing there.”
Kate eyed him closely.
“What’s going on inside that head of yours, John Connor?”
He turned to her. “That thing in there, in the security silo. I thought I knew our enemy. But that makes me feel like I know nothing. I looked into its eyes. It absolutely believes everything that it says. It believes it’s human. And it’s telling me Kyle Reese is on his way to Skynet. If that’s true, then Command is about to bomb my family and all the other prisoners into oblivion. And I can’t stop them.”
Even Kate Connor’s normally rock-solid composure could be shaken, as her reaction to her husband’s words showed.
“If your mother was in your position, right here, right now, what do you think she’d do? She’d fight. She’d find a way, John. You’re a Connor. That’s what you do.”
His head dropped and he stared at the floor, clasping his hands together in front of him. He did not sound like the indomitable Resistance fighter John Connor now.
He didn’t have to—not with Kate.
“We’ve made so many decisions that have determined who lived and who didn’t. Watched so many people die.” He raised his eyes to meet hers. “For the first time, I don’t know what to do.
“It’s not just Kyle. I mean that. When this attack goes forward, all the other prisoners are going to die. It’s one thing to die on the battlefield, fighting the machines. But to be trapped in a holding pen or some kind of oversized cage or whatever Skynet is using, without a chance to fight back or escape, just waiting for death....” He stopped, unable to go on.
Silence held sway between them for a while, until she reminded him gently, “None of us gets to choose the manner of our passing, John. Whether by machine or by nature, we exit this plane of existence when a certain confluence of circumstances arrives. Kyle would understand that. I know that you do.”
“I’m not sure what I understand anymore, Kate.” His expression reflected the torment he was feeling. “I spent some time looking at that poor bastard creature we’ve got strung up down there. Despite the incontrovertible evidence, he truly seems convinced he’s human. In reality, he has no idea what he is. Looking at him, listening to him, I realized—I don’t either. I’ve been doing this for so long I’m not sure what I am anymore. I’ve been fighting them for so long that I’ve been reduced to fighting like one of them. Like I’m some kind of machine myself.”
She stared down at him. Sometimes she could find the right words to lift him out of the depression into which he seemed to be lapsing more and more often. This was not one of those times. Only a sharp knock on the door saved both of them from the awkward continuing silence. When her husband failed to respond, she turned to the entryway.
“Yes,” she called out tiredly, “come in.”
Barnes stepped through the door.
“What do you need, Lieutenant?” she said.
Barnes’s gaze flicked to the silent figure of the man sitting on the edge of the bed, then back to the doctor.
“Williams relieved me. She said you needed to talk to....”
Connor did not so much rise as explode off the bed. Any vestiges of melancholy vanished. He was instantly all business again. By the time he reached the door and pushed past the frowning, confused Barnes he had already checked to ensure that his oversized pistol was fully loaded.
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 se
e 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.
&n
bsp; 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.
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