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.
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