by Timothy Zahn
“Or maybe they haven’t,” Susan ground out.
“I’m going to check it out,” Hope said firmly. “I want you to head back to town and alert my father.”
Susan’s eyes narrowed.
“Why? Because I don’t know what I’m doing?”
Hope reached down and squeezed her hand.
“Because I don’t want you to get hurt,” she said gently. “You’re important to the town. We need you.”
“No, you need me, and you need me right here,” Susan said firmly. “And anyway your father must have heard that thing go roaring past.” She gestured. “Show me where you want me.”
Five minutes later, they were in position. Hope had found a clump of bushes about ten feet back from the barely visible trail that led from Violet Glen to town. Susan was behind a tree and another group of bushes another ten feet back on the opposite side of the trail.
They were barely in time. Hope had just pulled an arrow from her quiver when she heard someone approaching. Nocking the arrow to the string, she drew about a third back and mentally prepared herself.
Her dad hadn’t wanted to let her see what happened if she put a broadhead into the back of a Terminator’s head.
Maybe she was going to find out anyway.
It was with a sense of relief, though oddly also with a slight sense of disappointment, that she watched a pair of humans stride into sight. The man was big and black, his face dominated by a fringe of beard and a scowl, the rest of his body dominated by a holstered pistol, two shoulder-slung long guns, and an awesomely scary-looking multi-barreled weapon clutched in his arms. The woman behind him was slimmer and less heavily armed, but no less wary and competent looking.
And both of them were wearing red Resistance armbands.
Or at least, they looked like Resistance armbands.
Hope frowned, shifting her attention back to the big gun. She’d heard Susan, Oxley, and Lajard talk about the weapons and equipment carried by the various types of Terminators. That gun with its long ammo belt draped over the man’s shoulders looked an awful lot like the way they’d described T-600 miniguns.
She chewed at her lip, suddenly unsure what she should do. If that was a Terminator weapon, then maybe the man and woman weren’t Resistance at all. Maybe they were Skynet agents, here to provide support to the T-700 by the river. The T-700 that her father and the others were closing in on at this very moment.
Or maybe the gun looked like a Terminator weapon but wasn’t.
Unfortunately, the only person nearby she could ask was hiding behind a tree twenty feet away. Maybe the smart thing to do would be to just let the strangers pass unchallenged, then go grab Susan and find out for sure about the gun.
The woman caught up to the man, who had slowed almost to a halt, and Hope saw his lips move as he said something. The woman nodded, and together they started up again.
Only to Hope’s horror, the man was now angling off the path.
Heading straight toward her.
She caught her breath. Had he decided to take a different route across this part of the forest? Had he somehow spotted her back here?
No, she realized suddenly. He hadn’t spotted her. He’d spotted the arrow.
Her eyes flicked downward to the broadhead, the taste of panic bubbling up into her throat as she saw, too late, the terrible mistake she’d made. Automatically, as she always did when stalking game, she’d eased the tip of the arrow out through the bushes so that it wouldn’t get tangled or deflected when she shot.
It never mattered if a deer saw it. Deer couldn’t recognize an arrow as a threat. But human beings could.
What should she do? Try to pull the arrow back out of sight, on the slim chance that he hadn’t yet spotted it? But if he hadn’t seen it, any movement now would draw his attention to her in double-quick time.
Should she abandon her position and try to get away? Out of the question. There wasn’t enough nearby cover to lose herself in, and she could hardly outrun a bullet.
Should she simply shoot him? Completely and utterly out of the question.
He was still coming toward her. With the suddenness of desperation Hope made up her mind. The gun in his arms was currently pointed up, toward the sky. The second he started swinging it down toward her, or shifted it to one hand and made a grab for one of his other guns, she would shoot the arrow into his hand from her current one-third pull. It wouldn’t be going fast enough or hard enough to seriously injure him, but it should be enough to warn him off. By the time he recovered enough to respond, she would hopefully have another arrow nocked and ready.
Almost here. She braced herself, fighting the panicky urge to draw her bowstring all the way back. She wanted to warn him off, not kill him.
She was still watching the gun, waiting for the muzzle to drop toward her, when the man let go of the weapon with his left hand, snapped out his arm like a striking rattlesnake, and grabbed her arrow just behind the arrowhead. Before Hope could even gasp, he turned at the waist and let the big gun swivel and fall onto the top of the bush directly in front of her, crushing down the foliage in a flurry of snapping branches and crunching leaves. Hope flinched back, reflexively blinking as a branch swept past her face.
When she opened her eyes again, her cover was completely gone, the man was looming over her with her arrow in his hand, and his drawn pistol was pointed directly into her face.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Hope opened her mouth, but her vocal cords seemed suddenly paralyzed.
“Come on—talk,” he snarled, twitching the gun for emphasis.
“Back off!” Susan’s voice snapped.
Hope turned her head. Susan had emerged from behind her tree and was standing with her bowstring drawn back to her ear, a broadhead arrow glinting in the early-morning light.
“You hear me? I said back off.”
The man didn’t move, but in the sudden brittle silence Hope heard the soft slipping sound of metal on leather as the other woman snatched her own gun from its holster and pointed it at Susan.
And finally, Hope found her voice.
“No—don’t shoot,” she called, her voice trembling embarrassingly. “Anyone. Please.”
For a pair of thudding heartbeats no one moved or spoke. Then the woman stirred.
“Barnes?” she asked.
“She’s just a kid,” the man said, his voice still growly but maybe a little less brusque. “Yours?”
“Amateur,” the woman said.
“Hey!” Susan said, sounding offended.
“It’s all right, Susan,” Hope called. “Put the bow down. Please.”
“You heard her, Susan,” the woman seconded. “No one has to get hurt here.”
Hope looked over at Susan. The older woman’s lips were compressed into a tight line, but she nevertheless lowered the arrow to point at the ground and eased the bowstring back to unpulled position.
“Don’t shoot her,” she said, nodding toward Hope.
“No one’s shooting anyone,” the man growled, keeping his gun in hand but raising the muzzle to point over Hope’s head. “Not yet, anyway. Let’s try again. Who are you?”
“My name’s Hope Preston,” Hope told him. “That’s Susan Valentine.”
“I’m Blair,” the woman said. She was still holding her gun, but it was also no longer pointing at its original target. “He’s Barnes. Are you two from that village over there?”
“Yes,” Hope said. “Baker’s Hollow. We heard your vehicle, and thought someone should check it out.”
Barnes snorted. “And this is the best reception committee we could get?”
“Hardly,” Hope’s father’s voice came unexpectedly from the direction of town. “Both of you, drop your weapons. Now.”
“Dad, it’s all right,” Hope spoke up hastily. “We’re okay. They haven’t hurt us.”
“Good for them,” Preston said grimly. “They can put their guns down anyway.”
Hope focused on Barnes. His gun was
still pointed away from her, but he had a look on his face that sent a fresh chill up her back.
“It’s all right,” she told him quietly. “That’s my father. He won’t hurt you. Please—do what he says.”
Barnes hesitated. Then, to Hope’s relief, he lowered his pistol and dropped it back into its holster. Behind him, Blair took the cue and also holstered her gun.
Not exactly what Preston had demanded. But it was close enough.
“Their guns are down,” she called.
There was a soft swishing of bushes, and six men walked cautiously into sight, rifles held ready.
“Hope?” Preston called.
“I’m here,” Hope said, standing up into view. “We’re okay. This is Barnes and Blair.”
Preston gave Hope a quick, measuring look, then turned back to Barnes.
“What are you doing here?”
“We were following—” Blair began.
“We saw your smoke,” Barnes interrupted her. “Thought you might need help.”
“You think we need help, yet you land way over here?”
“We didn’t want to scare you,” Blair said. “I see we didn’t have to worry about that.”
“So who are you?” Preston asked. “Not your names. I mean who are you?”
Hope saw Blair glance at Barnes’s back.
“We’re with the Resistance,” she said, nodding toward her armband.
“Yeah, we’ve heard of you,” Preston said. “You connected with any particular group?”
“You have a radio?” Barnes asked.
“We have a receiver, yes.”
“Then you might have heard our boss,” Barnes said. “We’re with John Connor.”
Hope exhaled in a quiet huff, a shivery thrill running through her. She’d hoped that the visitors would be from the Resistance, but she’d never dared to hope that they’d come from Connor himself.
Her father wasn’t nearly so impressed.
“Really,” he said, his tone neutral. “Can you prove that?”
“Like how?” Barnes countered. “You want a special tattoo or something?”
“I’m wondering about your convenient timing,” Preston said suspiciously. “We get a T-700 knocking on our door, and then suddenly you drop in—”
“There’s a T-700 here?” Barnes cut him off, his eyes darting around. “Where?”
“You claiming you didn’t know anything about that?”
“Damn it, Preston, where?” Barnes snarled.
“It’s by the ford across the Slate River, on the far side of town,” Hope told him hastily. That icy look was in his eye again. “But I don’t think it’s moved since we spotted it.”
“Show us,” Barnes said grimly, reaching down and picking up the big six-barreled gun and hoisting it up into his arms again.
“Hold it,” Preston snapped. “We’re not done here yet.”
“Yes, we are,” Blair said, starting forward again. “Like he said, show us.”
Beside Preston, Half-pint Swan raised his gun. Hope saw his finger start to tighten on the trigger—
Without even looking, Hope’s father tapped the other’s rifle barrel to the side.
“Easy,” he warned. “You too,” he added to Barnes. “We’ve got it under control.”
“With those?” Barnes snorted, nodding at the hunting rifles pointed at him and Blair. “I don’t think so.”
Hope caught her breath. In all the excitement she hadn’t really focused on which men her father had brought here with him. But now that she did—
“Dad, where’s Halverson?” she asked. “Is he still at the river?”
“Yes, along with the rest of the force,” Preston said. “I told them not to do anything until I get back.”
Hope felt her stomach tighten. If Halverson decided to take on the Terminator without her dad and the others, there could be trouble. Big trouble.
“Dad—”
“That’s enough, Hope,” Preston said, his voice quiet but firm. “I can’t be responsible for everything Halverson does. But I am responsible for the town. I can’t just let heavily armed strangers walk in without some idea of who and what they are.”
“So while you’re standing there wondering about us, there’s a machine ready to walk in,” Barnes growled. “Here’s the deal. You got a T-700, you need us. You need this.” He hefted the big gun.
“And your clock is running,” Blair added.
Preston’s eyes flicked to Barnes, to Blair, back to Barnes.
“I’ll lead,” he said, raising the muzzle of his rifle. “You’ll follow me, with Hope and my men behind you. You’ll keep your guns pointed up unless and until I say otherwise. Any action which might be interpreted as aggressive toward us or anyone in town will be dealt with accordingly. Clear?”
“Clear,” Barnes said, heaving his big gun up to rest half over his shoulder and striding toward the others. “How far?”
“To the river?” Preston asked as he waved the rest of the men back and started down the path leading back toward town. “Less than a mile. Let me know if I’m going too fast for you.”
“Don’t worry,” Barnes said. “We’ll keep up.”
CHAPTER TEN
Jik woke to the sound of gunfire.
For a moment he lay still, his hand groping for the Smith & Wesson lying beside his cot, his eyes and brain fogged by too little sleep. The gunfire was distant, probably a mile or two away. Normally, having some distance between you and gunfire was a good thing, and the more distance the better.
Only in this case, it wasn’t. A mile away meant it was coming from the ford over the Slate River.
The Terminators he’d seen heading that direction last night had launched their attack.
And here, a mile away, Jik was completely out of the fight.
He sat up on the cot, wiggling his toes a couple of times inside his boots to get his circulation going, listening closely to the distant cracks. So far all the gunfire seemed to be of the single-shot variety instead of coming in machinegun bursts. That implied that the townspeople were doing most of the shooting, which in turn implied that the machines were low on ammo and had to be careful how they spent it.
It could also mean that the town’s opposition was so weak that the Terminators weren’t even bothering to shoot back. That they were simply killing the people with their bare hands.
Swearing under his breath, Jik squeezed himself through the door. There was no way he could get to the ford in time to help. But maybe there was something he could do from right here.
The Terminators were trying to find him. It was time they succeeded.
The distant gunfire was still going on as he slipped around the final tree and came into sight of the bridge. He’d wondered if the T-700 he’d seen there earlier might have been called to the ford, but Skynet apparently hadn’t seen any need for reinforcements down there. The Terminator was still standing its silent guard, right where Jik had left it.
And then, as Jik hesitated, wondering if this was really the best plan he could come up with, the distant sounds from the ford changed as a new weapon joined in the battle.
Only this one wasn’t any single-shot hunting rifle. It was the terrifying, lethal stutter of a T-600 minigun.
And Jik no longer had a choice. If the Terminators were bringing that kind of firepower to bear, the people standing against them had literally only minutes left to live. Their only chance was for Jik to give the machines a better, more important target.
The secret of man’s being, the old quote ran through his mind, is not only to live but to have something to live for.
Gripping his Smith & Wesson in both hands, he stepped into the T-700’s view.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Over here!”
The machine turned its glowing red eyes toward him.
“Yes, here,” Jik called. “Here I am. Take a good look.”
He raised his gun.
“And get terminated.”
Aiming betwe
en the machine’s eyes, he squeezed the trigger.
* * *
They had just passed through the town, which as far as Barnes could tell consisted entirely of a bunch of ramshackle houses and a couple of larger buildings, when the sound of gunfire erupted from somewhere dead ahead.
Their leader, Hope’s father, was off in an instant, breaking into a sprint with his rifle held high in front of him. Grunting, swearing under his breath, Barnes followed. His legs were already feeling leaden from all the weight he was carrying, and the soft, draggy ground beneath him wasn’t making things any easier. But he’d told Preston he could keep up and he was damned if he would fall behind now.
Three minutes later, they burst through one final barrier of low-hanging branches onto the scene of battle.
Barnes had seen Terminators picking their way through city rubble, striding across empty fields, even climbing up the outsides of shattered walls. But up to now he’d never seen one standing shin-deep in the middle of a narrow river, plumes of whitewater churning around its legs, trying to push forward against the current and the relentless impact of heavy rifle rounds.
Heavy, but not heavy enough. The T-700’s approach was being slowed by the gunfire, but it wasn’t taking much damage. There were some dents in its torso and skull, and its gun arm had been dislocated at the shoulder, but that was about it.
Well, Barnes could do something about that. Braking to a halt, he slid his right foot behind him for stability and dropped the muzzle of his minigun into firing position. Lining up the weapon on the Terminator’s torso, he squeezed the trigger.
The gun thundered to life, pouring out its stream of destruction. Barnes leaned into the recoil, fighting to keep the hail of lead centered on its target.
He probably wasn’t as accurate with the minigun as an actual T-600 would have been. But at this range he was accurate enough. The T-700 staggered back, its arms and legs snapping free of its torso and flying into the churning water, the torso itself denting and then shredding and finally disintegrating under the assault.
And as the machine collapsed into a heap in the roiling water Barnes let up on the trigger.
“Anyone else?” he challenged.
He hadn’t expected a response. He got one anyway. On the far side of the river, thirty meters to the north, a pair of bushes were shoved violently apart to reveal a second T-700. It strode to the riverbank and then turned to its right and started downstream toward the ford.
