by Timothy Zahn
“Look out—there’s another one!” someone shouted.
Barnes glanced down at the minigun’s ammo belt. There were only about thirty rounds remaining, about half a second at full auto. Best to save those until the machine was closer. He dropped into a crouch and lowered the big gun to the ground.
And as he did so, a burst of gunfire from his left burned through the air above him.
He twisted his head to look in that direction, swinging his shoulder-slung SIG 542 into firing position. A third T-700 had appeared from the trees, this one fifty meters south, also moving along the riverbank toward the ford.
But unlike the one coming down from the north, this Terminator was ready for battle. Its G11 submachinegun was pointed and ready, its metal skull swinging back and forth as its glowing eyes tracked the human defenders scrambling madly for cover.
Sinking a little deeper into his crouch, Barnes swiveled as far around as he could at hips and waist and fired off a three-round burst from the 542. At this range the shots did little but stagger the Terminator back, but it was enough to give the rest of the men time to get to cover.
“Never mind the one to the north,” someone shouted over the renewed gunfire. “The south one. Focus your fire on the south one.”
As if to underline the urgency of the order, the southernmost of the two T-700s fired again, this burst digging gouges into the side of a wide tree two of the riflemen were huddled behind. Barnes sent another burst bouncing off the Terminator’s torso, then checked the T-700 coming from the north. Its gun hand was still hanging at its side as it strode toward the ford, with no indication that it was preparing to open fire.
That would change soon enough, Barnes knew. But for the moment, whoever had called out that order had the situation properly nailed. The second Terminator was the one doing all the shooting, so that was the one they needed to deal with.
From Barnes’s left came a familiar thunderclap as Williams opened fire with her Desert Eagle.
“I need to get closer,” she shouted to Barnes as her shot staggered the Terminator back. “Cover me?”
Barnes gave a curt nod.
“Go.”
He flicked his rifle’s selector to single-shot as Williams ducked around behind Preston and his men and sprinted in a broken-field charge for the river. Deliberately, methodically, he pumped slug after slug into the T-700, spacing his shots so as to conserve ammo while still keeping the Terminator off balance and unable to get a clear shoot at the woman running toward it. A few of the other men, Preston among them, caught onto the plan and added their fire to Barnes’s, their shots alternating with his.
Ten seconds later, Williams reached the river, her Desert Eagle now holstered and the Mossberg shotgun unslung and clutched in front of her. She was just closing the weapon’s action, which told Barnes that she’d exchanged the shotgun round that had already been in place for one of the solid slugs from her ammo pack. The machine turned its G11 toward her, its burst going over her head as she threw herself into a feet-first baserunner slide that carried her to the very edge of the riverbank. The Terminator fired again, this burst also going wide as Barnes and Preston simultaneously hammered it.
And as the machine once again staggered back, Williams’s slug blasted at point-blank range into its gun.
Terminators were made of incredibly strong, incredibly hard alloy. The G11s, on the other hand, were not only not as strong, but also had a couple of critical weak points. The gun’s receiver was one such weakness, a spot where a heavy rifle or shotgun slug could jam the action and possibly ignite the chambered round. The magazine with the exposed explosive of its caseless rounds was another.
And if you were really, really lucky, those two weaknesses intersected. Williams’s round slammed into the gun—
And suddenly the entire magazine went up in a sputtering, multiple flash as the close-packed ammo blew up, each round triggering the one next to it. The T-700 staggered back as the exploding rounds lit up its torso.
“Look out—here it comes!” someone shouted.
Barnes looked away from the sputtering fireworks display. The northern T-700, the one that the earlier voice had ordered everyone to ignore, had reached the ford and started across the river. Cursing, Barnes swung his rifle around toward it.
“Don’t shoot!” the same voice called again. “It’s not after us. Don’t shoot!”
Barnes frowned. Ridiculous. The thing wading through the whitewater toward them was a Terminator. Terminators were always after humans. That was what they did. That was what they were.
But the machine’s gun hand was still at its side, its head and eyes angled to the north instead of toward the small group of humans standing against it. From all appearances, it really did look like it was ignoring them.
“Don’t shoot!” the voice called again.
Barnes swore again, shifting his grip on his rifle. Appearances or not, he didn’t trust the damn machine farther than he could spit at it. He would hold onto his ammo for now, but the instant the T-700 stopped pretending and launched its attack he would make damn sure he was ready to blow its head off.
He was still crouching in the grass and dead leaves, waiting for that moment, when the Terminator finished crossing the river, turned north, and headed off again along the riverbank.
Barnes watched its back as it strode stolidly along, an eerie sense of unreality creeping across his skin, until it disappeared among the trees.
A movement caught the corner of his eye, and he looked across the river to see the other T-700 stride past the ford and continue north on the opposite bank. Its gun, he noted, was lying in a tangle of twisted metal on the ground behind it. Its right hand, which had taken the brunt of the multiple explosions, was in impressively bad shape, too.
The Terminator disappeared into the trees and bushes. Slowly, Barnes got to his feet, his 542 still pointed at the spot where the machine had vanished.
“What the hell?” he muttered under his breath.
“Agreed,” Preston said as he came up beside Barnes, sounding as disbelieving as Barnes felt. “I thought Terminators killed everyone they met.”
“That’s because you don’t understand Terminators.”
Barnes turned around. Shouting and speaking voices were sometimes very different, but he knew instantly that the man emerging cautiously from behind a tree was the one who’d been directing their fire. Or rather, their lack of fire.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Remy Lajard,” the man replied, eyeing Barnes warily. “The question is, who are you?”
“His name’s Barnes,” Preston said. “The woman over there is Blair. They say they’re with the Resistance. What exactly is it I don’t understand about Terminators?”
“The fact that most of them are programmed for specific jobs,” Lajard said. His face and clothes were as rough and rustic as everyone else’s, but something about his tone reminded Barnes of a couple of his more annoying teachers back in pre-Judgment Day school. “It was clear that these two—these three, actually, counting the one Barnes destroyed—have a more important assignment than shooting back at people who are attacking them.”
“Maybe it’s clear now,” another man put in. This one seemed even scruffier than the rest of the group, as if looking like a mountain hermit was a badge of pride for him. “It sure as hell wasn’t clear when we first started shooting.”
“And as I tried to tell you at the time, Halverson, it wasn’t coming for us,” Lajard said. “It was clearly just trying to get across the river.”
“Clear to whom?” Williams asked as she came up to the rest of the group.
“Clear to anyone who was paying attention,” Lajard said, starting to sound annoyed. “You saw it yourself in that second T-700. Its gun hand was down, and it was looking at the riverbank, not us, as it crossed. It was obviously evaluating footing and route.”
“So what happened with the other one?” Barnes asked, jerking his head toward the spot
where Williams had blown away the T-700’s gun. “Didn’t it get the message? It sure as hell was shooting at us.”
“It was just giving the other one cover fire,” Lajard retorted. “After you destroyed the first one, it needed to draw your attention long enough for its companion to get across.” He snorted. “You really think it would have missed everyone if it had actually been trying to kill us? You may not have seen what a G11’s caseless ammo can do—”
“Yeah, we’ve seen it plenty,” Barnes cut him off. “Fine, so it missed everyone. Why?”
“I just told you—”
“I think he means that if it was going to shoot to distract us anyway, why not shoot to kill?” Williams put in.
“And while you’re at it, why were you so hot on us not destroying them before they got away?” Barnes added.
Lajard took a deep breath.
“For the first,” he ground out, “I already said they’re obviously on some important mission, and Skynet is smart enough not to simply waste ammunition. As for the second, see part two of my answer to question one.”
“Oh, I see,” Williams said, an edge to her voice. “You just didn’t want us wasting ammo. Even though they were right there, in the open, where we could get them.”
“You shoot every bear you run across, whether it’s attacking you or not?” Lajard countered. “You’ll probably never even see those particular Terminators again.”
“Or we might,” Barnes said.
Lajard rolled his eyes. “If that happens, and if they shoot at you, you have my permission to blow them to scrap,” he said condescendingly. “Happy now?”
Barnes looked at Williams, caught the sour twist of her lip. Unfortunately, the man had a point. Several points, actually.
“So what kind of special mission could they be on?”
Lajard shook his head. “Haven’t a clue,” he conceded. “I don’t even know what a group of Terminators would want out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Actually, Oxley and I were talking about that last night,” Preston said. “We were wondering if they might be after someone.”
“You mean someone like them?” Lajard asked, pointing at Barnes.
Barnes tightened his grip on his rifle. But Preston shook his head.
“Seems unlikely,” he said. “At least one of the T-700s was already in position by the ford last night, long before Barnes and Blair showed up.” He frowned suddenly at Barnes. “Unless there’s some reason Skynet might have known you were coming?”
“Not really,” Barnes said, throwing a quick warning glance at Williams. His original plan, once the Terminators had been dealt with, had been to ask Preston if he knew about any underground cables passing through or near the town.
Now, though, he was starting to think that might not be such a good idea. Hopefully, Williams would take the hint and keep her own mouth shut.
She did. Her forehead wrinkled briefly, but she kept quiet.
“Besides, their positioning clearly shows they were expecting their quarry to come from that side of the river,” Preston continued. “No idea who it might be, though.”
Halverson grunted. “Maybe they’ve taken over Buzby Jenkins’s old property,” he muttered. “Probably just don’t want us hunting on that side of the river.”
“Then why did they head upriver away from the ford just now?” Lajard asked. “Come on, Halverson—if you can’t be logical, at least try to be consistent.”
Halverson’s face darkened. “Look, professor—”
“I have a question,” Williams spoke up quickly. “Do you get a lot of Terminators out here?”
“I just said we didn’t,” Lajard said testily.
“Then how come you know so much about them?”
Barnes looked back at Lajard. That was a damn good question.
“Well?” he prompted.
Lajard’s lip twitched, some of his arrogance melting away.
“I have a certain familiarity with them,” he said evasively. “It comes of having—”
“It comes of him having worked for Skynet since Judgment Day,” Halverson said. “Just say it, Lajard.”
Barnes felt his face go rigid.
“You what?”
“It wasn’t all the time since Judgment Day,” Lajard said hastily, flinching back from Barnes’s glare. “And it wasn’t like I had a choice, either. None of us did.”
“None of us?” Barnes echoed. “How the hell many of you were there?”
Lajard sighed. “About a hundred in all,” he said. “If it makes you feel any better, I think the three of us were the only ones who made it out before the attack.”
“Out of where?” Barnes persisted. “Where were you? San Francisco?”
Lajard shook his head. “No, we were in the big research center in the desert southeast of here.”
Barnes felt his eyes narrow.
“Not a chance,” he said flatly. “No one made it out of there alive. Connor said so.”
It was Preston’s turn for widened eyes.
“That was Connor’s group that blew up the lab?”
“Connor’s group attacked it,” Barnes said. “Skynet blew it up.” His eyes flicked across the other men and women grouped silently around them. “You said there were three of you. Who are the other two?”
There was a brief pause.
“I’m one of them,” a woman’s voice came from behind him.
Barnes turned. It was Susan Valentine, the woman who’d been on backstop duty when Preston’s kid had tried to get the drop on him and Williams.
“Who else?”
“Nate Oxley’s the third,” Preston said. “And Lajard’s right. The people who were working there didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Barnes growled.
“Right—we could have let the Terminators kill us,” Lajard retorted.
Barnes shrugged. “Like I said. There’s always a choice.”
“Look—”
“How about we hear the whole story?” Williams suggested. Her voice was carefully neutral, Barnes noted, but he could see his same suspicions lurking behind her eyes.
Because people under Skynet’s control didn’t walk away from that. They just didn’t.
“Certainly,” Preston agreed. “But we’ll have to go back to town if you want all three of them—Oxley’s helping Doc Meade set up an emergency trauma center.” He looked at the pile of broken Terminator pieces still visible above the river water. “In case we needed it.”
“Yeah, well, we still might,” Halverson growled. “Somebody needs to stay here and guard the ford. And we ought to track those Terminators, too, and figure out where they’re going.” He looked pointedly at Lajard. “You know. In case they decide to come back.”
“I was just going to suggest that,” Preston agreed. “Chris, Pepper, you two stay here. Trounce—”
“Trounce, you stay here with Chris and Pepper,” Halverson interrupted. “Ned, Singer—you two are on chaser duty. Find the machine that’s on this side of the river and keep it in sight.”
“But don’t get too close,” Lajard added. “And don’t shoot at it.”
“Not unless it shoots first,” one of the men said grimly. Hefting his rifle, he headed off along the riverbank, another man following close behind.
Barnes looked back at Preston. There was a fresh tightness at the edges of the man’s mouth as he watched the two men disappear into the woods. But he merely turned back to Barnes and gestured.
“Shall we?” he invited. Without waiting for a reply, he started back down the trail toward town, his daughter Hope beside him.
Picking up his minigun, Barnes dropped into step behind them. The rest of the crowd shambled their way into the procession behind him.
He’d made it out of sight of the river when Williams wandered casually up alongside him.
“What do you think?” she murmured.
“I don’t know,” Barnes muttered back. “But I don’t lik
e it.”
“Me, neither,” Williams agreed. “I’ve never seen a machine deliberately shoot to miss.”
“Or just walk off when one of its buddies gets its gun and half its hand blown off.”
“Or leave any wreckage behind,” Williams added. “Especially with so many of them lying around in pieces in San Francisco.” She hissed between her teeth. “What the hell have we gotten ourselves into here?”
“Damn good question,” Barnes agreed. “Let’s see if Preston can give us a damn good answer to go with it.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There was a long line of people waiting at the mess tent when Kyle and Star arrived for breakfast a little after dawn. Most of them were members of the Resistance, men and women Kyle had already met or at least recognized.
But a number of them were strangers, more of the seemingly endless supply of tired and hungry civilians who’d been cautiously emerging from the hills and woods around San Francisco ever since Connor and the others had set up their temporary camp here.
They reminded Kyle of the people he’d left behind in Los Angeles. People who’d been there, just like they were here, mainly because there was nowhere else to go.
He could feel their eyes on him as he and Star walked past to the front of the line. He didn’t like doing that, but he didn’t really have a choice. Vincennes and some of the other men and women were already seated at one of the tables, and they were watching him and Star. Vincennes had made it clear that Resistance people on duty had first claim to whatever food was available.
Fortunately, none of the civilians said anything. Maybe they knew the rule, too.
Still, orders or not, Kyle could see that the mess servers were doing their best to stretch their supplies as much as possible. The small tin dishes they handed him and Star were less than a third full.
Which was all right with Kyle. He could still feel the civilians’ eyes on him, and he was willing to make do with a little less.
