ALSO AVAILABLE
published by ibooks, inc.:
TERMINATOR 2:
THE NEW JOHN CONNOR CHRONICLES
by Russell Blackford
Book 1: Dark Futures
Book 2: An Evil Hour
Book 3: Times of Trouble
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark W. Tiedemann’s love for science fiction and writing started at an early age, although it was momentarily sidetracked—for over twenty years—by his career as a professional photographer. With the publication of “Targets” in the December 1990 issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, he began selling short stories to various markets; his work has since appeared in Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Science Fiction Age, Tomorrow SF, and a number of anthologies. His novel Compass Reach was nominated for the 2001 Philip K. Dick Memorial Award. Tiedemann lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with his companion, Donna.
MARK W. TIEDEMANN
BASED ON THE WORLD CREATED
IN THE MOTION PICTURE WRITTEN BY
JAMES CAMERON AND WILLIAM WISHER
new york
www.ibooksinc.com
An Original Publication of ibooks, inc.
Copyright © 2004 StudioCanal Image S.A.
T2, Terminator, Endoskeleton, and the depiction of the Endoskeleton are Registered Trademarks of StudioCanal Image S.A.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Based on the world created
in the motion picture written
by James Cameron and William Wisher
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Distributed by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ibooks, inc.
th
24 West 25
Street
New York, NY 10010
The ibooks World Wide Web Site Address is:
http://www.ibooksinc.com
ISBN 1-59019-378-4
ONE
The old man opened his eyes to an unfamiliar landscape.
Litter shifted under him as he rolled over. The air smelled of rotting food, cooling asphalt and the fading odor of hot plastic and ozone. The walls between which he stood up showed signs of neglect—stains, old graffiti, windows broken or boarded up.
The light came from a nearly full moon just visible at the edge of the left-hand roof. A chill breeze flowed over him.
Standing, he felt the tension in his arms and legs, the pressure in his lungs, the bruising in his stomach that came from—
From what?
He blinked at the night sky above and stood very still, listening. Wherever he was, he was alone. He heard nothing.
Good. If the transfer had gone wrong, if he had landed in the wrong place, the wrong time, he would not be alone.
He walked toward the end of the gangway and stepped into the open, to stand on broken pavement. Bare feet. He glanced down; he was naked. Curiously, that seemed normal.
No lights came from any of the buildings, none of the street lamps glowed. Only the moon gave any illumination by which he could see details of his surroundings. Nothing to compete with the display overhead. The sky was filled with stars. He could not remember seeing so many—ever.
The sky rarely cleared enough to let even a few show. From 1
TERMINATOR 2
where he had traveled, the normal atmospheric condition was a dense, low-lying layer of dirty cloud: particulates thrown up long ago—
Long ago.
This was—is—long ago, he thought. I’m not where or when I come from…
He lowered his gaze, suddenly very aware that he did not know who he was.
His attention sharpened. The buildings lining the street.
The deserted street—cracked, long unused. No lights anywhere. No sounds…no, not quite. Wind, not much, and…voices?
He increased his audio acuity. Yes, voices. Hushed, intimate… that direction.
He started walking, taking long strides, his feet coming down on shards of glass and gravel without pain, and the weariness seemed to radiate out of him. Strength suffused his limbs, his breathing deepened. He felt powerful. His mind cleared as well. He recognized the nature of his surroundings. Barracks. Abandoned.
He crossed the road, pausing to sift out echoes. That way still. Not far.
He turned down the gangway between two barracks and stopped at the far end. Another row of the utilitarian structures lined the far side of the next roadway. A pale glow filled a window of the third one to his right. He listened to the voices, counting.
“—out back o’ the Shoprite, found a couple cases—”
“—don’t care where you found it—”
“—fine vintage, that, reminds me of my time in New York—”
“—your ass, time in New York, I swear I hear that again—”
Three of them, all males. The old man felt a distant twinge of sympathy, though he could not say why. He moved up to the lit window, crouching, silent, and waited, listening.
“Benton ain’t comin’.”
“Why not? Wha’d you hear?”
2
HOUR OF THE WOLF
“Busted.”
“Again? Don’t he learn? Ever?”
“Ain’t always his fault—”
“Bullshit! My daddy use to say, ‘wolves in season oughta dress like sheep!’”
“You know, your daddy musta been one sorry mother—”
“Shh!”
“What?”
“I heard somethin’. Did you—?”
The old man stopped his breathing and checked the last several seconds for background noise. Nothing.
“Nobody’s out there, for—”
“You keep your mouth shut about my daddy. He was a righteous smart man in his day.”
“I’m sayin’ though, this ain’t his day.”
Laughter—dry, ragged, contained. The old man heard despair in that sound, deferred but always present. He started breathing again, and drew back toward the rear of the barrack.
Then he heard it. A vehicle, the tires crackling thinly on the desiccated pavement, coming closer. The engine was nearly silent—electric, maybe a hybrid. He rounded the corner of the barrack and moved to the next building, then the next, until he saw the ivory glow of a searchlight at the far end of a gangway. He focused on the street and waited till the vehicle passed by. In his mind, he froze the image and enhanced it: United States Air Force, Military Police.
No doubt a routine patrol, he thought, and his best option would be to stay where he was, react only if discovery was imminent. But his curiosity overrode reason.
He sprinted back to the occupied barrack, mounted the three steel steps to the rear entrance, and tried the doorknob.
It gave easily, the tongue sliding back with a barely discernible rasping. He pushed inward. The hinges remained silent for about seven inches, then grime or rust or age grabbed one of them and it began to squeak. He stopped, waiting, listening.
The three men suddenly stopped talking. Their silence 3
TERMINATOR 2
extended several seconds, then one of them moved, quickly.
Something fell—glass, from its sharp sound—and the other two reacted.
Then the front door burst open.
“Police! Stay where you are!”
“Shit!”
“Down! Down! Hands in the open!”
The old man pushed the door open wide enough to slip inside.
A narrow hallway ran several feet past doors on either side. He walked past each and peered in, vision amped to the max, rendering everything in pale greenish-gray and bla
ck. Shower, lavatory, storage closet, office space.
Ahead, flashlights stabbed the darkness where two uniformed men stood over three men in shabbier clothes, now lying face down, hands behind their backs. Both uniforms held handguns. As the old man watched, one of them holstered his weapon and deftly ensnared each man’s wrists with a thin plastic tie. The old man stood a couple feet back from the doorway into the main room.
“You boys have been warned about this,” the MP still holding his weapon said. “This is federal property, off-limits.
You’re trespassing, in violation of national security code—”
“We was all military!” one of the prisoners shouted. “I was Marine Corps!”
“But you’re not now.” The MP sounded bored. This was a familiar scenario for him, evidently. His partner straightened. “Now we’re gonna do this one more time.
Next time we catch you squatting, you’re up on charges.
That ought to make you feel real military, just like the old days. Ninety days in the stockade.”
“Food would be better,” one of them said.
“No,” the other MP said. ‘”No food anymore. Budget cuts.
Prisoners get to live on air and water and occasionally each other.”
“Asshole.”
“Enough,” the first MP said. He holstered his pistol and 4
HOUR OF THE WOLF
leaned down. “Come on. Let’s go for a ride.” He began to help one of the indigents to his feet.
The last one got to his feet—and looked directly at the old man. “Someone’s back there!”
The MP holding him jerked him roughly. “Don’t give me—”
The old man took three quick steps backward and pivoted through the door into the office. The glare of a flashlight swept the floor of the hallway where he’d been standing.
“Are you playing with me, Lee?” asked the first MP.
“No, I—”
“Shit, you know Lee sees in the dark!” one of the indigents barked. “He says someone is back there—”
“We’ve spent enough time on you for one night. We’re leaving now, gentlemen. Come on.”
The old man listened to the sounds of the three indigents being shuffled out the door, then into the patrol vehicle.
Doors slammed shut. The vehicle hummed to life and rolled away.
He examined the office in the blue-white moonglow coming through the single, high window, a steel desk shoved against the wall below it. Paper littered the floor.
A closet door stood slightly open; he pulled it wide to find hangers, and a pile of rags in the corner. He opened the drawers on the desk—loose papers, paperclips, one old pencil. He took out some of the papers and shuffled through them. A letterhead caught his attention.
Cannon Air Force Base.
It sounded familiar, but…
The letter itself concerned the base closing under the BRAC guidelines. The Base Re-Alignment and Closure Commission recommended…pursuant to…base to be closed down in 2005…bids to be opened by 2007 for local redevelopment…in cooperation with the Clovis Chamber of Commerce…
He went through the rest of the papers quickly, but nothing clarified his situation.
Why can’t I remember my name?
5
TERMINATOR 2
He closed the drawer quietly. An old map hung crookedly on the wall. It showed the state—New Mexico—and an inset displayed the base and the nearest city. Clovis.
Clovis, New Mexico.
On the floor beneath the map lay a sheaf of papers. He picked it up. A calendar. 2006.
He amped his vision a bit more and the walls came into stark relief. He moved from room to room.
Near the front door he returned to the area where the three men had been. Blankets lay scattered around a battered portable heater, they had wired into a large, nickel-iron battery. It was off now, but he still registered the heat in infrared. Bottles littered the perimeter of the small area, most of them empty—gin, scotch, vodka—and a few paper bags and Styrofoam containers holding the remnants of food.
He rifled through the blankets and sorted out clothing—pants, a T-shirt, a torn jacket. No shoes. The pants did not fit. The jacket was too large. He found boxes further back from the space heater, most of them shabby, held together by duct tape and string. Ragged black scrawls occluded each other, like palimpsests, but the old man could sort some of it out: names, lists of contents, places—MY
STUFF appeared in red marker on the largest box. When he opened it he found it filled with bric-a-brac: curios, souvenirs, sheaves of greeting cards, letters, a stack of photographs. The addresses were to Lee Portis.
Portis. That felt familiar. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the name. Portis. Not quite right. Port…something. He opened the top envelope and pulled out the pages, sat on a pile of blankets, and started reading.
The letters came from all over the country—New York, South Carolina, Illinois, California—from a variety of people, most of whom seemed to be ex-military. A few were from relatives. One in particular came from Denice Portis-Lury—his sister from the phrasing—who lived in Hawaii.
Because her husband had recently lost his job, she could send no more money for a while, until things “settled down 6
HOUR OF THE WOLF
a bit.” She apologized several times. She hoped his brother Danny was still sending him something, she would call him to see. She wished he would get a regular residence so he had a phone or at least Internet access. Writing was difficult with her carpal tunnel…
Some of the other letter writers also apologized for no longer being able to send Lee any money. They all hoped he would manage, certain someone else was still helping him. The old man remembered every line. He cross-referenced all the well-wishes and terminations of aid, and a picture emerged of a man who had, one by one, lost all his support. The last few had come general delivery to the Good Hope Shelter, Clovis, New Mexico. The most recent date was February 2007.
February. Not February, but April. Something about April 2007.
He needed to know the date.
He set the letters aside reluctantly. The story he derived from them moved him.
He took out a cigar box, within which he found three long jewelry cases. Each held a medal of some kind. At the bottom, more envelopes. Discharge papers from the Marines, dated 2004. Letters from the Veterans’ Administration, first promising to consider his claim, finally rejecting it.
Another set of letters from a psychiatric clinic supporting Lee Portis’s assertion that he suffered PTSD—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—stemming from duty in Iraq. The VA had likewise gone over his claims but regrets to inform…
“Typical,” the old man muttered. He paused. “Of what?”
Typical of the period, he thought. Not his own voice. He remembered it from a class or something.
More papers, rubber-banded together, covered the bottom of the larger box. Old driver’s licenses, various IDs, discount cards, ATM cards, ads and circulars, several issues of the Good Hope Shelter newsletter. One of the licenses had Lee Portis’s social security number. He pocketed that one.
In the corner of the box he found a sewing kit.
He closed Lee’s box, keeping the kit, one newsletter, the 7
TERMINATOR 2
last communication he had received from the VA, and the driver’s license. He searched through the other boxes, but found nothing else useful.
He went to the front door and studied the empty street.
The MPs were long gone. He kicked up his hearing as far as he could—a flood of insect noises, the rush of the faint breezes, and the sharp yowl of a coyote in the distance—and, satisfied that he was now alone in the abandoned base, went back to the blankets.
He opened the sewing kit. Not nearly enough thread. He studied the material around him and found remnants containing stitching. He grasped the stitch puller and began teasing out the thread. He needed pants that fit. He spared only
a small part of his attention for surveillance, then turned all the rest on the task of making clothes.
By morning he had made a pair of serviceable pants, patched the jacket, and scrounged a tanktop that, though filthy, fit.
No shoes. Still no memory.
He needed to get to California, though. He knew that.
Not like a memory, just as an imperative. He needed money, transportation, familiarity with his surroundings. First, though, he needed an identity.
Even if he remembered his name, he knew he could not use it here.
He made a bindle out of one of the blankets and a leg from one of the old bunks, stuffed Lee Portis’s box into it, then stepped into the morning sun. He stared at the cloud-less blue sky for a long time.
He walked north, bindle over his left shoulder.
In the clarity of day he recognized the mothballed negli-gence of the buildings, the lack of maintenance, cracks, crevices, scoured paint flakes clinging to weathering wood.
The steel roofs glinted in the sun, the shadows promised to deepen as time passed. He reached an intersection and knew to turn west. Another hundred yards brought him to a large 8
HOUR OF THE WOLF
complex of buildings he recognized as base command center.
The windows were all boarded up and a padlock secured the main set of double doors. He set the bindle down on the long, sand-blown front porch and circled the entire structure. None of the windows or doors had been opened in some time. He retrieved the bindle and went to a rear entrance. The knob resisted turning for a few seconds, then the mechanism cracked under his pressure. The door swung in. The old man entered an empty room.
He spotted motion sensors along the ceiling line, but none of them appeared active. As he walked from room to room, he checked constantly for alarms, any sign of active electrical outlets, signs of recent use. Nothing. The structure had been emptied of anything important, sealed up, and forgotten.
He found several offices still containing desks and a few chairs on castors. In the largest room, an area map hung on one wall. The old man studied it. Highway 60 connected the base to Clovis. Six miles.
He checked for more clothes, found none, then went through all the desk drawers. Paperclips, useless pens, odd scraps of paper. He went back to the map. Portales was south of Clovis. Just south of Cannon AFB lay Eastern New Mexico University.
Terminator 2_Hour of the Wolf Page 1
