by Greg Cox
Just the same, let’s play this smart.
She got behind her own sled. Sensing her intentions, the dogs leapt to their feet. They tugged at their leather harnesses, eagerly awaiting a chance to stretch their legs. Her lead dogs—a pair of white Siberian huskies—looked back at her. There were ten dogs in all, hitched to the gang-line two by two. Molly had trained them since they were puppies. She trusted them with her life.
“I’ll act as bait,” she declared, “to draw any machines out.” There was no point in exposing the rest of her people to the possibility of enemy fire until she knew there were no Terminators lurking in the brush. She grabbed the sled’s handlebar and planted the soles of her boots firmly on the aluminum runners, then glanced back at the armed insurgents. “Cover me.”
“Wait!” Geir objected. Ice frosted his sexy blond whiskers, making him look older than his years. He tugged on the brake of his own sled. “Let me go instead.”
Molly shook her head.
“Forget it,” she said flatly. “You’re our only pilot.” A smart commander wouldn’t have brought him along in the first place; he belonged back at the camp, tending to Thunderbird, his precious fighter plane. But she was short on personnel. “Besides, my dogs are faster than yours.”
“Says who?” he retorted, but he stepped away from his sled. Geir knew better than to argue with her once she put her foot down; that put him one up on most of the men she had known, before and after Judgment Day. Unslinging a loaded M4 carbine from his shoulder, he marched to the edge of the woods and got into position to cover her.
More snipers fanned out along the perimeter. Geir winked at her.
“Anytime you want a race, you know where to find me.”
Molly grinned back at him. That was another thing about him, he always found a way to make her smile, in a world where that didn’t come easy. Sometimes she wondered where his upbeat attitude came from, and whether there was any way to bottle it.
“I’ll take you up on that—after we fill our tanks at Skynet’s expense.”
Her grin faded as she contemplated the open expanse of snow that stretched between the woods and the pipeline. She scanned the clearing one more time, then took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
Time’s wasting, she scolded herself. Let’s get this show on the road.
“Hike!”
The dogs took off like a shot. No reins or whips were required, only verbal commands. The sled accelerated across the snow, breaking out from beneath the evergreens at six or seven miles per hour. The wind blew her hood back, exposing her face. The huskies’ racing paws kicked up a cloud of snowy powder. The lead dogs yipped at the team behind them, keeping the other dogs in line.
The exhilarating speed set Molly’s pulse racing, even as she tensed in anticipation of an ambush. She held her breath, half-expecting to feel hot metal tear through her in a heartbeat. For endless moments, her ears listened for the telltale roar of a chain gun or turbofan, but all she heard was the thrilling sound of the huskies racing through the snow. No Terminator reared its ugly metal skull.
How about that? She permitted herself a sigh of relief. The cold wind stung her ears. Maybe we’re in the clear after all.
The dogs ate up the distance to the pipeline in a matter of minutes.
“Whoa!” The shouted command brought the team to an immediate halt. Molly jumped from the sled, drawing her own M4 as she did so. She swung its sights toward the gleaming steel underside, just to see if that would provoke a response. Heat exchangers were mounted to the bottom of the pipeline, to keep the ground below firm and frosty. A gauge measured the flow of oil.
“All right, you metal poachers,” she muttered. “Come and get me.”
Her defiant challenge went unanswered.
Molly lowered the rifle. She gestured to the others. The rest of the fuel party wasted no time breaking from the woods. Freight sleds and snowmobiles carried the empty drums and gas cans toward the looming steel artery. Geir’s sled was right out in front, of course, just where she expected it to be. A frosty white rooster-tail spread out like a vapor trail behind his runners. For a pilot, he wasn’t a half-bad musher.
She looked forward to racing him back to camp. We’ll see whose dogs are faster.
Moments later the rest of her crew arrived. Dismounting from their sleds and snowmobiles, they went to work with practiced efficiency. This wasn’t the first time they’d tapped Skynet’s veins. The empty drums were rolled into place beneath the pipeline. They climbed up the looming steel saddles. Spiked metal spigots, crafted by hand at a Resistance machine shop, were hammered into the underside of the pipe. Rubber tubing connected the upright barrels with the pipeline. Open valves let the stolen crude flow into the waiting containers. Excited workers, glad to be getting away with the heist, high-fived each other. Armed sentries, equipped with army-surplus grenade launchers and a couple of .50 caliber Barrett rifles, stood guard while the others worked. Dirty jokes and war stories relieved the tension. Someone hummed an old Britney Spears tune.
Molly was always impressed by how well the men and women worked together. They were a solid unit, no matter what Command thought of them. Relaxing a little, she took shelter beneath the elevated pipeline, putting one of the imposing steel saddles between her and the wind. Her rifle rested loosely in her grip, its oiled metal length level with her waist.
“Glad to see you weren’t chosen for target practice.” Geir joined her under the pipe. His sled was anchored to the ground a few feet away. “Guess it would have been okay to let Sitka tag along.”
Molly shrugged.
“Don’t want to spoil her.” The restless teenager was stuck back at camp babysitting Doc Rathbone, the camp’s resident mad scientist. Keeping the melancholy old man sober could be a full-time job, for which Sitka had a definite talent. They were an odd pair, but the girl brought out the best in Doc. He was training her to be his apprentice. “She’s got her own job to do.”
With the fuel run going smoothly, Molly started thinking ahead. She was going to need Doc’s computer expertise to crack whatever security measures were aboard the uranium train. A technophobe at heart, Molly had barely known how to program her cell phone before the bombs came down. But that was no longer an issue.
The Skynet Express clattered across her memory, and she recalled how the ever-watchful Aerostats had swooped in and out of the trestles supporting the bridge. That was going to be a problem....
The wind shifted. A crisp breeze rustled Molly’s hair.
The dogs leapt to their feet and howled at the woods on the other side of the pipeline. Their hackles rose.
“Fuck!”
Molly saw the attack coming even before the bullets started flying. Muzzles flared from the shadowy depths of the forest. Her people dropped like decoys in a shooting gallery. Half-filled gas cans hit the snow. Vicious uranium slugs punched through the metal drums, spilling crude oil onto the ground.
The smell of gunfire and petroleum filled the air. Blood and oil mixed together. Twitching bodies writhed amidst the crimson slush.
“Watch it!” Geir shoved Molly behind the saddle. Bullets ricocheted off the sturdy steel pylons. The ferocious gunfire chipped the paint. Dull red flakes blew in the wind. Trapped sled dogs howled and barked in alarm. One pack managed to tear loose the snow hook that was mooring it to the ground. The riderless sled bolted for the woods.
Molly didn’t blame the frightened dogs for turning tail. Terminators weren’t sentimental where animals were concerned.
“Forget the fuel!” she shouted to what was left of the work crew. She kicked herself for letting her mind wander, even for a minute. “Fall back! Retreat!”
“Here they come.” Geir said as he peeked around the side of the saddle, then yanked his head back before it could get blown off his shoulders. “Ugly as ever.”
Tell me about it, Molly thought fiercely. Through a two-inch gap in the supports, she saw multiple T-600s emerge from the woods. Their humanoid endoske
letons aped the size and proportions of an adult male human. Molly had never seen a female-looking Terminatrix, although John Connor had warned that they were in development. Their mass-produced rubber faces looked unconvincing in the daylight, like cheap Halloween masks; Skynet had a ways to go, thank God, before its infiltrator models could truly pass for human.
Binocular red optical sensors, posing as eyes, were a dead giveaway, as were the unnervingly blank expressions. Machineguns and assault rifles were strapped beneath their arms via detachable velcro straps. Hands squeezed the upside-down triggers of the guns. Reinforced wire snowshoes kept the Terminators from sinking into powdery white drifts. They didn’t even flinch as their weapons fired loudly. Their pace was unhurried, methodical. Skynet had been killing off humans for over fifteen years now. There was no rush.
By contrast, the surprise attack kicked the humans into top gear. The sentries returned fire, just as Molly had trained them, while the rest of the squad retreated as ordered. Those who weren’t cut down by the first fusillade scrambled madly to get away. They slipped and fell in the spreading slushy pools of blood and oil, only to be shot from behind as soon as they got back up again. A few dived for cover, burrowing deep into the snow, as others made a break for the forest. Loose bits of down stuffing blew about the battlefield.
RPGs and anti-materiel fire tore into the ranks of the Terminators, making it a battle, not a rout. An exploding RPG sent a T-600 flying backwards into the woods. M82 rifles, designed by the military to take out enemy trucks and parked aircraft, dismembered another Terminator. A robotic leg was cut off at the hip. Undaunted, the T-600 hopped forward, using its severed limb as a crutch. Its fellow machines targeted the sentries, forcing them to retreat. Their limited supply of grenades was quickly exhausted.
Molly cursed Command for not supplying them with more.
The casualties continued to mount:
Jake Nollner, a thirty-five year-old father of two, jumped onto his snowmobile and hit the throttle. He only got about fifteen yards before a Terminator’s bullets nailed the snowmobile’s gas tank. The ride exploded in a shower of blazing shrapnel, scattering pieces of Jake all over the landscape. The burning debris ignited pools of spilled oil, which erupted into flames. Choking black fumes added to the chaos.
Trapped huskies, held in place by their harnesses, jerked spasmodically as they were terminated as well. Wounded men, women, and dogs contributed to an agonizing chorus of pain and fear.
Monsters! Molly was tormented by the sight of her people dying all around her. She counted at least four Terminators left. Thank God Sitka isn’t here!
She and Geir fired back at the T-600s, providing more cover for the fleeing guerillas. Their combined assault shredded the rubber faces, exposing the fearsome steel death’s-head expressions underneath. The machines’ winter garments were ripped apart as well, until gleaming steel endoskeletons could be glimpsed through the torn fabric. Round after round of automatic weapons fire jolted the oncoming machines, driving them back for moments at a time, but failing to stop the Terminators from advancing, and from picking off human targets with computerized precision.
A targeting laser lit up the back of Kathy Seppala’s head a heartbeat before she toppled face-first into the snow, a crimson fountain spurting from her skull. She fell across the runners of her own sled, while another volley dropped her dogs.
Molly bit down on her lip to keep from crying out in rage. Amidst the carnage, she couldn’t help noticing that not one of the Terminators’ shots had hit the pipeline by mistake. The T-600s were obviously taking care not to damage the vital conduit. Skynet valued oil, if not human life.
They were waiting for us, damn it! She tried to figure out how Skynet could have known what they were planning. It was getting better and better at calculating probabilities and patterns where the Resistance was concerned. We must have gotten too predictable.
That was something she’d have to work on, if she lived to see another day.
“Head for the hills!” she ordered the survivors. “Regroup at the rendezvous point!” She kept firing to give the others a chance at escaping. “Don’t let them follow you back to the camp!”
She spotted a party of Resistance fighters, who had survived the initial salvos by diving into a shallow ditch. Their refuge had become a trap, however, as enemy gunfire cut them off from their snowmobiles less than two yards away. A Terminator stomped across the snow toward the ditch, ready to turn it into a mass grave. Molly had only seconds to save her people.
Switching the carbine to full automatic, she targeted the machine’s vulnerable shoulder joint. A barrage of 5.56-millimeter ammo crippled the T-600, causing its gun arm to go limp at its side. Its weapon fired uselessly into the ground. Misdirected bullets shredded its own snowshoe, throwing it off-balance.
“Palmer! Johns! The rest of you!” Molly shouted at the humans in the ditch, while the Terminator clumsily attempted to shift its chain gun to its other arm. “Now’s your chance. Hustle!”
She watched with relief as a handful of people scrambled to their feet and dashed for the snowmobiles and their attached cargo sleds. They threw themselves onto the vehicles and fired up their noisy, two-stroke engines. The machines accelerated across the snow, taking the humans with them. Exhaust fumes mingled in the air with the acrid smell of cordite. The roar of the snowmobiles was soon punctuated by gunfire from the Terminator, firing in vain at the retreating men and women, who were already out of range of its gun.
Thank God, Molly thought. At least this won’t be a total massacre.
The T-600s paused to close the valves on the violated pipes, granting Molly a momentary respite. She reloaded her rifle and estimated their odds of slipping away while the Terminators were distracted. Then a diesel engine roared to life in the woods which had hidden the enemy.
She shared a worried look with Geir.
“Now what?”
The answer barreled out of the forest in the form of a large automated snow plow. A wedge-shaped metal blade, raised ten inches above the snow, preceded an armored steel transport with snow tires and four-wheel drive. Chains around its tires granted the tank extra traction. A T-600 was seated in a turret on top of the plow, behind a mounted machinegun. Red eyes glinted in metal sockets.
Tons of rolling metal came on like a bulldozer. Bullets sparked harmlessly off the blade.
Geir gulped.
“I don’t know about you, Molly, but I’m feeling more than a little outmatched.”
“Me too,” Molly admitted grimly, though she continued to fire on the newcomer. She glanced around quickly. As nearly as she could tell, the rest of the fueling party was either dead or scattered. Time for a strategic retreat, not that the Terminators were going to make it easy.
Her M4 ran out of ammo, and she hastily reloaded before backing away from the saddle.
“Your sled or mine?”
One of the T-600s that had been repairing the pipeline, a torn rubber ear dangling from his exposed cranial case, took that choice out of their hands. A sustained burst of fire killed the back half of Geir’s dog team. The remaining huskies, including Togo, pulled at their hitches, frantic to get away.
Togo wheeled about and snarled at the Terminator. His lips peeled back, baring his fangs.
“Shit!” Geir yanked a carbon-steel hunting knife from his belt and dived for his sled. Keeping his head low, he hacked through the cable that connected the snow hook to the sled, then flicked the quick-release catch on the snublines. “Scram, you fleabags. Hike!”
Togo hesitated, reluctant to leave his master behind, so Molly fired a warning burst over the dog’s head. That did the trick; all of the surviving dogs sprinted for safety, dragging their dead kennel mates behind them. Bright canine blood streaked the snow.
Then Molly bared her own teeth. The forest ranger in her hated to see animals suffer. Humans built Skynet, she thought guiltily. We brought this nightmare on ourselves. But the rest of nature shouldn’t have to suffer
for our mistakes.
Spinning, she sprinted for her own sled, firing back over her shoulder while choking on the smoke from the fires. Reaching her objective, she unhooked the anchor and clambered onto the runners. Frenzied barks and growls greeted her, but the dogs faithfully waited for her command. A pang stabbed Molly’s heart. She almost wished she hadn’t trained them so well; they’d probably live longer.
She gripped the handlebar with one hand while emptying her rifle with the other. The M4’s handguard was getting uncomfortably hot to the touch. A steady stream of ejected shells shot from the firing mechanism.
Geir charged across the bloody slush toward her, but not fast enough for comfort.
“Hurry, flyboy!” she shouted. “Don’t keep me waiting!”
“Do I ever?” Geir jumped onto the runners behind her. Crouching low, he wrapped his arms around her, holding on for dear life. “Your turn to drive.”
About time, she thought.
“Hike!”
A burst of acceleration threw Molly backwards against Geir. Despite the weight of an extra passenger, the dogs broke speed records getting away from the bloodbath. The sled bounced over piled drifts of snow as Molly gave the dogs their head. Her foot stayed away from the brake. Loose powder, kicked up by the dogs, pelted her face.
“Don’t look now,” Geir shouted in her ear, over gunfire behind them, “But they’re not giving up!”
Molly glanced back. The merciless snow plow drove under the pipeline, trampling over the dead—at least she hoped they were dead— before turning to chase the fleeing dog sled. It slowed long enough to let the other T-600s climb onto its running boards, then picked up speed. Gruesome red stains glistened wetly on the upraised blade of the plow.
The Terminators fired at the sled. Bullets whizzed past Molly and Geir as they jumped a snow-covered embankment. A hard landing rattled Molly’s teeth.
