Reese and Mary looked at each other, then sat down.
"Yeah," Brock said, pouring them each a cup. "We're survivalists." Grimly: "At least, we're surviving, which most people on this continent haven't, the past couple of months. And more." He looked up at them, smiling. "But before we get into my story, why don't we hear yours?"
The two prisoners glanced at each other again. If he'd been the perfect soldier facing an undoubted enemy, the lieutenant knew what he would do. But… Why not? Reese thought. Might as well see how it sounds when we say it out loud to a third party.
"We're from the Black River Relocation Camp," he began.
"Black River is one of the good camps," Brock interrupted.
"You wouldn't believe some of the stories we've heard about some of the others."
Once again Dennis and Mary gave each other worried looks.
This is getting monotonous, Reese thought. Either we develop telepathy, or we should invent a couple of signals… like, one finger means "what should we do?" and two means "should we trust him?" So we can just hold them up as necessary.
"We've been having a cholera epidemic," Mary explained.
"Suddenly we got orders to send the sickest of our patients to a central hospital. Where that would be they didn't say."
"Meanwhile I got orders to report to central command for reassignment and was told to accompany the trucks they sent for the patients."
"I had overheard some men talking in a way that implied they were deliberately spreading the contagion, so I was requested to go along, too… so that I could be questioned."
"We set out this morning," Reese said. "But instead of being taken to any central command, we were dumped in the middle of nowhere."
"The trucks stopped and these people literally threw my patients out of the trucks. Then they drove off and left us there."
Mary looked at Reese.
Do I tell him what happened next? the lieutenant wondered.
So far everything made sense. But the killing machine was another, and much harder-to-believe, story.
Brock sipped his tea and waited for them to continue. When they didn't he put his cup down and looked between them. "And your patients?" he said at last. "What happened to them?"
Mary looked down into her tea. "This thing came out of the woods and shot them."
Brock looked at her for a moment, then glanced at Reese, who nodded. The survivalist sighed. "What you just saw," he said,
"was what's called a Hunter-Killer. HK, for short. It's a machine designed to hunt down and kill any human being; high-level robot brain, built-in weapons, fuel-cell power supply."
The two just stared at him. Reese pulled his jaw up, hoping he didn't look as poleaxed as Mary.
"Have you ever heard of Skynet?" Brock asked.
They nodded. "The DOD super-computer," Reese said.
"Well, Skynet isn't just a computer anymore. It's sentient, and it's decided that we're its enemies and that it's got to kill us all.
It's taken over all the automated factories and has them turning out machines like the one you saw. And since the military foolishly turned over all of its computer functions to Skynet, that computer now controls our military. It's been sending out all kinds of orders and directives.
"Not just supposedly from the army and so forth, mind you, but also from the civilian leadership. Which, like the upper echelons of the military, no longer exists." Brock stopped and let them take it in.
"How can you be sure of that?" Reese asked.
Brock leaned back with a sigh. "All those VIPs ran to all those hardened bunkers, leaving you and me and the rest of the world to deal with Armageddon while they waited it out in cushioned comfort. Unfortunately for them, the same fools that gave Skynet control of all the weapons also gave it control of such minor functions as the life support for those same hardened bunkers."
He started to chuckle, then waved a hand. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh. But I always did kind of resent those guys."
"Me, too," Mary said. Reese glanced at her in surprise.
"Further," Brock continued, "none of our fearless leaders has actually been seen. We've heard broadcasts on the radio advising us to keep up our spirits and to report to the camps, but they've never visited any camps." He leaned forward, wagging a finger.
"And I betcha if you asked around in the military, nobody's seen any generals, either."
Reese sipped his tea and reflected that he had been thinking that things weren't as organized as they should be. More like you'd expect World War II to have been.
"The big worry now," Brock said, "is that Skynet actually has human allies. Deluded fools who think they're saving the earth by depopulating it. They're under the impression that they'll get to live in bucolic splendor. But actually, as soon as it has enough machines, Skynet'll be killing them, too."
He pointed at Mary. "So you heard right, little lady. They probably did start that epidemic. And you two"—he gestured between them—"must have rocked the boat somehow, so they want you both dead. So, if you do go back to the relocation camp and try to tell them this story, which the innocent won't believe anyway, they'll just pack you off to 'central command' again.
Only this time the guilty will send some of Skynet's human helpers along to make sure you don't get away next time."
Dennis and Mary thought about it.
Finally Mary shook her head. "But we have to do something,"
she said. "Someone is deliberately poisoning people in the Black River Camp. We can't just sit by and do nothing. How can we fight this if we just hide out?"
"Okay," Brock said. "Say they catch these guys red-handed putting their poison in the water, or however they're spreading it. What happens next?"
Dennis shifted uncomfortably. "They'll contact HQ and lay out their case."
"And HQ will do what?"
"They'll have the prisoners and the evidence and maybe even some of the witnesses sent to, uh, central command," Mary said.
"Never to be seen again," Brock concluded. "Look, people, you've done your best by warning them about what you overheard. Now you have to decide where your efforts will do the most good. We're gaining strength here all the time. A lot of army and National Guard guys have joined us because of things they've seen that convinced them something skanky is going on."
"Deserters," Dennis said grimly.
"Can you desert an organization that doesn't really exist anymore?" Brock asked.
"We have no evidence of that," the lieutenant protested. "An absence of evidence isn't evidence of absence."
Brock studied him silently. "I shouldn't do this," he said. "But I've got a feeling about you two." He stood up. "C'mon with me, I want to show y'all something." With a gesture he included Mary.
"Have you ever heard of Sarah Connor?"
Dennis blinked. "Yeah, she made an announcement before the bombs fell, telling people what was going on."
"So you believed her?" Brock said. He'd led them into another room of the cabin.
Reese rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I guess I did. Maybe not everything she said."
"Not at the time anyway," Brock said with a grin. "She's a very smart lady. I won't bother you with how, but she knew this was coming. So she recruited us, she financed us, and she taught us everything she could to help us survive. Let's be honest, folks; if you don't believe her now then you're in denial."
He pressed a series of knotholes in the paneling and a section of flooring swung up silently. Mary looked down into the hole where a wooden ladder disappeared in the darkness.
"What's down there?" she asked. "The Batcave?"
Brock laughed at that. "The Batcave. I like it. Go on down; the lights will come on automatically when you get to the bottom."
Mary just looked at him suspiciously, so Dennis went first. As promised, when his foot touched the dirt floor, a light went on. It was dim, but serviceable. Down a short corridor was a metal door; on the doorpost beside it was a keypad. Mary came down
next, followed by Brock.
He led them along the short corridor and, blocking the keypad with his body, keyed in a code. The lock gave and he opened the door. They found themselves in a small, well-lit room containing a computer, a desk and chair, a file cabinet, and a young man of perhaps seventeen.
"My son, Ray," Brock said. He nodded at the boy and the door behind the desk clicked open. Brock led them through.
This time the room was long, narrow, and low ceilinged. The walls seemed to be plastic, as did the ceiling, the whole braced with metal. There were computers and what looked like communications equipment everywhere. About twenty people looked up at their entrance, men and women both, with men in the majority. Nobody seemed to be over forty; that may have been because everyone looked very fit.
"As you were," Brock said, and the small crowd went back to work. He turned to Mary and Reese. "What you've stumbled into is the resistance. Most people don't realize yet that we need one.
But after what you've seen, after the way you were handed over to that HK, you have to know that your place is with us, fighting against Skynet."
MONTANA
The landscape rolled around her, huge beyond imagining.
Sarah Connor felt like a bug on a plate as she roared south along 1-3; sometimes it seemed like the gray-green immensity of grass around her was moving while she stayed motionless. She was glad to be away from the towns—away from the stink of death, too, except for the odd victim of the first wave of the machine uprising, and the coyotes had cleared most of that away. Mostly the air was clean, dry, a little chilly for this time of year, but otherwise normal.
But things aren't normal at all, she thought grimly.
Cattle in a nearby field looked up and started to lumber away as she passed; she felt an obscure sadness at realizing that they'd become wary of humans and human sounds so quickly.
Sarah had decided to use main routes as much as possible since the quality of the roads made up in speed what they lacked in safety; she'd come south along the country roads that flanked the Judith River, and then back onto 1-3 near Hobson. Detouring around population centers and the little oblongs marked on her map as fallout footprints kept her out of radiation danger; at least, the counter said she hadn't picked up enough to worry about— enough by post—Judgment Day standards. The number of roentgens would have put any safety officer before that into screaming fits, and made a lawyer slaver.
There was little traffic, and what there was usually was official—which meant Skynet and its allies and/or dupes. So far she'd had no problem avoiding them; it helped that she was avoiding towns when she could.
Still worse here in the lower forty-eight than it was in Canada, she thought, pausing by the side of the road to take a drink from her canteen; the water had a nasty mineral aftertaste from the pills she'd had to add to it. Ears, stunned by days of the Harley's motor, almost ached with the quietness at first; after a minute or two she could hear the wind singing in the roadside wire.
She'd run across tons of abandoned cars and trucks and far too many unburied bodies. Canada had been in better shape, but only marginally, and it, too, was under martial law. Another reason to avoid towns.
She and John had organized resistance centers here, but Sarah didn't seek them out. Her task now was to get to Central and South America as quickly as possible and start up the food deliveries. This was no time for a grand tour.
But she was mightily tempted. She felt out of touch, and it was irksome, like losing one of your senses—one you didn't know you were counting on until it went missing. What was John doing? Where was Dieter? How was the resistance holding up?
And most important of all, what was Skynet doing?
Maybe I can pick up some information at the next town, she thought.
She was running low on alcohol and would have to stop soon to fuel up; during daylight, in this rural area, that shouldn't cause problems. She had four IDs, all extremely good. She also had beef jerky and small parcels of spices to trade for what she needed, and she expected to get a good rate of exchange. By now people were probably hungry for a taste of beef. She knew they were hungry for what was in her little packets.
Sarah pulled to a stop to check her map. With the engine quietly muttering, she suddenly heard another motorcycle revving, loudly, to the south.
No, more than one. In fact, there were quite a lot of them, if she wasn't mistaken. Just over that rise, and coming this way.
She decided to go back to the last exit and go around whatever was happening ahead of her.
It was unlikely to be a bunch of lawyers and CPAs out for a picnic with their families. John had asked her once about recruiting motorcycle gangs on the grounds that they were tough, somewhat organized, and seemed to be natural survivors, but she'd discouraged him.
"We're trying to save the world," she'd said. "They're trying to eat it."
As Sarah meandered back down the road, she wondered how big the rally was. And what does the army think of it? Would it bring the authorities running to break it up, or would they stay away, with the not unreasonable excuse that their plates were already full to overflowing? Skynet wouldn't care—in fact, it would feel a sort of cold mechanical glee at humans doing its work for it, unprompted.
And how were the bikers managing to gather without wholesale intergang slaughter taking place? Though they might have worked that out weeks ago after the bombs fell. Whatever.
As John had said, they were natural survivors, but then, so were cockroaches and lice, and she didn't want closer contact with them, either.
Sarah was going down the exit ramp slowly as she thought about the rally up ahead. Should she try and get a look at it from a distance, or should she just ignore it and carry on with her mission?
WWSD? she wondered idly. What Would Skynet Do?
She managed to pull the bike into a turn just before she ran into a rope snapped up to neck height. Sarah continued the turn, meaning to run, but three bikes rolled onto the ramp behind her.
Their filthy riders grinned evilly and chuckled at her near escape.
Shit, she thought. I don't have time for this. She heard bikes moving in behind her. Your move, she thought at them.
They hadn't gone for their guns, so she didn't reach for the Bushmaster in its scabbard by her right leg. She had some grenades on a belt under her jacket; that might be a better technique, but the sound of the explosion might bring half that rally running.
She moved her bike so that she could see the ones behind her as well. The sides of the off ramp were too steep for them to make an effective circle, which was lucky, because it offered an out—not a good one, but still, beggars couldn't be choosers.
"Yer supposed to say, 'What do you want?' Don'cha know that?"
Sarah looked toward the voice. Nobody here looked like a leader, but there was one guy a little beefier than the others.
These followers of macho legend probably looked up to that, so he might be the one to watch. As for what they wanted, she already knew that. They wanted to stomp her flat and take her stuff.
"It'd be polite to show us your face," a woman said. She was a well-built amazon, probably topped out at six feet, and her arms rippled with muscle. It had been so long since she'd bathed that her skin glistened with her own natural grease; her hair was a matted rat's nest that might once have been blond. It was fortunate that the weather was cold; otherwise the smell would be…
Unimaginable. Dear, God, Sarah thought, discouraged. Help!
I've fallen into a bad biker movie and I can't get out. Mel Gibson, where are you when we need you?
Sarah always wore a helmet. For one reason, it made it less likely she'd be recognized by especially vigilant cops. For another, she'd long since outgrown the fantasy that the wind in your hair was the feeling of ultimate freedom. The wind in your hair twisted it into impenetrable thickets and filled it with road dirt.
And if you spun out without a helmet, you could say good-bye to your face.
The big guy laughed. "Hell, we figured that. If you wanted trouble, you would've just kept goin' straight."
His crew all laughed.
Sarah figured they were here for one of two reasons; either they couldn't hack it with the main group and so were looking for easy pickings on the outskirts, or they'd been assigned here by whoever was in charge to pick up any strays. Either way it meant that they weren't as tough as they were pretending to be.
On the one hand, that meant that she could probably take most of them; on the other, it meant that the group ego was bruised and they'd feel they had something to prove.
She'd better try talking first.
Sarah raised her visor. "So what's going on down there anyway?" She indicated the rally with a tip of her head.
As soon as she'd lifted the opaque visor, she sensed the disappointment in the males. Sarah knew she was way too long in the tooth for their taste. Sometimes she thought it a miracle that Dieter didn't find her so. But then Dieter didn't spend every day of his life getting a prostate massage from a motorcycle.
The group looked at one another and apparently decided they were bored enough to answer a few questions before the fun began.
"The supreme leader has decided that we should take over this part of the country," the big, muscular one said, leaning on his handlebars. "Get all the little farmers growing food for us in exchange for protection."
Again Sarah knew the answer but decided to be a good sport.
"Protection from what?"
"From us!" the smallest of them shouted gleefully, and they all laughed uproariously.
Sarah didn't roll her eyes, but the urge was almost irresistible.
Then the amazon started her bike forward and began to slowly circle Sarah.
"Y'know what might be fun?" she asked, never taking her eyes off their captive. She licked her lips. "Let's you and me fight."
The boys went wild, whoo-whooing fit to burst their own eardrums. The amazon grinned, holding her clenched fists up like a victorious boxer. "If you win, then you get to go, tax free. If I win… well, you won't need to worry about anything anymore if I win." Howls of laughter greeted this sally.
The Future War t2-3 Page 16
