From the Ashes

by Timothy Zahn

  “No,” Barnes said, making it official, as he gestured everyone to start climbing the rubble. “You got a litter coming for Orozco?”

  Kate shook her head as she started up the treacherous footing.

  “He’s not coming with us.”

  A couple of the other heads turned at that one. But Barnes just grunted.

  “You get attached to a place like this, I guess.”

  They were over the rock pile and walking down the empty streets before Barnes spoke again.

  “I found that preacher—Sibanda—over in the hallway off the lobby,” he said. “Still had his arms around a couple of kids.”

  “Thin black guy?” Simmons asked. “North hallway by one of the windows?”

  Barnes nodded. “That’s him.”

  “I saw him, too,” Simmons said grimly. “Looked like he was huddled over the kids, trying to protect them, when they shot him in the back.”

  Kate felt a fresh wave of sadness and guilt flow through her. All those children... and neither she nor anyone else had been able to save a single one of them.

  “Any particular reason you brought that up?” she asked Barnes.

  “Not really,” he said with a shrug. “Just making conversation.”

  ***

  For nearly half an hour Kyle and Star just sat there in the abandoned ganghouse, quietly eating and drinking, Kyle on the chair, Star on the ground at his feet. It was the first time since they’d left the Ashes, Kyle reflected soberly, that he’d felt at peace.

  But it wasn’t real, he knew. Peace was only an illusion these days.

  And it was time for them to go.

  To Kyle’s relief, there was no lightheadedness this time when he stood up. Maybe he hadn’t really been injured in the blast, but had mostly been just hungry and thirsty. Adjusting his new shirt and jacket across his shoulders, he fastened his holster around his new jeans.

  “Ready?” he asked Star.

  She nodded, then pointed questioningly at the packages of ration bars and water bottles.

  Kyle pursed his lips. If this stuff had belonged to the gang that Orozco had chased out, he would have no particular qualms about taking it all. It wasn’t really stealing to take something from a thief.

  But his new clothes didn’t look like the stuff the gang had been wearing. It was too clean, for one thing. And the water bottles seemed way too well taken care of, too. He had the feeling that someone else had moved in after the gang had cleared out.

  And he and Star couldn’t steal from ordinary citizens. Even if all the stuff really had been abandoned.

  Or at least they couldn’t steal everything.

  “Go get two bottles of water and four of the bars,” he instructed Star. “Somebody might still come back for the rest.”

  Star wrinkled her nose, but nodded and went over to the stack. She was sorting through the packages when something behind the clothing seemed to belatedly catch her eye. Reaching down, she lifted a shotgun into view.

  This time, Kyle didn’t hesitate.

  “Yes,” he said firmly.

  A minute later, shotgun in hand, food and water in his new jacket’s pockets, Kyle opened the door and they once more slipped out into the night. Where are we going? Star signed.

  “Back to the Ashes,” Kyle told her, frowning as they set off along the street. Was that the sound of helicopters just fading away in the distance? Probably his imagination.

  “We need to see if there’s anything we can do there to help.”

  The streets were eerily quiet, with only the sound of their own footsteps breaking the silence. Kyle looked around carefully as they walked, wondering if any of the people they’d seen earlier were still lurking around here somewhere.

  But they all seemed to have left. Could that have been what the sound of the helicopters had been about?

  Too bad. He would at least have liked to find out who they’d been, and whether they’d really been with the Resistance or just faking it. He might have been able to find out whether the people in the bus who had saved him and Star had made it out alive, too. Now, he’d probably never know.

  But at least when the men and women had left, the Terminators had left with them.

  The Ashes building, when Kyle caught his first glimpse of it, was a shock. The distinctive stone archway was gone, as was most of the front of the building just above it, the whole mass having collapsed into a shattered heap of stone blocking most of the entrance.

  Star clutched suddenly at Kyle’s arm.

  “It’s okay,” he soothed her. “Remember how Orozco told us that if there was ever an attack he could put bombs in the archway to bring it down on them?”

  Star shook her head violently, her fingers digging into Kyle’s arm. Kyle frowned... and then, his fogged brain got it.

  He pushed Star against the building beside them, pressing himself there next to her as he fumbled his new shotgun to his shoulder. Heart thudding in his ears, he gave a quick look around them, then turned back to the Ashes building.

  There it was, digging diligently through the rocks at the far end of the pile, lifting huge chunks of stone and concrete off the stack and setting them down on the street beside it.

  Apparently, not all the Terminators had left.

  Kyle frowned, wondering what the machine was doing. Was it looking for other Terminators that had been trapped in the collapse? It was using both hands, he noticed, and he looked briefly for where it had set down its minigun.

  But there was no weapon to be seen. It must have lost the weapon, Kyle decided, or else had run out of ammo and dumped it. The Terminator pulled out another block of stone and set it aside.

  Then, without warning, it turned directly toward Kyle and Star.

  And as Kyle got his first clear look at the torn skin on its torso, skin torn away by a close-range shotgun blast, he suddenly realized who this was. Not some random Terminator, but their old enemy Fido.

  For a long moment the machine gazed toward them. Kyle froze, his shotgun still pointed even as he realized how utterly useless the weapon was at this range.

  And then, to Kyle’s surprise and relief, the Terminator merely turned back to the rock pile. Leaning over, it reached both hands into the hole it had dug.

  Kyle started breathing again. Maybe the machine hadn’t seen them. Maybe its optics had been damaged by its tumble through the rotten floor near the Death’s-Head compound.

  The Terminator was still working at something in the hole, perhaps a stubborn stone that didn’t want to be moved. Then, with a massive tug, it pulled a half-crushed metal arm out of the hole.

  Only it wasn’t just an arm. It was an arm that was still clutching a minigun, the weapon’s ammo belt trailing down into the hole behind it.

  Fido hadn’t given up on hunting them. It also wasn’t simply looking for broken Terminators or scrap metal to take back to Skynet.

  It was looking for a new gun.

  “Time to go,” Kyle murmured, taking Star’s arm and backing them along the wall again. They reached the corner, and just as they eased around it out of the Terminator’s sight the machine once again turned its red eyes toward them.

  It had seen them, all right. And as soon as it got its new weapon free, it was going to come after them.

  “Come on,” Kyle said. Still holding Star’s arm, he broke into a dead run back toward the ganghouse.

  Where? Star signed frantically as her feet pounded against the pavement.

  “Not sure yet,” Kyle told her. “Let’s first just get some distance between us and it. Distance and buildings,” he added as he pulled her around the corner onto the next street heading north.

  He took a deep breath, consciously settling his pumping legs into a steady rhythm, feeling a trickle of frustration run through him. He’d thought the terror of the night was over. He’d needed the terror of the night to be over.

  But it wasn’t. Maybe it never would be.

  But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that
he and Star were still alive.

  And they would stay that way, too. No matter what happened, no matter what the universe and Skynet threw at them, they would get through it. If and when that Terminator back there found them, Kyle would find a way to destroy it. Then he’d do the same to the next one Skynet sent after them, and the next one, and the one after that.

  Because Star was counting on him.

  The street stretched far ahead of them, fading away into the darkness. Watching Star out of the corner of his eye, making sure she was keeping up, he began studying the ruined buildings they were passing. Somewhere along here, he knew, he’d find something he could use.

  The quarters General Olsen’s aide took Connor and Kate to weren’t a lot bigger than some of the other places they’d called home over the years. They weren’t all that much better furnished, either.

  But it wasn’t bitterly cold, there was space for them to stow their weapons and other gear, and the floor was mostly nice and flat. More importantly, it was safe.

  And that was a far rarer and more precious commodity than anything else the Resistance could have offered them.

  “Yes, I could live here,” Connor commented as he set down his MP5 and started taking off his gun belt.

  Kate didn’t answer. Crossing the room to a table beside the bed, she began divesting herself of her own load of weapons and equipment.

  She’d hadn’t said much on the helicopter ride out of Los Angeles, Connor had noticed. Virtually nothing, in fact, except for her brief assurance that she wasn’t injured.

  “You hungry?” Connor asked. “There’s supposed to be a twenty-four-hour mess tucked away somewhere.”

  “Not right now,” Kate said, her voice low.

  Connor watched her, his own heart aching in sympathy. No matter how well an operation went, there never seemed to be any truly solid victories against Skynet. And even those partial victories always had to be paid for in human lives.

  But seldom was the price as high as it had been tonight.

  Kate finished unpacking her equipment and hung her jacket on top of her rifle. Then, not bothering to undress any farther, she climbed into the bed, rolling up onto her side and turning her face toward the wall. Setting down the rest of his own gear, Connor climbed into bed behind her.

  “You want to talk about it?” he asked gently.

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “But first I need to apologize. I shouldn’t have sneaked off against orders to join Barnes’s squad. Apart from the fact that you’re my husband, you’re also my commander. It was inexcusable, and it jeopardized the whole mission.”

  Connor shrugged. “I don’t know about the jeopardized part. I gather the only person who knew I hadn’t actually sent you was me.”

  “Which could have been more than enough to get everyone killed,” she reminded him soberly. “No, I was right the first time. Anything that distracts you affects your judgment, and damages your ability to be who you need to be. And if my presence on a mission is that distraction, then I just have to stay home.”

  “Or I need to adjust to you being who you need to be,” Connor pointed out, resting his hand on her shoulder. “And the fact remains that if you hadn’t been there, Reynolds would probably have died. You did good, Kate.”

  Her shoulder seemed to tighten beneath his hand. “Not good enough,” she said in a low voice. “All those people... Orozco...”

  “I know,” Connor said. “I wish we could have saved them, too. But we don’t always get what we wish for. We gave it everything we could. It just wasn’t enough.”

  “But Orozco,” Kate objected, some fire finally coming back into her voice. “Why would a strong, competent military man do something like that? Can someone really hate authority that much?”

  “It’s possible.” Connor hesitated. “Or maybe it’s that he hates us that much.”

  Kate rolled over to face him, her eyes wide.

  “Us? But we tried to help.”

  “But we’re part of the official Resistance now,” Connor reminded her. “The people who didn’t show up to help until it was too late.”

  Kate’s face went rigid.

  “You mean Orozco thinks—? Oh, John.”

  Connor nodded, forcing back a surge of frustration of his own.

  “I know,” he said. “And there’s nothing we can do about it, either. Except try to make sure it never happens again.”

  He ran his fingers gently across her cheek. “But don’t worry about Orozco,” he added. “He’s a survivor. He’ll be okay.”

  “I hope so,” Kate said, laying her hand on top of his. “And as long as I’m apologizing, I also need to apologize for the way I’ve been lately. I think I’m—well, I need to check, of course, but all the signs are that—I mean—”

  “Hey, relax,” Connor said gently, smiling at her sudden babbling. He’d seen that a lot after missions, and it was a lot healthier than her earlier silent act. “Like I said, you did good out there. Barnes and Simmons both told me that, and you know how hard it is to get those two to agree on anything.”

  “I’m glad it worked out,” Kate said. “Since you probably aren’t going to take me on any more missions for awhile.”

  Connor grinned. “Why? Because you get all dark and moody when it’s all over?”

  She smiled, a hint of the old impish Kate peeking through.

  “No,” she said, lifting her hand from his and resting it on his cheek. “Because I think I’m pregnant.”

  And for the first time in years, John Connor couldn’t find a single thing to say.

  EPILOGUE

  For a long time after the sound of the helicopters faded away Orozco just stayed where he was, propped up against the remnants of the barricade that hadn’t done a damn bit of good, chewing on the ration bars Kate Connor had left him and sipping from the water bottle.

  From time to time he thought about being responsible and saving some of the food for later. But it all tasted good, and he was ravenous, and he really needed to build back his strength. And anyway, later might never come.

  After about an hour, though, he decided he was tired of sitting. His hip was still weak and tender where the Terminator slug had grazed it, but his M16 made a reasonably good walking stick. Carefully, he levered his way back to his feet.

  For a long minute he just stood there, balancing on his left leg and the M16, looking around at the wreckage of everything he’d known for the past two years. He knew he should be angry, or bitter, or at least sad. But all he felt was empty.

  Maybe it was the morphine Kate had given him. Maybe once the pain came back, some emotion would, too.

  But there was no point just standing around waiting for that to happen. He might as well do what he could to stay alive, if for no better reason than to keep Skynet’s victory tonight from being a complete hundred percent.

  The first step—literally—would be to get a little more mobile. Three of Moldering Lost Ashes’ older residents had walked with crutches, and one of them had had two sets. His room had been off the north corridor, here on the ground level where he wouldn’t have to deal with stairs, and there was a good chance his spare set of crutches was still there. Favoring his right leg as much as he could, Orozco began picking his way through the debris.

  He had reached the north corridor and was working his way along it when he found Sibanda.

  He paused there, resting on his rifle, gazing down at the body. The bodies, rather—the thin pastor still had his arms wrapped around two of the younger children. He’d probably been trying to shield them with his own body when the Terminator shot them down.

  Once again, Orozco tried to feel something. Once again, he found himself unable to do so. Giving Sibanda’s body a final salute, he started to walk past.

  He’d gone two steps when the crucial question suddenly penetrated his mental haze.

  What in the world had Sibanda been doing back here?

  He turned around, frowning down at the bodies. There were no rooms
nearby that Sibanda might have been trying to take refuge in. No access to the upper floors or basement, even if going to either place would have done him any good. Had the man simply panicked and started dragging the children around in circles?

  And then, Orozco raised his eyes from the bodies to the wall behind them. The wall, and the empty window frame.

  It was tricky getting through the window with his bad hip, but Orozco managed it. Working his way along the twisting passageway among the rubble, he finally made it to the drainage tunnel manhole cover. The cover had been sealed earlier that afternoon, just as Orozco had ordered.

  Sometime in the hours after that, someone had unsealed it.

  The crowbar he and Wadleigh had used to pry up the cover was still there. But Orozco was alone this time, with a bad hip and an almost useless left arm, and the cover seemed to have somehow picked up about a ton of weight.

  He was working and swearing at it when the cover was suddenly pushed up from the inside and a pair of hands shoved it part way off to the side.

  Dropping the crowbar, Orozco snatched his Beretta from its holster and thumbed off the safety.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded. “Show yourself.”

  “Don’t shoot,” a scared, quavering voice called. The hands still clutching the rim of the cover shifted to the edge of the hole near the ladder.

  And to Orozco’s astonishment, seventeen-year-old Candace Tomlinson rose from the shaft. The girl who, less than twenty-four hours ago, had been whining and fighting over a jar of pickles.

  Though in that first instant he barely recognized her. Her face was drawn and pale, her skin swollen with the puffiness of recent crying.

  “Is it over?” she asked, her eyes shifting nervously around. “Is it safe? Reverend Sibanda said that when it was safe—”

  She broke off, her face screwing up as she belatedly focused on Orozco’s bandages and arm sling and splatters of dried blood. She opened her mouth, and Orozco braced himself for a scream.

  But the scream never came. With a visible effort, the girl dragged herself back from the edge of hysteria.

  And when she finally closed her mouth again, her face had aged ten years.