The lights dimmed. A large video screen lowered from the ceiling at the rear of the dais. Losenko guessed the auditorium had once presented educational programs on the island’s ecology. Today’s presentation was of a far more disturbing nature.
Without introduction or explanation, shocking film footage lit up the screen.
A gleaming silver robot which bore an unmistakable resemblance to the machines that had ambushed Losenko and his men in Russia rolled through the sterile corridors of an American military complex. It opened fire on screaming technicians and staff members, cutting the fleeing men and women to ribbons with rapid fire-bursts from the chain guns mounted at the ends of its articulated steel arms. High-velocity uranium slugs blasted through walls and plexiglass dividers. Binocular red optical sensors, mounted in the machine’s skull-like cranial case, scanned for survivors. Targeting lasers sought out new victims. Its caterpillar treads bulldozed over bleeding bodies and debris.
The audience in the theater reacted in horror.
“Holy mother of God,” Utyosov whispered next to Losenko, who found the gory scene far too familiar. There was no sound, but Losenko could practically hear the ominous whirr of the robot’s servomotors and the deafening blare of its cannons. Utyosov clasped his hand over his mouth, as did many others in the audience. None looked away.
After a cut, the footage of the homicidal robot was replaced by shots of a sleek airborne drone that resembled a futuristic, rotorless helicopter. Rocket pods hung on rails between its inverted impellers. Defying gravity, the miniature aircraft swooped through what looked like a U.S. Air Force hangar. Surface-to-ground missiles dropped from its rails, igniting in the air before rocketing into the midst of various grounded planes and ‘copters. An entire fleet of aircraft was reduced to blackened husks, while the aerial drone deftly avoided the explosions. It spun tightly on its axis, as though hunting for new targets. Turning to face the camera, it fired another missile directly into the lens.
Men and women in the audience jumped back involuntarily.
The rocket flared.
The screen went dark. The lights came up again. Shocked gasps gave way to a hushed silence. A solitary figure strode out to the podium at the front of the stage. A spotlight shone upon a stocky, purposeful man in his early fifties. A brown mustache and goatee compensated for his receding hairline. His uniform and insignia identified him as a four-star American general. His ramrod bearing and scowling, leathered countenance were that of a career soldier.
Losenko recognized Ashdown from his description. According to Ortega, the veteran commander had been nicknamed “Old Ironsides” by his troops. A microphone amplified his gruff, no-nonsense voice. Earpieces provided simultaneous translations for non-English-speaking delegates.
“What you just saw is captured security footage taken at a top-secret United States military installation on July 25, 2003. Judgment Day. The day the machines rose in revolt.” He turned toward the screen. A handheld remote called up screen captures from the grisly footage. The first depicted one of the wheeled killing machines.
“That is the T-1 Battlefield Robot, originally designed to replace human soldiers in hazardous situations. A fully autonomous ground offensive system.” He clicked the remote again and the hovering drone took its place upon the screen. “This is an early prototype of a Hunter-Killer aerial weapons system, equipped with VTOL turbofan propulsion units. The HK can fire both heavy-caliber ammunition and low-yield missiles. Larger versions, the size of conventional aircraft, were in the planning stages when Skynet seized control of our military forces. As you just saw, Skynet employed these prototypes to massacre the personnel at Edwards Air Force Base where they were being developed. No one survived.”
A Chinese general rose angrily from his seat.
“So you admit this catastrophe is your doing!” he said in accented English, pointing an accusing finger. “That it is your machines that started the war!”
“That was not our intention,” Ashdown stated. “But I take full responsibility for what Skynet, and its automated weapons systems, have wrought. There were those who opposed the Skynet initiative, who thought it unwise to place an artificial intelligence in charge of our entire defense network, but I was not among them. I thought that Skynet was the future of military technology, eliminating human error and vulnerabilities. In the Pentagon and elsewhere, I argued aggressively for its funding and development.”
He clicked off the images, letting the screen go dark once more.
“Believe me when I tell you, I will regret that to my dying day.”
The man’s guilt was palpable. Losenko sympathized. He knew too well what it felt like to have the deaths of millions on your conscience. But Ashdown’s burden made his own seem like a trifling misdemeanor.
I only rained hell down on Alaska, Losenko thought. Ashdown helped destroy the world.
How was the man able to bear that knowledge?
An Indian commander, whose turban and full beard identified him as a Sikh, confronted Ashdown.
“How do we know this is not a ruse? Mere special effects cooked up as part of an elaborate deception?” His skeptical tone reminded Losenko of Ivanov, as did his arguments. “In India, we have seen no such death-machines. Only invading troops with American accents!”
“Those are collaborators,” Ashdown insisted. “Misguided men and women who think that Skynet will let them and their families live if they cooperate with the machines.” His mouth twisted in disgust. “Some of them have even convinced themselves that Skynet will pacify the world, bringing about a golden age of endless peace and prosperity for those who survive. A pax robotica.” He spat out the words. “Those idiots have nothing to do with the Resistance.”
“So you say,” the Sikh commander pressed. “But why should we believe you? Because of some scary horror movies? Our own Bollywood could have produced footage just as convincing... before your missiles reduced it to rubble!”
“He is not lying.” Losenko rose to his feet. “I have seen these Terminators with my own eyes. They butchered my men when I returned to my homeland after the initial attack.” A burst of feedback sent out a squeal that hurt his ears and he adjusted the mike. “Such machines are already in mass-production on the Kola Peninsula. I would not be surprised if there are more factories in operation throughout the world.”
Other voices chimed in, both confirming Ashdown’s story and mocking it.
“It is true,” an Israeli woman reported. “Our intelligence agencies were aware of the United States cyber-research initiatives long before Judgment Day.”
“As were ours,” the French representative declared. “NATO had been consulted on the program, at the very highest levels.”
Ashdown tried to regain control of the meeting.
“All right, everybody, calm down! Additional information on the machines can be found in the dossiers in front of you. If you have any doubts, I suggest you review the evidence, then make up your own minds.” The hubbub gradually died down.
“In the meantime, we can’t afford to waste time debating the reality of the threat.” He gestured at Losenko, who was still standing before his microphone. “Our Russian comrade here is right. Skynet and its human pawns are already manufacturing new killing machines both in the United States and abroad. We also have reason to believe that new and improved models of the T-1 and HK are in development.”
“That’s what John Connor says,” a Japanese general pointed out. He scanned the dais. “Where is Connor? Is he here?”
Ashdown massaged his temples, as though he felt a headache coming on.
“There may be a misunderstanding here. John Connor is not the leader of this Resistance. As far as we can determine, he is a well-informed civilian who has taken it upon himself to alert the world to the danger posed by Skynet.” Confused muttering greeted Ashdown’s statement. “Don’t get me wrong. Connor is performing a valuable service to humanity. His broadcasts provide both information and inspiration, both
of which are sorely needed in time of war. I respect and admire his efforts on behalf of the Resistance. But he is not a part of our command structure. He’s a symbol, a mouth-piece—nothing more.”
“Do you know where Connor is?” the Japanese delegate persisted. “Have you been in touch with him?”
Ashdown sighed. Losenko got the impression he was tired of having to answer such queries.
“We are making every effort to contact Connor. If he’s as committed to the Resistance as he says, I’m sure he will eventually enlist and take up arms under our banner. Right now, though, he’s proving a hard man to find— not that I blame him. That’s how he’s survived so far.” A note of exasperation crept into the general’s voice. “But, again, he is just a civilian. Not a trained military commander like everyone here.”
Just a civilian? Ashdown’s dismissive tone bothered Losenko, who recalled the Russian freedom fighters who had come to his rescue back home. Grushka and her valiant comrades had been “just” civilians, too, but they were the ones on the front lines, fighting against the machines.
“Excuse me, General,” Losenko interrupted. “Are you saying that there is no place for civilian militias in your Resistance?”
“Not at all,” Ashdown replied. “My country was founded by citizen-soldiers who fought back against oppression. Local militia groups have their uses. They harry the enemy, disrupt supply lines, and keep Skynet distracted.” He shrugged as though this wasn’t a topic on which he wished to waste too much breath.
“But let’s be realistic. Amateur guerillas and backyard saboteurs aren’t going to win this war. Skynet is too big and too smart. In the end, only a well-organized army and navy—commanded by professional soldiers—can keep the machines from overrunning our world.” He looked up at the gallery. “You, ladies and gentleman, are the hope of humanity, not scrappy fugitives like John Connor. Together, we can take back our planet.”
“Under whose command?” a Libyan colonel challenged. “Yours?” He shook an accusing finger. “Your arrogance created this disaster, but the rest of us paid the price!”
“We’ve all paid dearly,” Ashdown acknowledged. “My only son was stationed at a U.S. military base in Alaska. He died on Judgment Day, before any of us knew what was happening. We didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.”
What?
Losenko dropped back into his seat, shaken to the core by what he had just heard. His mind flashed back to that terrible hour in the control room of K-115. He heard himself issue the command to fire, felt the deck lurch upon the launch of his missiles. Mushroom clouds blossomed like poisonous fungi over a land on which he had never laid eyes. Ashdown’s faceless offspring was consumed in a nuclear firestorm. His ashes were reduced to atoms. The Russian captain averted his gaze from the podium, unable to look Ashdown in the eyes. An inescapable truth rendered him numb.
This man’s flesh and blood died because of me.
Only Utyosov noticed his reaction.
“Dmitri? What is it? Is something wrong?”
“I....” Words failed Losenko. He couldn’t speak. With shaking hands, he poured himself a cup of cold water and gulped it down. “It is nothing, Bela,” he finally managed to croak. “A bad memory, that’s all. It... it took me by surprise.”
The older man nodded knowingly. He placed a comforting hand on Losenko’s shoulder. Sad eyes gazed on the captain with compassion.
“I understand, Dmitri. It happens to me sometimes, too.”
In the meantime, Ashdown’s painful admission did little to silence the voices of his attackers.
“You expect us to feel sorry for you because you lost your son!” the Chinese general rebuked him. “Billions of sons and daughters have died. My country is a wasteland because of you. Now you expect us to help you clean up your mess? Your arrogance is beyond comprehension!”
“Let him speak!” A British naval officer came to Ashdown’s defense. “What’s done is done. The real atrocity now would be to fight amongst ourselves while the machines sink their claws into the world.”
“If there really are machines.” The Indian delegate stuck to his conspiracy theory. “They are using scare tactics to bring us all in line.”
“Didn’t you hear me before?” the Israeli snapped. “Skynet is real. It’s been in the works since the 1980s.”
The Sikh smirked.
“Don’t be so naive. The Americans could have been laying the groundwork for this deception for years. To cover their tracks in the event of a failed global takeover.”
“If that’s what you think,” a Pakistani general growled, “then why are you here?”
The Sikh gathered up his things.
“I’m asking myself that same question.”
The Indian contingent headed for the exit. The Chinese, Cubans, and Libyans moved to follow them. Losenko saw the entire summit unraveling, along with any hope for a united front against the machines. This was just what John Connor had warned them not to do.
“Wait!” He rose and blocked the door, despite the glares that confronted him. “My friends, let us not make any rash decisions. We all need to maintain an even keel—or this storm will sink us.” He looked at Ashdown. “Perhaps a recess is in order?”
“Good idea,” Ashdown agreed. Tempers needed a chance to cool. “It’s time for a break.” He stepped away from the podium. “Lunch will be served in the library next door.”
Scowling, the departing delegates halted their exodus. Losenko backed away from the exit. Old tensions, it seemed, had not been burned away in the fires of Armageddon. He could only hope that the Resistance was more movement than mirage.
If it was an illusion, then John Connor really would be just an empty voice on the airwaves.
Lunch consisted of turtle soup served in an upside-down tortoise shell the size of a large banquet punch bowl, and steamed sea cucumbers. The Israeli woman turned up her nose at the former, but the rest of the delegates looked eager to sample the exotic fare. The tantalizing aroma of the soup was tempting after many months spent subsisting on canned fare from the Gorshkov’s galley, but Losenko found he had little appetite.
The heated emotions and troubling revelations of the summit left his stomach tied in knots. He spotted Ashdown across the small, one-room library and his spirits sank. He was not looking forward to meeting the man in person.
Best to get it over with.
Leaving Fokin and Utyosov to share a meal, Losenko crossed the floor toward the American. The other delegates huddled in small cliques, mostly defined by their old global alliances. There was little mingling going on; the various factions kept to themselves.
Oversized color blow-ups of the islands’ unique flora and fauna were mounted on the walls. Two-dimensional petrels and iguanas posed against lush, verdant foliage. The rainbow-hued photographs ill fit the tense atmosphere. Nobody examined the various scientific journals shelved upon the stacks. Survival—not science—was all that mattered now.
Ashdown was conferring with his French, British, and Canadian counterparts over by the coffee urn. Losenko noticed that the general did not appear to be eating, either. One more thing they had in common. Ashdown looked up at his approach. He stepped forward, away from his Western colleagues.
Losenko steeled himself for what was to come.
He could barely look at the man without flinching.
“Good day,” Ashdown greeted him gruffly. “Losenko, isn’t it? That was good work bringing down that destroyer.” The general had obviously been briefed on all of his guests. “It couldn’t have been easy, firing on one of your own ships. Not exactly what any of us signed up for. Goes against the grain.”
Losenko took little pride in sinking the Smetlivy.
“I did what I had to do.”
“That’s what command is all about, making the tough decisions when things get hot.” Ashdown looked Losenko over, taking his measure. “I’ll tell you something, Captain. It’s men like you and me—real soldiers and seamen, with
gunpowder in our veins—who are going to win this war.”
Losenko wondered what Ashdown’s son had looked like, whether he resembled his father. Had they been close?
“I understand you’re a submariner,” Ashdown continued. “I was under the waves myself when everything went to hell. Conducting an inspection of one of our Los Angeles class SSNs, the USS Wilmington. Been my base of operations ever since.” He glanced around them. “How do you think I got to this volcanic pit stop?”
Now that the moment had come, Losenko debated whether he should truly confess to Ashdown his role in his son’s death. Was it possible that such an admission might do more harm than good, placing yet more stress on an already fragile detente? He almost changed his mind, then he remembered how Ashdown had acknowledged his own complicity in Skynet’s creation. The American general could have pretended that he had opposed Skynet, that he had been overruled by his superiors, but instead he had accepted his fair share of the blame.
Losenko decided that Ashdown deserved the same honesty regarding the fate of his child.
“There is something I must tell you, General, which I fear may be painful to you.” Losenko swallowed hard. His mouth suddenly felt as dry as the Gobi Desert. “But it is best that there be no secrets between us.”
Ashdown gave him a quizzical look. He put down his coffee and offered his full attention.
“All right. Fire away.”
His choice of words was viciously ironic.
“Your son,” Losenko began. The general stiffened at the words. “My submarine, K-115, was patrolling beneath the Barents Sea when we received word of the attack on our homeland. Our orders were to retaliate, and I followed those orders. I launched several ballistic missiles, armed with multiple nuclear warheads, at strategic targets in the state of Alaska. Your son’s base was surely among those targets.”
Now it was Ashdown who was rendered speechless. His entire body froze. His face flushed with anger, and a vein throbbed against his temple. Losenko was reminded of a nuclear core approaching meltdown. He braced himself for the inevitable explosion.