Terminator Salvation

  Arching his back, he dove and kicked as hard as he could for the bottom he had just escaped. He moved fast underwater—faster even than he remembered being able to—but not fast enough to escape the pile of metal that landed almost on top of him. The river quickly quenched the flames that were pouring from the fatally damaged aircraft. It also dragged the plane and the man who had been trapped beneath it swiftly downstream.

  He had no idea how long he had been underwater or how far from the destroyed bridge he had been carried. Of the downed A-10 there was no sign. Coughing up river, barely conscious, wondering how he had survived, Wright grew aware that half of him was still submerged in the eddy that had deposited him on the sandy shore. He told himself firmly that answers to such questions could come later.

  For the moment, being alive was enough.

  Feeling that if a sudden rush of water came downstream and caught him he would not have the strength to fight it, he knew he had to get completely out of the river. Rolling over, he lay on his back exhausted, trying to recover some sense along with his wind.

  This won’t do, he told himself. Out in the open and lying flat on the riverbank, the sun would dehydrate him quickly. Furthermore, sprawled helplessly he was completely exposed to the eyes of any patrolling machine. With a groan, he rolled over again and worked to get up onto his knees. That accomplished, he took a deep breath, stood, swayed for a moment, and steadied himself.

  Since he had fallen into the river it stood to reason that any Terminators looking for him would begin by searching there. Checking the position of the sun, he headed inland in a northward direction and away from the water.

  The wall of sand and loose scree that fronted the waterway was not easy to climb, but it did have one unexpected benefit. As he ascended, loose sand and gravel slipped downward to fill in and obscure his footsteps. He would leave no trail. Having no local destination in mind but retaining his northern bearing, he angled toward the only structure in the vicinity. If nothing else, it might offer some shade.

  As it developed, the half-collapsed high voltage transmission tower not only offered shade, but a surprise.

  It was impossible to miss the parachute that was hanging from one of the tower’s twisted cross-supports. The lightweight material fluttered slightly in what passed for a breeze. No doubt the chute had been deployed from one of the two downed fighter aircraft. As he drew nearer he saw that something was dangling from the lower end of the chute, at the terminus of the multiple nylon lines.

  It was a body, sagging limp in its shroud.

  The body proceeded to address him.

  “Hey!” It was a feeble salutation, but certainly far more than Wright had expected to hear. The weakness of the shout notwithstanding, he determined that the suspended pilot was possessed either of an unusually high voice or a different set of chromosomes. Walking over to the ruined structure and peering upward, he saw that it was the latter supposition that was accurate.

  “Hey!” Her second shout was slightly more vigorous than its predecessor. “Gimme a hand, will you?”

  Standing on the sandy surface staring up at her, Wright studied the warped metal spire for a moment, chose an angle of ascent, and went up it like a gibbon. The speed and agility with which he reached her side took her by surprise. Took him by surprise, too, but then as a kid he had always been adept at tree climbing. He studied the surrounding landscape.

  “Nice view.” Turning to examine the snarl of chute lines he started wrenching and pulling, trying to untangle her.

  “Name’s Williams. Blair Williams.”

  “Marcus Wright.” He continued wrestling with the lines. They were not cooperating. Standing atop the transmission tower he knew he was almost as out in the open as he had been lying on the beach, and he didn’t like the exposure. Hanging helpless in the straps of her ejection pack, the Resistance pilot was an even more obvious target.

  Their thoughts and concerns coincided.

  “I like to think I’m a tidy person, Marcus,” she told him, “but this is no place to waste time on neatness.” She nodded toward the ground. “How about we cut to the conclusion? I’ve got a knife.”

  He stopped wrestling with the frustrating knot of ropes.

  “Where?”

  “Back of my left boot. Ankle sheath.”

  Her right foot was hanging over emptiness. Holding onto a section of metal with one hand, he leaned out and flailed at the indicated limb with his other hand.

  “Can’t reach it.”

  “Hang on.” Dangling from the lines, she began to rock back and forth, building up momentum without regard to whether or not it might cause her to spill out of the harness. Wright waited, waited, and then timed his reach perfectly, locking his hand around her boot. Probing fingers released the catch on the sheath and he pulled the knife free. It was bigger than he expected; long, sharp, and with one edge lined with jagged teeth.

  Sitting back on his perch, he eyed it admiringly. For the first time since regaining consciousness he had come into contact with a memory that was pleasing. In a life devoid of friends, knives had always been there for him, ready and willing to do whatever he wanted them to do. Sometimes too often.

  He shook off the worthless reverie. “Nice knife.”

  Something in his voice, maybe, or something in his expression caused her to keep her response short.

  “Thanks. My knife.”

  Without comment, he began sawing at the thickest part of the tangle. He was halfway through when he realized that with nothing to hold her back she was going to take a hard tumble when he cut through the last cords. The sand below the crumpled tower was thick and soft, but it was still a substantial drop. Turning slightly, he extended his left arm toward her.

  “Take my hand.”

  She nodded, and had to swing briefly again to reach him. Gripping her right hand firmly with his left, he resumed slicing at the cords. He didn’t have to cut the last one—unable to hold her weight by itself, it snapped with a soft pop. Dropping a couple of feet, she came to a sudden stop and found herself dangling high above the ground. Though she was not small, he held her easily with his one arm.

  Bending down as much as he could without releasing his grip, he swung her like a toy until she could grab one of the metal struts. Their eyes met and locked for several seconds.

  “You can let go now,” she told him softly. He released her hand, and together they made their way back to the ground. He watched her with admiration. Most of the women he had known couldn’t climb worth a damn. Those who could were usually responding to unusual motivation, such as the shouts of pursuing police to stop where they were.

  She was dusting herself off as Wright started walking away. His attention was focused not on her, but on a specific point in the distance. One he could not see, but seemed to know was there.

  “That thing the machines put the people in—where is it going?”

  Still checking her gear, she glanced up at him.

  “The meat Transport? I don’t know. Nobody does. There are all kinds of theories. Nobody talks about it much. Doesn’t make for pleasant dinner conversation.”

  He nodded, and promptly started off in the direction he had last seen the machine traveling. She gaped at him.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  He spoke without looking back. “After it. They took my—friends.”

  She shook her head. What part of the sky had this doof-us—an admittedly very strong doofus—dropped from?

  “I hate to break it to you, but if you’ve got friends on that thing, they’re as good as dead. The machines don’t swap prisoners. When they lose fighters, they just build new ones.” He was still walking, forcing her to shout after him. “You’ll be dead too if you keep going in that direction!”

  This time he did look back. His tone was stone cold.

  “I’ve been dead for a while now. I’m getting good at it.”

  She jogged after him until she caught up. Part of her said just to
let him go. You couldn’t stop a fool from going on a fool’s errand, especially one as determined as this idiot seemed to be. On the other hand, every live person was one more who could raise a weapon against Skynet. If there was anything the war had taught even the most cynical, it was that every human life was worth preserving. Having seen that common sense had no effect on her rescuer, she switched to persuasion.

  “You can’t do anything for your friends on your own. You’re making a noble gesture that will end in your death—and there are easier ways to commit suicide.”

  Reaching out, she put a hand on his arm. “Come with me back to my base. It might take some time to hoof it, but there’ll be others out looking for me. We might be able to help your friends—though I’ll be honest and say I doubt it. If the regular military doesn’t have any ideas, Connor might know a way.”

  The mention of that name stopped Wright in his tracks.

  “Connor? The man on the radio? I just heard him speak. He was—positive.”

  She smiled encouragingly. “That’s Connor, all right. He puts out a regular regional broadcast, same as every base commander. Goes with the job. But Connor’s not like ‘every’ base commander—leastwise that’s what I’ve been told. He knows as much about the machines as anyone.”

  Though still gazing longingly at the horizon, Wright found himself forced to temper desire with reality.

  “Where is your base? You said we might be able to walk there.”

  She relaxed, relieved to have gotten through to him.

  “Should be one or two days hike. If nobody picks us up in the interim, I’m pretty sure I can get us back. I’ve flown over this part of the country plenty of times.” Digging into a pocket of her flight suit, she pulled out a compass. Like so much of the equipment humans had been reduced to using since the rise of Skynet, the compass was functional but low-tech.

  Still he hesitated. “Are you sure you know which way to go?”

  She smiled reassuringly. “The base is there. You coming?” Her smile twisted. “It’s got a great view.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The interior of the Skynet Transport was an accurate reflection not only of machine design but of their disdain for humankind. It was dark, cramped, and uncomfortable, providing just enough room and air to keep its captives alive. Not unlike the cages humans had once used to smuggle endangered animals from one country to another in the service of the lucrative and illegal exotic pet trade.

  Trying to hang onto the little bit of space he had managed to carve out by dint of mild pushing and shoving, Kyle Reese did not feel like he was going to be made into a Skynet pet. While he had no idea why the machines had taken them alive, he doubted it was to fete him and Star and their fellow prisoners with candy and ice cream. The brief thought of ice cream, which he remembered clearly but had not tasted in years, did nothing to soothe either his mood or the hunger that was once again rising in his gut.

  They were not alone in the belly of the Transport, though nearly all the other captives were adults. Conversation was muted and conducted in a variety of languages. Around them the steady whirr and hum of the machine was interrupted only by an occasional clank. He had already decided that the Transport was not equipped with the most advanced machine mind. There was no reason why it should be, since it was essentially a semi-sentient truck.

  Where there was a way in, there had to be a way out. Looking around, searching every corner and ignoring the other captives, he began hunting for one.

  A tiny sniffle broke his concentration and caused him to look down at the little girl who was curled up against him.

  “Don’t cry, Star. We’ll get out of this. We’ve gotten out of worse.” Then he noticed the reason for the uncharacteristic sob. “You’ve lost your hat.” She nodded, staring up at him.

  He had to smile to himself. That was Star. Imprisoned by the machines, being hauled off to who-knew-what ruthless, inhuman fate, and she was worried about her hat.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find it.” It was an unfounded but necessary boast. He had no idea where it might be. Most likely it was lying at the bottom of the river beneath the shattered bridge where they had been captured. The machines wouldn’t have kept it. The only human artifacts that interested them were devices that could be studied with an eye toward improving themselves or weapons that could be used against them. But his pointless promise served its purpose. She stopped crying.

  Most of their fellow captives were strangers, but not all. He noticed one white-haired woman who was actually smiling across at him. It was Virginia, the woman from the now eradicated convenience store who had taken them in and generously given them food. How she could smile under such mournful circumstances was something of a wonder in itself. She was the type of person, he decided, who if being roasted in hell would find it in her heart to comment favorably on the clement temperature.

  Hell being, he reminded himself gloomily, a distinct possibility, since while no one knew what the machines had in store for them it was unlikely to be nice.

  One stocky, swarthy man had draped an arm protectively around the shoulders of a woman who was likely his wife. He was holding her hand with the other.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be okay,” he was murmuring in soft Spanish.

  While still alert, the woman was plainly in danger of withdrawing from reality. Her eyes were vacant, indifferent.

  “What’s going to happen? What are these things going to do to us? I’m afraid we’re going to die. I don’t want to die.”

  “Don’t worry.” His hand squeezed hers tightly. “No matter what, I’m not going to let you out of my sight.”

  Seated nearby, a man clad in a tattered Resistance uniform was studying the unadorned ceiling and muttering to himself in French.

  “Il ne devrait pas être beaucoup plus long.”

  Still clinging tightly to his wife, the Hispanic blinked at him. “What did you say?”

  Meeting the other man’s gaze, the solemn-faced fighter switched to English.

  “I was saying that it should not be much longer. Until we reach—wherever it is we are going.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because the machines know we need food and water, and it makes no sense to take us alive if they do not intend to keep us that way.” He hesitated. “Until we have fulfilled whatever purpose they have in mind for us, at least.”

  Seated across from the Frenchman, a wide-eyed Angeleno in his thirties had his arms wrapped around his knees and was rocking slowly back and forth.

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re all going to die. They’re going to kill us all.”

  “No they’re not.” Though misplaced and entirely unjustifiable, Virginia’s quiet confidence was something to admire. Much to his surprise, Reese was sufficiently motivated to agree with her. He hugged Star a little closer.

  “That’s right, Virginia. They’re not going to kill us.” He looked down at Star. “I won’t let them.”

  The despondent speaker who had given voice to his gloom sneered at Reese. “Smart-ass kid like you will be first.”

  “It is like this gentleman said.” Virginia indicated the French fighter. “If they simply wanted to kill us they would have done so already. There would be no reason to take us prisoner.”

  Someone else in the chamber muttered, “Maybe they want to study us. Open us up and look for vulnerabilities.”

  While potentially accurate, that was quite possibly the worst thing anyone could have said. It turned quiet inside the Transport for a long time. Eventually taking it upon herself to break the oppressive silence, Virginia leaned toward the silent Star.

  “You feel like a story? I know some good stories.”

  Refusing to be mollified, even indirectly, a heretofore silent young Chinese woman spoke up. Her voice rose just above a whisper, as if she was imparting an accepted fact instead of just speculating.

  “They’re just keeping us in here until the war is over. It’s not true about the m
achines killing us. They’re just keeping us in here until the war is over.”

  Another man spoke up. “I’ve heard what they do. It’s worse than just killing you.”

  The depressed man who had challenged Reese turned toward him.

  “Why’s that? What’s worse than being killed?”

  He raised his voice slightly. His eyes were haunted.

  “I’ve heard what they do with prisoners. I heard the machines tear your skin off your body while you’re still alive, slide it over a metal skeleton so you can’t tell who’s human and who’s a machine.”

  Ever positive, Virginia refused to accept the nightmare scenario.

  “If that was true, there’d be no survivors to escape and tell that story.”

  The Frenchman was shaking his head. “What I would not give for a tomato. And a sip of a decent shiraz.”

  The woman who held a different theory crawled back to her space.

  “I don’t know if one is true or the other. It’s just what I heard.”

  This time the man who had voiced the terrible possibility voided his frustration on her instead of Reese.

  “What difference does it make? So they intend to kill us, or dissect us, or make us slaves. What does the method matter if the end is the same?” He let his gaze roam around the interior of their traveling prison. “What we should be doing instead of thinking about how we’re going to die is trying to come up with a way to save ourselves. Look at us. We’re in a cattle car. We’re on the way to the slaughterhouse!”

  While Virginia was hopeful, she was also practical.

  “What can we do right now? We’re trapped in here.”

  The man’s voice rose to a snarl.

  “See what toaster’s piloting this plane and take it over.”

  “And crash us into the ground?” Reese shot back. “Besides, what would you suggest we do? Hold a gun to the onboard computer and threaten to blow its circuits out? We don’t have any weapons anyway.” He leaned back against the inner wall of the compartment, one arm draped loosely over his right knee. “No. I’m with you when it comes to trying a breakout, but not while we’re an unknown number of feet above the ground. We hold tight, wait until we land, and then look for the right spot and time to make a move.”