Alan Foster: Terminator Salvation

Still in her thirties, she was unconventionally beautiful. Part of this was due to the nature of her work, which gave her an aspect of perfection that was partly the result of intense concentration. Uncharacteristically, desperation announced itself in the slight gauntness of her face and the tightness of her lips. It detracted from her beauty only slightly.

Halting outside his cell, she looked in and met Wright’s gaze without flinching. The ensuing silence between them spoke, if not volumes, at least a word or two. He looked up at the priest.

“Leave.” Emerging from the prisoner’s mouth, it was plainly a command and not a request.

His State-supported visitor gestured hesitantly with the Bible he held.

“I’m not finished, son.”

Wright’s gaze shifted from wall to uninvited confessor. His stare was, arguably, more unyielding than the concrete. It was not necessary for him to respond—verbally.

As pragmatic as he was well-meaning, the priest got the message. As the heavy metal door was pulled back he did not even glance in the direction of the new arrival. He was lost in his own thoughts, which were not as comforting as he would have liked.

One of the guards managed to raise his gaze from the rest of Serena Kogan to her face long enough to give her a warning nod.

If you need us, me and my buddy are right here, his expression said, while the look on his colleague’s face added, Don’t do anything to need us.

As the cell door slid shut behind her, awkwardness substituted for a casual greeting. Disinterested at the best of times in casual chatter, Wright regarded her wordlessly. The silence between them threatened to grow as wide as the gap between their respective social positions.

“How are you?” she finally murmured.

In the troglodytic confines of the cell the query was at least as funny as the paramount punchline of a highly paid stand-up comedian.

“Ask me again in an hour,” Wright replied coldly.

With the silence but not the unease broken, her attention wandered to the cell’s small desk. It boasted little in the way of accoutrements save for a single tome: Beyond Good and Evil. Not exactly light reading, but she was pleased to see it.

“You got the book I sent.”

Wright wasn’t one to comment on the obvious. For all he mouthed in response he might have read the volume through, or he might have used the pages for toilet paper. His expression gave no clue. And they were both running out of options.

“I thought I’d try one last time.” In the dim light of the cell her pale skin gleamed like the sun he could no longer see. “Beg, really.”

No smile, no frown. Same monotone, same unreadable expression.

“You should’ve stayed in San Francisco,” he muttered. “Situations reversed, I would have.”

She stared at him a moment longer, then moved deliberately over to the desk. From the slim case she carried she removed a sheaf of neatly bound papers, set them on the battered, scored surface, and added a pen. Per entrance regulations, the pen had a soft tip. Her voice strengthened.

“By signing this consent form you’d be donating your body to a noble cause. You’d have a second chance, with your last act, to do something for humanity. It’s an opportunity that’s not offered to everyone in your position.”

He looked up at her.

“You know what I did. I’m not looking for a second chance.”

She hesitated, then picked up the pen and papers. Her slender hands were shaking, and not because of his nearness. Having corresponded with her, he knew at least part of the reason why.

“’Course, I’m not the only one with a death sentence, am I? Life’s funny that way. You think by signing those papers I’m going to help cure your cancer, Dr. Kogan?”

She stiffened slightly.

“We’re all going to die, Marcus. Sooner or later, everyone dies, every thing dies. People, plants, planets, stars—everything. In the scheme of things my life, your life, none of them matter. We’re here for a minute or two; we eat, laugh, and screw around, and then we’re gone.”

She snapped her fingers.

“Like that. I’m not worried about myself. I’m worried about the future of the human race.”

He appeared to ponder her response, then nodded slowly.

“Like I should care about the future of the human race. Like anyone should. It produced me, didn’t it?” He went silent for another moment, then declared, “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll sell it to you. My body.” He looked down at himself and the disgust in his voice was unmistakable. “This...”

It wasn’t the final reply she had expected.

“’Sell’ it? For what?”

He looked up at her again, meeting her gaze evenly. A glint of life had appeared amid the emptiness in his eyes. Or maybe it was just the angle of the overhead lights.

“A kiss.”

Her lower jaw dropped slightly and she gaped at him.

“Are you trying to be funny?”

He shrugged diffidently.

“I’m not funny even when I try.” Extending one arm, he indicated his surroundings. “Not much to joke about here. Well?” His other hand tapped his chest. “You want the merchandise or not?”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“Last guy thought I was kidding didn’t have a chance to revise his opinion.”

She swallowed. Her gut was riven with inoperable tumors. She had something to gain and absolutely nothing to lose. When you’re dying, it’s amazing how swiftly abstract notions like self-respect and dignity are reduced to useless platitudes. She set the pen and papers back on the desk, then turned back to him and nodded. Her arms dropped to her sides. She looked like a woman facing a firing squad.

For the first time since the priest had come and gone, Wright rose from the cot. Standing, he looked a lot taller, a lot bigger. The emotional as well as physical threat he represented extended out in all directions from his powerful frame. Just being in his vicinity was disturbing.

Outside the cell, the two veteran guards saw what was happening and immediately moved closer to the door. One gripped the handle in anticipation. But they had been told not to interfere unless it became absolutely necessary.

Wright moved closer to her. She held her ground. Slowly, taking his time, he leaned toward her. Over her. Before the guards could get inside he could reach up and snap her neck like a desiccated broomstick, and they both knew it.

Bending down, he kissed her.

His hands rose to hold the sides of her face as he held the contact. There was not a shred of sexual attraction, of romance, of tenderness, in the kiss. It was ugly and violating and psychologically—if not physically—brutal. While it continued her eyes were shut tight, and not with pleasure.

He held it for a long time.

Alternately repulsed and bemused, the guards looked on but made no move to intervene. Already they were imagining how they were going to tell the story to their cohorts. Later, over hot coffee and sweet pastries.

***

The unwieldy clinch continued until Wright had had enough. Maybe he simply grew bored. Or maybe he had sufficiently demonstrated what he could do if he wanted to. Letting go of her he stepped back, studying her face. Looking through her. When he finally spoke, his tone was atypically thoughtful.

“So that’s what death tastes like.”

Though she tried, her expression did not kill him. In any case, that was the State’s responsibility.

Stepping past her, he picked the pen up off the desk. Without so much as a glance at the pages of extensive legalese, he signed where indicated. He could have misspelled his name, could have signed “George Washington,” could have done any number of things to render the process legally invalid. Instead, he wrote “Marcus Wright” in clear, legible letters. A deal was a deal, and he felt he had gotten his money’s worth.