Alan Foster - Terminator Salvation

It had been a long time since Connor had experienced the kind of deep contentment brought him by the sight of the deactivated Hunter-Killer. He smiled meaningfully at Barnes.

“If you’re going to kill something, especially a Terminator, get close enough to make sure you finish the job. Toughest soldier I ever knew taught me that.”

Barnes’s eyebrows rose, reflecting his interest.

“Yeah? Who was that?”

“My mother.”

Turning, Connor started toward the tech carrying the transmitter. “Status report.”

The technician was studying the control panel he held in both hands.

“This thing burns through a lot of power. Batteries are getting hot already. Long-range units are going to need forty, maybe fifty kilowatts. Sustainable kilowatts.” He looked at the squad leader. “With that kind of draw, this power pack can maintain transmission for another ten minutes, maybe twelve.”

Connor nodded to show that he understood, turned to the watching members of the squad.

“Well, what are you waiting for? It’s party time.”

Whoops and hollers of delight rose from the tightly knit group of men and women. Connor watched as they disappeared down the stairs. Knowing what was coming, he beckoned to Barnes and the tech, leading them to the far side of the building. Moments later several massive detonations ripped the night air as the demolition team set off the explosives they had planted on the now-powerless killing machine.

Chunks of concrete and shards of rubble rained down on the side of the roof where he and his people had been gathered earlier. They were gratified to see that the debris contained numerous chunks of twisted, scorched metal. The shouts from the street below that followed the fading explosions resounded louder than ever. Connor nodded thoughtfully to no one in particular.

It also had been a long time since he had heard his fellow humans cheer like that.

He pulled a communicator from his service belt, the most up-to-date available in the Resistance inventory. It took a moment to set up a secure contact. When the operator came through, he barked, “This is John Connor. Get me a line with Command.”

The delay required to establish the necessary connection allowed him to reflect on how peaceful it was in the absence of combat. It was a reverie that did not last long. He recognized the voice on the other end of the line immediately.

“Connor?” General Ashdown’s voice had lost none of its intrinsic sharpness. “Tell me the damn thing works.”

“Would I be in contact with you now if it didn’t?”

“So it functions like we hoped?”

“That’s affirmative, but it’s just as the engineers diagrammed it. I mean that the signal has to be continuous until demolition of the objective has been achieved. Which means that, also according to projections, the machines will be able to track any transmitter location while it’s in the process of broadcasting. Anyone utilizing this system will be giving up their position.”

The glee in Ashdown’s voice was unmistakable.

“I don’t see what the problem is. As long as the signal works, there’ll be nothing left to do the tracking.”

The general had a point.

“I can do this, but I need more time. One successful trial run isn’t adequate.”

“No, there is no more time. We don’t have time. The attack commences tomorrow. 0400, worldwide.” Ashdown paused a moment, as if consulting something unseen. “Your unit will be in support of the bombing of Skynet Central.”

Connor frowned at the communicator.

“Bombing? According to our latest intelligence, Skynet Central is filled with human captives. What’s the extraction plan for the prisoners?”

Ashdown did not waver. “Extraction plan? There is no extraction plan. This is a war for the survival of the human race, Connor. We’ll do our mourning after we’ve won it. The names of a few hundred more can be added to the millions who have already perished.” There was a pause. “Leadership has its cost. You, above all, should know that.”

Without another word the line went dead. Connor stared at the communicator for a long moment, until he was once again distracted by the elated shouts and hollering of his returning troops. Forcing himself back to the present, he gave the order to form up and move out.

***

Only Barnes, watching his squad commander, sensed that something was not right. The test of the transmitter had worked perfectly. Everything had gone as well as or better than planned. Yet instead of partaking in the general elation, Connor had sunk deep in thought. Barnes knew his commander well enough to leave him alone. Which was hardly new.

No matter the circumstances, John Connor always seemed to be alone.

The Transport came down between several decaying buildings whose interiors were anything but inactive. Smoke and fire belched into the leaden night, suggestive of the continuous activity that was taking place within the flanking structures.

Straining to peer out the tiny openings in the side of their flying prison, Kyle Reese could see shapes moving about in the haze and darkness. Some he thought he recognized while the design and function of others were completely alien to him.

Limited as these glimpses of the outside were, they were not reassuring.

Then the lights went off inside the detention compartment. A few of the prisoners screamed. Others uttered whatever oath was most immediately at hand. Curses were voiced in a multiplicity of languages.

Something tickled Reese’s sense of smell, then assailed it. Gas; pungent, thick, and pregnant with unknown possibilities, not the least of which was the prompting of a sudden urge to retch uncontrollably. Brighter light appeared in quantity at the far end of the compartment.

Fighting through the surging mob, the effluvia, and the rising stench, he found his way to Star and Virginia and shielded them from the escalating chaos as everyone on board the Transport stumbled toward the exit, desperate to get away from the intolerable stink.

The oversized doorway toward which they were being herded by an assortment of T-1s and T-600s was lit like the mouth of hell. Floodlights turned the immediate unloading area bright as day, forcing exhausted prisoners who had been held in near darkness to shield their eyes from the sudden intensity. The light had no effect on the silently watching machines, whose vision was modulated by circuitry and not sensitive retinal pigmentation.

As they staggered out of the Transport away from the gas that was coercing them, something that had been dropped on the floor of the craft caught Reese’s eye. Holding his nose and forcing a path back through the surging crowd, he managed to recover it.

Battered, trampled, and dirty, it nonetheless brought an immediate smile to Star’s face when he was able to put her hat back on her head. If he could have identified them, he would have thanked whoever had originally found it.

There was no time to inquire. Lurching forward, a huge machine with a wide curving front blade rumbled to life and began ungently shoving the dazed and tired humans along the walkway on which the Transport had deposited them. An ominous actinic brightness dominated the interior of the building in front of them.

Forced forward along the walkway together with everyone else, a terrified Star turned an imploring gaze to Reese.

He had always been able to help her, to fix things, to make it all okay. This time all he could do was meet her forlorn stare with one of his own.

One of the prisoners had no intention of being thrust into the waiting maw. Leaping out of the line, the man who had previously challenged them to revolt on board the Transport charged one of the remorselessly scanning T-600s. Reese had to admit that the guy was fast, and to his credit he actually managed to get his hands on the Terminator’s weapon. His chances of actually wrestling the gun away from the machine, however, were about as likely as Star taking over the machine’s brain.