Alan Foster - Terminator Salvation

“You’re all out of your minds. Kyle Reese is on a Transport on his way to Skynet. If I’d wanted to kill him, I would have done him in L.A. I just came here hoping to get some help—your help—for Star, and for him.”

Connor was halfway to the door when he stopped and whirled on the prisoner. He blinked, as if he had been grazed on the back of the head with a two-by-four.

“What—what did you say?”

Almost beyond caring, Wright didn’t look up.

“I told you. I’m trying to help a couple of kids who helped me survive this lunacy long enough to get out of L.A. Said they were the Resistance. If it wasn’t for them I’d probably be dead.” Now he did raise his gaze again. “Wouldn’t be here for you and your friends to sneer at.”

He shook his head slowly, trying to make sense of it all, of what had happened to him, and failing miserably.

“I don’t know what happened to the world. Or me. I don’t much care what happens to either. I’ve done some things in my life I wish I could take back, Connor. I can’t do that. But those two kids—I’m not letting them die. Or whatever it is these machines have in store for them.”

Connor listened, but his thoughts were focused on a single utterance of the prisoner.

“You said—Kyle. That the name of one of these children you keep babbling about?”

Wright frowned. “Why? You know him? Kyle’s not Bob or Bill, but it’s not that common a name, either.”

Connor said nothing. Neither did his expression. For a change it was Wright’s turn to scoff.

“Didn’t think so. ’Cause anyone who knew him wouldn’t have left him alone out there in this shit.” Connor’s expression contorted slightly. He was clearly struggling to restrain himself, and Wright was pleased to have finally gotten some kind of rise out of his captor.

“Let me go, Connor. You fight your endless war—win or lose, I don’t give a rat’s ass—or whether that ass is meat or metal. All that matters to me anymore are those two kids. I’m going to help them.”

Pivoting smartly, Connor headed for the exit. His mind was racing. As he closed the door behind him, Wright shouted after him, the sound echoing off the walls.

“You let me out of here, Connor.

“ Connor ...!”

The sound of the heavy metal barrier clanking shut behind his captor left Wright feeling more alone than he had at any time since the return of his memories. One of those recollections reminded him of—some-thing. Of another door closing, long, long ago.

No , he corrected himself. Not so very long ago. The door had shut on him just before he had awakened into this nightmare. He remembered things being done to him, though he could not recall what. Had they even been explained before they had begun?

None of that mattered except peripherally. It didn’t matter what Connor or anyone else said. He knew who he was. Marcus Wright, bad boy extraordinaire and anti-social foe of genteel society. A lot of good that had done him, he mused bitterly. A life of running and fighting, drinking and drugging and whoring. A life consisting of a series of mistakes and bad decisions, culminating in one that had seen him sentenced to death.

He frowned slightly. What was wrong with that picture? Well, for one thing, he ought to be dead. One way he knew that he was not deceased was because he hurt too much, too bad, and too persistently. Furthermore, he didn’t feel dead. Physically, he felt perfectly normal.

What was wrong with that picture?

He looked down at himself. At his torso, with its skin peeled back and the chest cavity gaping like a display case in the gadget department of a custom auto parts store. Surrounding his heart were enough blinking telltales and miniaturized parts and elegant wiring to fill a hundred tech magazines. Someone—or several some-ones—had done terrible wonderful things to his insides. The intricate modifications were as sophisticated as they were alien.

This isn’t me , his bewildered brain told him.

This is you , his indefatigable eyes told him.

He looked away; to the far wall, at the ceiling, down toward the bottom of the pit far beneath his feet—anywhere but at himself. He could not stand the sight of what he had become.

Could not stand it because he could not understand it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Since its establishment, the Resistance base had always been a hive of activity, and tonight it was alive with more activity than ever. Pilots were suiting up and going over flight plans, ground troops had begun to assemble preparatory to moving out, backup forces were making sure everything was in place to shift supplies and reinforcements wherever they might be required, medical teams went over details for handling the expected rush of wounded, and communications specialists checked and rechecked their gear.

Coordination on the battlefield would be crucial. This was to be the biggest Resistance-wide assault on Skynet anyone could remember. Everyone was eager to fulfill their assignment and do their part. They had been surviving through hit and run tactics for years now.

It was time to strike back.

As Williams and Kate accompanied Connor to the next checkpoint, the memories of his private, personal confrontation with the prisoner continued to trouble his thoughts. He glanced back at the pilot.

“Where did you find that thing?”

Williams moved up alongside him. “You diverted Mirhadi and me to provide cover for some civilians. He was one of them.”

“No,” he corrected her sharply. “He was with them. He isn’t one of them.”

“He sure acted like he was one of them,” she shot back.

A thin smile creased Connor’s face.

“Of course he did. Skynet’s whole exercise is useless if its creature isn’t accepted as human.”

She persisted. “If he’s a project designed to kill you, why would he let himself get blown up by a mine ten feet inside the base perimeter? What good would that do him? What good did that do him? You’ve got him all trussed up nice and harmless, in an old missile silo that’s secured against receiving or broadcasting. Even if he’s what you think he is, he can’t transmit out and nothing can transmit to him.”

Connor nodded patiently, confident that he had already anticipated every objection she might voice.

“If our scanners caught him broadcasting or receiving, it would instantly expose the charade. He had to be made to appear as human as possible or he never would have gotten as far as he did.” With your help. That was the unspoken addendum. “As to what ‘good’ setting off the mine did, that got him inside the base and close to me, didn’t it?”

Williams was still far from persuaded.

“That’s all it did.”

“Only because there must have been a misjudgment on Skynet’s part. Some of those landmines out there are newer models. Probably Skynet calculated that its creation could survive a blast well enough to sustain its programmed mission.”

“Then why didn’t it—why didn’t he —set himself off or something when you went in to interrogate him?”

Connor shrugged. “Landmine damaged the necessary pertinent circuits, or disrupted its programming. Like you just pointed out, it has been under a transmission lockdown ever since Kate opened it up. That includes internal transmissions. For all we know its been trying to explode itself ever since it regained functionality.

“That it hasn’t been able to do so by now tells me that it can’t, or like you said, it would already have done so. We’ll find out when we go in and locate the explosive, or gas cylinder, or whatever assassination module it’s hiding inside itself.” They turned a corner and he changed the subject.