Alan Foster - Terminator Salvation

Holstering his weapon, a contemplative Connor let his gaze linger a long time on the spot where Wright had disappeared, half certain he had just made the biggest mistake of his existence. Then he turned and started walking in the direction of the base. He had barely made it back into the woods when shapes rose sharply from the bush to confront him and he found himself staring down the barrels of three rifles.

“Halt and identify yourself!” the noncom in charge barked.

“John Connor.” What a pity, he mused halfheartedly, that he could not be someone else.

But he knew he was John Connor. In that respect if no other, at least, he had the advantage over the poor creature called Marcus Wright.

Lowering their weapons the soldiers hastened to gather around him, flanking him as they resumed walking toward the nearest base entrance. Their relief was palpable when they were able to identify him visually.

“Sir? Are you all right, sir?” one of them asked.

Connor nodded. “A little bruised, nothing serious. Chopper went down.” He gestured back the way he had come. “We were too low, searching. Hydrobots got us. I was the only one to make it to shore.”

The noncom’s lips tightened, comprehending. He glanced in the direction of the riverbank that was falling farther behind them with every step.

“Sir, any sign of him?”

Connor halted, turned, and looked back. Some sections of the river were still visible in the dim light. Of Wright there was no sign. No sign, in fact, that anything had ever been amiss along this winding stretch of dark water. Increasing his pace, he shook his head.

“No sign, soldier. Nothing to be done about it now. I guess he got away.”

The base brig was neither fancy nor extensive. It did not need to be either, since the great majority of its residents were transient. By far the most common reasons for temporary internment were the need to get some secured sleep as a result of an excess of drinking, to cool down from fighting with fellow soldiers, or to allow disputed gambling debts to be settled from adjoining cells.

Blair Williams’s case was very different.

For one thing, unlike the usual tenant she had not been left alone to stew in her own perfidy. A round-the-clock armed sentry had been posted outside her cell. She did not try to engage the rotating guards in conversation and they showed no inclination to want to talk to her. They had no idea what she was in for. It was none of their business. Within the constricted confines of the base it was an unspoken rule that you did not pry into the affairs of those around you lest one day the tables be turned.

Of the two men who were now standing outside the holding area, one had every intention of disregarding that rule. Vociferously.

As soon as the officer who had escorted him to the rearmost cell turned and departed, Williams sat up on the edge of her cot and regarded her visitor.

“Connor....” Solemnity quickly gave way to casual curiosity. “What brings you down to this humble abode?” She gestured at the enclosing walls. “It seems I’ve been reassigned.”

Her visitor had no time for small talk, or for jokes. Whatever he had on his mind, he was not in the mood for delay.

“Why’d you do it?”

Williams blinked back at him, her reply leavened with innocence.

“Do what?”

“Let Marcus go. Why would you break him out? He’s a machine. Just one more thread in Skynet’s web. I don’t get it.”

She had no intention of letting Connor lord it over her, even if she was a prisoner. Rising, she moved toward him. He did not back away. John Connor did not back away from anything, least of all a renegade—and possibly deranged—attack pilot.

“You say he’s part of Skynet’s planning. Not to me he isn’t. He’s—something else. Something we don’t understand, sure. But I saw a man. Not a machine. A person struggling with the same things we struggle with every day, John. Our own humanity. He’s a man trapped inside of a machine.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “I don’t know how it was done or for what reason, but he’s not a tool of Skynet. I don’t know how to explain it, but he’s—independent.” She met his unwavering stare without flinching. “Why d’you ask? Does it matter? You’ve already formed your opinion, haven’t you?”

Her interrogator did not reply. Sunk deep in thought, Connor was quiet for a long time. Then he looked up at her, and spoke.

“How’s the leg?

She winced.

“Hurts.”

There was another long moment of silence. Then he motioned to the soldier on guard.

“Let her go.”

The man hesitated. “Sir? Orders were to....”

“Let her go. On my order. I’ll take full responsibility.”

With a shrug, the soldier stepped aside. Of the very few people on the base whose commands were to be complied with implicitly, John Connor was foremost.

Williams watched Connor depart. He was clearly lost in thought. While she did not want to disturb him, it would have been nice to know why he had summarily ordered her released. Among the few words they had exchanged, what had convinced him to change his mind about her?

More important, and more maddening—what had caused him to change his mind about Marcus Wright?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The base had not seen this much activity since a flight of six surviving F-15s had managed to avoid Skynet’s attention and arrive safely from Seattle some six months ago. Out on the heavily camouflaged tarmac, a wide variety of aircraft were being armed and prepped for the all-out attack. Pilots chatted with one another while mechanics worked to render even the most badly damaged planes airworthy. On one side of the veiled runway a cluster of technicians were putting the finishing touches on the transmitter unit that would join with others across the planet in the worldwide attempt to shut down Skynet.

Connor wended his way through the organized confusion until he reached the communications center. They were expecting him, but to help prevent tracing, the connection that had been on hold would not be completed until he was present. As soon as he arrived, the operations tech passed him a handset.

“Connor, Command for you.” Connor took the handset.

“This is Connor.”

Ashdown was on the other end, his tone exuberant.

“Connor, are your people ready? Everything’s in motion. Tomorrow we’ll be able to look out on a different dawn. It’ll be a new day for mankind. Myself, I’m going to have a house built right on top of whatever’s left of Skynet Central. With a fence made out of deactivated T-1s. The timer is running.”

“Negative,” Connor told him tersely. “Nobody’s ready. We are not. You are not. We need to stop the attack. The game has changed. I repeat; changed.”

Despite the imperfect connection, the astonishment in the general’s voice came through loud and clear.

“What are you talking about? All our elements are past their release points and in assault positions. Do you have any idea what’s gone into coordinating this assault? Do you realize what it’s liable to cost us to stand down now that everything’s under way? I don’t mean in old-line expense—I’m talking about wasted resources, lowered morale, sacrificed surprise. What possible reason could there be for calling off the attack now?”

Connor swallowed once before responding. He knew how difficult it was going to be to convince Ashdown, but knowing what he knew now there was nothing for it but to try.

“The strategic components of the conflict have been altered. Or to put it another way, something new has been added. Something no one could have predicted and that we can’t account for. Being unable to account for something means it needs to be studied carefully before any large-scale undertakings that involve it are initiated.”