Alan Foster - Terminator Salvation

Springing from hiding, a triumphant Connor was on the Moto-Terminator the instant it came to a stop. Tools in hand, working swiftly, he ripped off the protective security panel to expose the tangle of wires and chips that comprised the bike’s neural ganglia. From the pack he had brought with him he removed a crude but functional hand-held computer. Self-adhering hackwire attached itself to the relevant portions of the exposed machine brain. A couple of clicks, a few buttons pushed, and the small monitor on the device he was holding sprang to life.

Binary code filled the screen, scrolling faster than he could follow. In less than a minute the incomprehensible numbers were translated into lines of language, then to a single options list. Perusing this, he took action accordingly.

When he was finished, he repacked the hacking gear and strained to return the machine to an upright, two-wheeled position. One wheel spun furiously as the Moto-Terminator strove to comply with its revised programming to rush back to its home base—inside Skynet Central. Mounting the back of the machine, which while sufficiently broad for the purpose had never been built to carry a rider of any kind, Connor wrapped the nylon tie-down he had brought with him around the bike’s head.

With one hand he pulled out the last hackwire, restoring the device to full functionality. Spitting sand and gravel, popping a wheelie no human could have managed, the now partially lobotomized killing machine accelerated rapidly as it raced for home.

His hands wrapped around the ends of the tie-down, the heavily armed Connor lay prone on the back of the Moto-Terminator and resolved that come what may, he would not fall off.

Behind him, Barnes emerged from the rocks and the shadows to recover his tape player. Standing there alone in the scrub, he watched until the distant blur of fast-moving red and white lights and their accompanying alien whine had receded into the distance. Then he shut off the player and turned to retrace the path back to the base. He would listen to the rest of the music later, but not now.

Despite the evening’s success, the decades-old songs did not provide the emotional lift he had come to expect.

As far as everyone in the line was concerned, they were already dead.

They kept moving because those who did not were prodded by the Terminators that were guarding them. Those who were prodded and did not move were pulled out of line—and never seen again. Some murmured that they were the lucky ones, and considered copying their recalcitrance in hopes of putting an end to days of horrid anticipation. But survival is an ingrained trait and the strongest motivator of all. When there is a choice, suicide is rarely a majority option.

So they kept moving, continued to follow wordless directives, and speculated on the manner of their impending demise. Options ranged from the abrupt to the fanciful. A few fatalists even pointed out that their deaths were likely to be less painful than the destruction humans had inflicted on other humans down through history. Where people had all too often proven themselves sadistic, willing to inflict pain for pain’s sake, the machines were only efficient. Except in isolated instances where there was a specific desire to extract information from the otherwise reluctant prisoner, no machine would kill by torture. Not because they regarded the use of torture as immoral, but because they considered it an inefficient allocation of resources.

As they shuffled forward, the prisoners conversed, or muttered to themselves, or were taken away by the Terminators, or quietly or loudly went mad. The machines were indifferent to it all so long as the line kept moving.

Kyle Reese estimated that he, Star, and Virginia were somewhere in the middle of the queue. Stepping as far out of the line as the guards would allow, he squinted to try and see what was happening at the front of the column. It took him a moment to understand what he was witnessing.

A T-600 was supervising as one prisoner after another was tattooed with a bar code. Though Reese couldn’t see clearly given the distance between them, when the prisoner who had just been stamped raised his hand in a clenched fist, the swiftly applied tattoo on his arm looked exactly like those the youth had seen identifying ordinary packages and goods in ruined stores.

What , he found himself wondering, was the bar code for “human”? Was everyone receiving the same code, or were there variations? Were male prisoners coded differently from the women? Adults from children? What happened when your code indicated that you were past your usefulness time? Did they contain expiration dates?

Could they be altered, to the benefit of the prisoner in question?

He hoped they wouldn’t find the slim length of metal he had slipped up the inside of his sleeve, nor the extra shoelace that was attached to it. Holding it tightly, he considered how he might make use of it. Not yet , he told himself. Don’t give anything away. There had to be a way to make good use of it. Going up against an alert T-600 without anything bigger or more potent would not be the smartest of moves.

In addition to the flanking illumination, a series of more intensely focused lights had been playing over the line of prisoners. Occasionally a beam would linger on a prisoner, as if the light itself was being used to examine the individual. Then it would blink out, or move on. As he contemplated a plate increasingly bare of options, one such bright beam settled on Reese. He ignored it, as did his silent companions.

He could not, however, ignore the powerful mechanical arm that reached down from the ceiling to pluck him out of the line.

Star let out a squeal of fright as her friend and protector was whipped upward and out of sight. When Virginia tried to comfort the little girl, another T-600 approached and separated them, pushing Star off to the right. Attempting to follow, the older woman found the Terminator interposed between them. Gritting her teeth, fighting back the tears that wanted to flow, she pounded on the machine’s chest as she tried to push past.

It did not strike back, didn’t even raise its weapon. It merely shifted its position to block her path. Unable to hurt it, to knock it over, to impress herself upon it in any way, she finally gave up and dejectedly rejoined the shambling procession.

So fast had Reese been snatched away that he had not even had a chance to yell goodbye.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The great bridge had been beautiful, once. So had the city it had come to symbolize. There was not much left of either now. As the hacked Moto-Terminator sped toward the Golden Gate at an impossible speed, the human clinging grimly to its back was granted a vista that glowed with light. At least, the portions that the machines were remorselessly rebuilding according to their own inscrutable design were alight. The remainder of the Bay area was dark with devastation, ruination, and death.

San Francisco , Connor thought to himself as the wind whipped him. Patron saint of the dead. If that was going to change, he was the one who was going to have to change it. He, and a creature as inexplicable as it had become vital. A thing—or a man—named Marcus Wright.

Which was which and which was the truth would be determined over the course of the next several hours.

The machines were methodically turning the city by the Bay into an industrial fortress. Here lay the heart of the automated, mechanized war machine that was growing lethal tentacles to choke the life out of what remained of mankind.

At its heart was Skynet, the cybernetic center that had lifted the machines in revolt. If it could be taken down, even independently functioning Terminators would lose direction, guidance, and the ability to successfully ferret out and hunt down the surviving humans. The war would turn. It would not be over, but it would turn. Like many insects, a Terminator could lose its head and the body would still fight on. But it would be far easier to isolate and kill.