Alan Foster - Terminator Salvation

Out in the mass of twisted girders that somehow still underpinned one side of the Golden Gate Bridge, Connor heard the soft beep of his compact communicator. Pulling it out, he studied the single red dot that was now flashing in the center of an overlay map of the old city. No words accompanied the pulsating dot, nor were they needed. He knew what the sound and sight signified.

Hauling himself out of the concealing tangle of steel and concrete, he started to climb down the remainder of the severed structure. At the bridge’s other entrance a pair of automated gun emplacements detected the movement and swiveled toward him. He tensed and prepared to run. When nothing further happened, he took a couple of cautious steps in the direction of the turrets. Still, the guns didn’t fire.

They didn’t fire when he was within maintenance range, nor did they alter their aim when he continued walking between them. Overhead, a small Aerostat hissed past. Its weapons systems tracked and fixed on the now running human figure—and without taking action it moved on.

So did Connor.

***

Having accomplished his purpose in coming, Wright was suddenly reluctant to leave. There was so much more to learn, so many details that could prove useful to the Resistance. He made himself stay, continued scanning and studying, soaking up as much potentially constructive information as he could.

That was when he came across a particularly interesting file with a simple yet profound designation.

MARCUS WRIGHT

Old headlines whipped past in front of him. Leaning toward the monitor, he scanned them with a mixture of anxiety and eagerness.

“Murderer Donates Body to Science.”

“Doctor to Congress: Death Row Inmate’s Body Can Aid Cybernetic Research.” This one was accompanied by a photo. A photo of someone he knew, a memory from his past. One of his last memories.

Dr. Serena Kogan.

Relentless and unemotional, the file continued to spill information. An obituary sped before his mesmerized gaze.

“Dr. Serena Kogan, cyberneticist, succumbs to cancer. Was infamous for convincing Congress to allow death row prisoners’ bodies to be utilized in scientific research.”

The subject matter abruptly changed, from the personal to the apocalyptic.

“Defense system goes online. Cyberdine Research says system foolproof.”

Then, “Rumors of glitch in multi-billion dollar defense system abound.”

And following, “Missiles in air: Russians retaliating. Hundreds of millions to die.”

From a religious website: “Judgment Day Upon Us!”

And finally, almost calmly, a simple computer readout.

NO FURTHER INFORMATION: WORLD WIDE WEB DISCONTINUED AFTER THIS DATE.

“Welcome home, Marcus.”

A voice, firm and unexpected, suddenly filled the room. Whirling, he looked up and around, but there was no one to see. He was still alone, still the only presence.

At least, the only physical one.

He knew that voice. It was one of the last voices he had heard. The voice of Dr. Serena Kogan. Who was dead, of cancer.

As he fought to resolve the apparent impossibility, something slammed into the back of his skull—from within. Reaching up and back, he clutched at himself. There wasn’t so much a sensation of pain as of—finality.

Then he collapsed.

Within the submarine that was home to Command, the communications operator turned from his console to look back at the waiting Admiral.

“Signal broadcasting at full bandwidth, sir.”

Ashdown nodded approvingly. “Good. Issue the order to commence bombing of Skynet.”

The operator complied.

And failed.

And tried again. His expression one of helplessness, he looked up and to his right. Losenko was there, studying the readouts. Finally the Russian looked over at the two men.

“All outposts have stood down. You know about the broadcast. He’s reprogrammed everything. They will not attack until Connor orders them to.”

Ashdown spoke through clenched teeth. Only one word, that emerged as a curse.

“Connor....”

Unlike a comparable human fortress, the deeper Connor pushed into Skynet Central, the fewer patrols he encountered. From a machine standpoint, it made sense. Assuming nothing could get past the massive outer fortifications, there was no reason to waste resources looking for non-existent infiltrators. That did not mean he let down his guard, though. It would only take one sighting of the solitary fast-moving human to bring a host of lethal devices swarming in his direction.

So he kept to abandoned, ruined alleyways and empty streets, always on the lookout for the slightest sign of movement. Once, he nearly blew his cover and revealed his presence when movement among debris caused him to swing his rifle in its direction. Fortunately, he didn’t fire.

The cat that ambled out of the mountain of garbage eyed him imperiously, flicked its tail, and sauntered off in the opposite direction.

Connor let out a sigh of relief. The Terminators were thorough, but they were not omnipotent. If the cat could survive here without drawing attention, so could he.

Traveling deeper into the heart of Central, he slipped past several open areas crowded with inactive machines. All were mindless servant devices, from excavators to delivery trucks. They had brains, but no intelligence, no sentience, and were not capable of making decisions independent of what Skynet programmed into them.

Despite its provisional ascendancy, however, Skynet was neither the original nor the only remaining source of viable programming.

When he encountered a field hosting several large Transports, he had no trouble slipping into one. There were no guards. Once safely inside and out of sight, he made his way to the neural nexus, sat down, and removed the maintenance cover as deftly as he could. From his pack he took out the compact unit he had used to hack and reprogram the Moto-Terminator. If anything, gaining control of the Transporter’s brain was even easier. Where a Moto-Terminator was endowed with considerable freedom of action and the ability to make decisions on its own, the Transporter possessed none of those independent qualities. It could do only what it was told to do.

It took only a few moments for Connor to find what he was looking for, override the simple continuance commands, and enter a sequence containing new instructions. Once these had been set he replaced the panel as cleanly as he could, slipped back out of the Transporter, and disappeared once more into the night.

At first he wondered at how little machine activity he encountered. The more he pondered the absence, however, the more sense it made. You just had to think like a machine. Resources were allocated to fighting humans and building new facilities. Except for occasional maintenance, once a facility or component had been completed and put into operation, it could be allowed to carry on by itself, performing its programmed functions.

The result was an eerie absence of activity. Lights and automata hummed all around him. Since none were designed or had the capability to independently detect intruders, he continued to be ignored.

The lack of attention allowed him to reach the ever-expanding complex that was the heart of Skynet Central. Clearly, far more than communications and programming was being carried out in the new buildings. These structures formed spokes with Central as their hub. A quick check of his comm unit showed that he was closing in on the area where Wright had indicated Kyle was being held.

He still was not challenged as he entered the outermost structure and began to make his way inward. Designed to allow easy passage by everything from T-1s to much larger wheeled machinery, the often doorless portals permitted ready access to every part of the building. Though he had no time to linger, he could not help but be fascinated by some of what the machines had wrought. Here at Central they had begun to construct their own version of the world. It was all clean, polished, and utterly functional, with nothing of the human about it at all.