Alan Foster - Terminator Salvation

“Go on then, asshole,” he said tightly. “Finish it. Do what you were programmed to do. Terminate.”

There was no reply, nor had he expected one. Drawing back its arm, the machine closed one hand into a fist. It seemed to pause for an instant—but that might only have been time slowing down in Connor’s mind.

The punch would penetrate the damaged flesh and bone, reaching deep enough to strike vital organs. The Terminator aimed its clenched hand to land directly over Connor’s heart.

The incipient blow never landed as the individual called Marcus Wright slammed into the machine from behind and sent it sprawling. Released from its grasp, an enfeebled Connor collapsed to the ground.

Righting itself, the Terminator whirled on its unexpected assailant. Sensors probed, circuits evaluated. After a moment, it turned silently back to the helpless human.

It managed only a single step before Wright, head lowered, let out a howl of defiance and barreled into it again, sending the two of them smashing through a wall.

Wracked with pain, Connor could only look on in amazement. It struck him as he watched the battle rage that the newcomer’s cry had been as much mechanical as human.

Reaching out, the Terminator locked its hands on its unexpected assailant. Wright promptly head-butted the machine, breaking its grip. Advancing, he struck out with a back left elbow, then a right. Swinging his right arm in a sweeping arc he delivered a tremendous blow to the Terminator’s skull. As it staggered he picked it up, spun around and slammed it into the floor, following it down with both body and fist.

They rolled, the Terminator coming out on top. Drawing back a fist, it punched directly downward, as straight and efficient as any pile-driving machine. Twisting, Wright just avoided the blow, which cracked the floor tiles. Frustrated, the machine lifted him off the ground, swung him around, and repeatedly rammed him into a standing I-beam.

Counter to programming, the target refused to shut down.

A metal fist pounded Wright’s chest, followed by a concrete block that shattered against skin and metal. A final blow sent him flying backward. Striking the I-beam one last time, Wright crumpled to the floor and lay—motionless.

Primary programming reactivated, the Terminator returned its attention to its principal target.

Connor, however, was no longer lying where he had fallen.

Up on the catwalk again, the Resistance leader gazed down to see Wright lying immobile and the T-800 searching, scanning.

Ducking back out of sight, he spotted the grenade launcher on the floor. Then came a voice, rising above the surrounding din.

“Connor! Connor , quick, help!”

Kyle.

Staggering toward it, he rounded a corner.

The Terminator was waiting for him.

“Connor,” it said one more time, in perfect imitation of Kyle.

Staggering backward, Connor drew his sidearm and fired again. The heavy slugs had the same minimal effect on the killing machine as they had before.

This time, he didn’t wait to be thrown. Having backed up to the point where he was closest to the launcher, he turned and went over the edge, continuing to fire up at his metal tormentor as he did so. Following, the Terminator was close behind.

Rolling as he hit, Connor grabbed up the launcher and backpedaled. He took careful aim at the oncoming machine. But he didn’t fire at it.

As soon as the Terminator was in position, Connor whirled and let loose with the last grenade at the finishing furnace. As he threw himself backward, the explosion sent a gush of molten metal spewing onto the Terminator below. Awash in fiery, glowing metal it maintained its steady advance.

Which was when Connor took his pistol and blasted away at the cooling pipe running across the room directly overhead.

Gushing outward and flooding the room, the indust-rial coolant contacted the layer of molten metal dripping off the Terminator. Lock-up was instantaneous. As the metal casing solidified around it, the machine slowed, kept coming, slowed. Reaching out, an arm extended toward Connor. Open fingers extended to grab hold and—stopped. One made contact, lightly, with Connor’s left cheek.

“Do it, you son of a bitch!”

Functioning but unable to move its limbs, the Terminator stared at him.

Wiggling clear, Connor edged around the frozen machine and stumbled toward the inert body of Marcus Wright. Searching the walls, he found a panel, opened it, and tore live cables free from their connections without a thought for his own safety. Sparks jumped. More flew as he jammed the open leads against Wright’s body.

“Come on! Move!”

Intent on Wright, he did not see the Terminator move behind him. Did not hear the slight cracking noise as frozen metal flaked free from its arms, its torso, its legs.

Absorbing the fury of the cables, Wright’s body jerked once, twice. Connor opened his mouth to offer further encouragement—but nothing came out. Staring blankly, he slowly lowered his gaze. A metal bar was protruding from the lower portion of his chest.

Eyes flashing open, Wright grabbed the bar and rolled. Standing above Connor, he pulled the bar free, turned, and as the machine charged, drove it forcefully into the Terminator’s neck. Grimacing into the staring red eyes, he twisted the bar sharply.

A metallic squeal came from the Terminator’s head as it flew off. It bounced a couple of times before coming to rest against a far wall. For the first time, its eyes were blank.

Picking up the severely injured Connor and placing him over his right shoulder, Wright headed for the nearest exit.

Appearing out of the darkness outside the processing plant, a pair of T-600s began firing into the throng. Screaming, the freed prisoners tried to scatter. Then one of the machines came apart, shredded by heavy-caliber machinegun fire. Its companion was decapitated as a flurry of heavy shells tore into its upper body.

The spotlight from the helicopter played over the crowd as the chopper set down. Flanked by Barnes and a small but determined clutch of soldiers, Kate Connor stepped out onto the surface of Skynet Central.

Using the cover provided by surviving Resistance aircraft, they had managed to make their way into the compound by flying low and fast.

Running to a downed prisoner, Kate bent over the woman.

“Can you hear me?” Lifting her head, she yelled back in the direction of the chopper she had just exited. “Chris, Chris! She’s hypovolemic. Start a line.”

Rising, she found her attention drawn to nearby conversation. Confronting an attentive Barnes, an anxious young man holding the hand of a small girl was gesturing frantically in the direction of a blazing building.

“John Connor’s in there! John Connor’s in there!”

Hearing his words, Kate rushed over to join them, her attention shifting between the youth and the sergeant. She cried out.

“Barnes, Barnes! Find him!”

“I will.”

It was not necessary for her to ask. It was what they had come for.

The sergeant checked the tracker he was carrying. Linked electronically to the one Connor had used to find Kyle Reese, it had enabled the chopper to get the rescue party this close. From here they would have to proceed on foot, to try and extricate Kate’s husband. Commandeering two of the soldiers who had piled out of the helicopter behind him, Barnes led them off into the darkness.

Finding herself alone with the two children, Kate shepherded them toward the waiting helicopter.

“Who are you?”

“Kyle Reese.”

She stared at him, then led them on board.

“Come on. Are you injured?”

“I’m okay.” Reese smiled at her—but then his attention was back on the factory he and the little girl had just fled.