Alan Foster: Terminator Salvation

Or a singularity.

The disparate collection of fighting aircraft, from helicopters to converted civilian planes to A-10s, sat in the broiling sun of the desert dawn like so many shiny carapaced insects waiting for the rising heat to bring them back to life. That would eventually be done not by the sun but by the exhausted yet triumphant crews scattered nearby. Tired as they were, they did their best to offer succor and reassurance to the prisoners they had just rescued from Skynet.

Considerably less joy was present in the wind-stirred tent that had been set up nearby. Inside, the leaders of the attack on San Francisco stood in silence. Their attention was focused not on the victory they had just won, but on a single figure lying at the center.

The great spark of life and defiance that was John Connor was slowly but inexorably fading away.

Struggling to sustain the life of the prone human to which it was attached, a portable heart-lung machine muttered softly. It made more noise than any of the somber onlookers. Connor’s wife held his arm—gently, reassuringly, but without hope. Certainly less than her husband evinced. He managed a feeble smile.

“Don’t worry, Kate. See you later....”

She nodded, then rose to confront the others. The words she spoke were her responsibility to them.

The tears in her eyes, however, belonged to her alone.

“He’s dying.”

Hat dangling from one hand, Barnes kept his voice low.

“How long?”

She tried to shrug but was unable to lift her shoulder.

“Any moment. His heart can’t take it.” Her eyes meet the sergeant’s, and she continued. “The Terminators have beat him up and history has worn him down.”

Barnes tried to think of something to say. Of the right thing to say.

“It’s going to be okay.”

The smallest figure in the tent moved forward to take the hand of the most complex. Star’s small soft fingers slipped into those of Marcus Wright, and she felt the warmth of his response through the cool metal. From the cot, Connor looked toward Kyle Reese, then to his jacket. Interpreting the glance correctly, Wright picked up the jacket and handed it to the younger man.

“Kyle,” Connor croaked, “take it. You’ve earned it.”

Nodding, the teen accepted the jacket. As he stepped back he saw that Star was holding Wright’s hand. Marcus eyed him evenly.

“Remember the difference.”

Remember the....? What was Wright talking about? As he pondered the cryptic command Wright gently eased the little girl toward her original protector. Kyle took her hand as the bigger man moved back.

“Kate. Take mine....”

John Connor looked at him, visibly uncertain. Only one person in the tent was certain of what the big man’s words implied. Blair came up to him without hesitation. There were tears in her eyes and when she spoke, her voice cracked.

“Marcus....”

He gazed down at the woman who had saved him, who had made the great, grand difference in his recent existence.

“Everyone deserves a second chance. This is mine.”

Smiling, she stood tall and regardless of what anyone in the tent might think, kissed him affectionately.

“Thank you.”

He eyed her a moment longer, out of eyes that had already seen too much. Then he turned away and began to strip off his shirt....

Wright and Connor lay side by side on tables in the portable operating theater. Two warriors: one dying and the other—the other....

No words passed between them. None were needed. Knowing looks, a respectful nod, were enough for these two. Prepped for surgery, Kate Connor moved first to the side of Marcus Wright.

A host of conflicting emotions raced through her as she stared down at the powerful, silent, strangely calm figure. She had been wrong about him, all wrong, and now it was too late. She might have said something, but she couldn’t find appropriate words. Not for the sacrifice he was about to make. A surge of compassion rose within her.

She made herself force it down. Deeply as she might want to express it, there was no time for that now. All she could do was what she had been trained to do.

The syringe she wielded was substantial. It had to be....

A single slab of smooth river rock constituted the tombstone that stood at the head of the grave site. Despite the heat, the young man patting down the last shovelfulls of dry earth wore a heavy jacket. Sweat streamed down his face but neither the heat nor the dripping perspiration dissuaded him from his work. He had carved the obituary on the stone himself, with his own knife.

MARCUS WRIGHT

A GOOD MAN

A short epitath, he knew, but no better one could have been composed.

Taking a break before placing the last spadeful of dirt, he dug into one of the jacket’s pockets for the handkerchief that rested there. Deeper, his fingers encountered something less flexible, less soft. Brow furrowing, he pulled out the old photograph. It showed a single woman, attractive but stolid, her expression resigned. It was just a picture, nothing more than a photograph—but the eyes of the woman he was staring at seemed to burn into his soul. A tremor ran through him. He was not looking at an old picture—he was gazing at his destiny.

The woman in the picture was Sarah Connor.

More than a little to everyone’s surprise, including that of Kate Connor, the transplant not only took but held. But then, John Connor had always been just a little stronger, just a little tougher, just a bit more resilient than any other human she had ever met.

Face sutured, chest swathed in heavy gauze, he stood outside the chopper and regarded the surviving core of the Resistance. He was not the only survivor. And, he knew in his heart as well as in his mind, there would be more. Many more.

Would there be enough? Only time would tell.

“ Move out. ” The order rang out crisp and clear in the desert air of evening.

One by one the surviving functional aircraft lifting into the sky and headed off into the sunset, leaving behind only the usual detritus typical of temporary human occupation, regrets, and the single grave of a human being....

Keep reading for an extract from Terminator Salvation: From the Ashes by Timothy Zahn, which is also available from Titan Books.

PROLOGUE

The last day of his life, he remembered thinking afterward, had been hell on earth.

It wasn’t just the heat of the Baja desert. That was awesomely intense, shimmering across the dirt and scrub, and he knew some of his fellow Marines were suffering in it. But U.S. Marine Sergeant Justo Orozco had grown up in East Los Angeles, and he had no problem with heat.

It wasn’t just the job, either. The Eleventh Marine Expeditionary Unit prided itself on its ability to fight anywhere on the planet, and there wasn’t any particular reason why Orozco’s platoon shouldn’t be here running a drug-interdiction exercise with their Mexican Army counterparts. Never mind that the theory underlying the exercise was bogus. Never mind that the Mexicans probably saw this as a slap at their own capabilities. The logic and politics of the situation weren’t Orozco’s concern, and he wasn’t being paid by the hour.

No, what made this particular mission hell was the way every single damn Mexican insisted on calling all the Americans “gringo.”

Including Orozco.

It irritated the hell out of him, which was probably why they kept doing it. He was an American, yes, but he was also full-blooded Hispanic, and he was damn proud of both. Why some people seemed to think those two identities had to be mutually exclusive was something he had never understood. He’d never put up with that nonsense before, and it galled the grit out of him to have to put up with it now.