Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines

C.16

The Toyota's temperature gauge hovered just below the red mark and the needle on the gas gauge bounced half- way between 1/4 and E.

Terminator's head-up display showed a map of the countryside in the hills above Los Angeles. Most highways eventually led over the mountains down into the Mojave Desert. He had a destination, but there was little value in [informing either John Connor or Katherine Brewster at this time.

They would be told what they needed to know, when they needed to know it.

Something crashed in the back. Connor turned and looked through the dividing window. Kate was kicking at the back door, trying to force it off its hinges, or to break free whatever was holding it shut.

He'd almost forgotten about her. He turned back to Terminator. "Get off the highway as soon as you can. We have to let her out".

Terminator glanced at him. "Negative. Katherine Brewster must be protected."

"Why—?"

A curl of acrid smoke rose from Terminator's chest. He looked at it. His internal diagnostic programs had warned him that one of his fuel cells was going critical. But the rate of failure was evidently accelerating. "I require a cutting tool," he said.

Connor looked doubtfully at the smoke, but he handed Terminator his Gerber from his belt pouch. "I thought I was the one they're after."

Terminator opened the utility tool and studied the longest blade for a moment. "You could not be located, so a T-X was sent back through time to eliminate others who could become enemies of Skynet. Your lieutenants."

Connor glanced at Kate in the back. She was huddled now in the far corner by the door, her knees up to her chin, a sullen look on her round, pretty face.

"So, she's going to be in the resistance—" he started. But that didn't make any sense. Judgment Day had never come. "But if — No, no." He looked at Terminator, trying to gauge the cyborg's meaning by the look on his face. Which was futile.

Terminator waited patiently for Connor to work it out.

"You shouldn't even exist. We took out Cyberdyne over ten years ago."

"Cyberdyne backed up its research data," Terminator explained. "They saved it off-site. When the company went bankrupt in 1993, Cyber Research Systems acquired the assets and developed the technology in secret."

"But we stopped Judgment Day," Connor insisted. He'd lived with that knowledge for the past twelve years.

"You only postponed it. Judgment Day is inevitable."

Connor sat back, defeated. There was no defense against this kind of circular logic. As he'd been from the beginning, he was nothing more than a pawn between the machines and humans in some future war. And time travel made anything possible.

Or, perhaps, impossible.

"Take the wheel," Terminator ordered.

Connor snapped out of his thoughts and he grabbed the steering wheel as Terminator, his foot still on the gas pedal, opened his jacket and lifted his T-shirt, totally indifferent to the fact that they were traveling sixty miles per hour down the highway.

The Toyota swerved to the right, nearly down into a ditch before Connor got it back up on the pavement and under control.

The flesh on the left side of Terminator's chest was charred black, an area about the size of a package of cigarettes completely burned away, exposing his metal chassis.

With the Gerber blade, Terminator cut a long curving incision around the burned skin and muscle. There was no blood, and Terminator felt no pain. The skin was duraplast, a form of pliant plastic.

Connor had seen this kind of weirdness before, but he was still amazed. "What are you doing?"

"I am powered by two hydrogen fuel cells," Terminator said. He cut the flap of tissue free and casually tossed it out the door. "The primary cell has been damaged by the plasma cannon."

"Plasma cannon?" Connor said. The last time Skynet had sent a cyborg back to kill him, it hadn't been equipped with anything like that "So this thing is worse than a T-1000?"

Terminator folded the knife blade and opened the prying tool that he used to release his chest plate. Next, he swung open a small panel that was just beneath the most severely burned area of flesh to expose complicated circuitry and a maze of mechanical works.

"That model was discontinued in 2029. The f-X is designed for extreme combat, driven by a plasma reactor and equipped with onboard weapons. It's a far more effective killing machine."

He opened the Gerber's pliers and got to work inside his chest.

"Okay, so she's like a tank with liquid metal skin," Connor said, and even he was having trouble believing what he was saying. "She can't be melted down?"

Terminator shook his head. It was an oddly human gesture, out of place with his chest open exposing the electromechanical innards. "The battle chassis is heavily armored, hardened to withstand external attack."

Connor shrugged. "You'll find a way to destroy her," he said, because it was his only hope for survival.

"Unlikely," Terminator replied, without looking up from his work. "I am an obsolete design. The T-X is faster, more powerful, more intelligent. Its arsenal includes nanotechnological transjectors."

"Meaning?" Connor asked.

Terminator glanced at Connor. "It can control other machines."

Connor nodded after a moment. He'd seen her handiwork with the police cars and ambulances.

"Great," he muttered.

Terminator had gotten down to the pair of fuel cells in his chest. One of them smoked and sizzled. It was leaking something that was starting to react, like an acid, with bis other circuitry, and a residual blue plasma energy still shifted and rippled like an aurora around the unit.

"My presence in this time has been anticipated. The T-X is designed to terminate other cybernetic organisms."

"So, she's an anti-terminator terminator," Connor said, working it out. He shook his head again. This was getting worse, much worse by the minute. "You've got to be shitting me," he mumbled.

"No," Terminator replied. "I am not shitting you."

He moved a pair of contacts, rerouting the last of his power circuits, then looked up for a moment as the circuitry displayed in his head-up unit confirmed that he had successfully isolated the damaged power cell.

Terminator handed the tool back to Connor, gingerly unplugged the power cell, and carefully removed it from his chest. It was about the size of a small book, and it looked battered, but not particularly dangerous.

With a snap of his wrist, Terminator threw the power cell out into a sloping field of scrub brush and boulders. It arched one hundred feet into the morning sky, hanging at apogee for a long moment before it came down, a thousand feet off the highway.

When it hit the ground it exploded with a tremendous flash-bang. The shock wave hammered off the nearby foothills and slammed into the pet van, nearly shoving it off the road. Terminator had to help hang the Toyota back under control.

"When ruptured, the fuel cells become unstable," he said.

He pulled down his T-shirt and zippered his jacket to hide the surgery as Connor glanced back at the sizable mushroom cloud rising out of the field.

An hour later they were over the foothills and headed down toward the desert, the Toyota's gas gauge on empty, wisps of steam coming from under the hood.

A large gas station-truck stop-convenience store was nestled up against a low hump in the desert.

"We must stop here for fuel and coolant fluid," Terminator said. "Do you require supplies?"

"Something to eat, maybe some water, would be okay," Connor said. "Where are you taking us?"

Terminator ignored the question. He slowed down and pulled into the gas station just as the Toyota's engine began to buck and stall, finally out of gas. He coasted to a stop at one of the pumps, got out, and went into the store, leaving Connor to fill it up, check the oil, and get some water into the radiator.

No one was inside the station except for the cashier behind the counter. He was a teenager, wearing a striped cowboy shirt and a baseball cap. He could see the battered condition of the pet van, and the still obvious injuries to Terminator's face, though much of the skin had reformed, hiding the metal cranial case. It made him nervous.

Terminator took a moment to scan the contents of the store, spread down four aisles with rows of coolers along the back wall. He picked up a basket and walked up and down the aisles, methodically selecting various food items including beef jerky for protein, potato chips for carbohydrates, cookies, ice cream bars, and Twinkies for sugar, and bottled water for hydration.

The cashier was fiddling with a small television set behind the counter, but every channel he switched to displayed the same message: please stand by.

He had taped a hand-lettered sign in front of the cash register. no credit cards — computers down.

"Man, this is crazy," the kid said, switching to another channel that showed the same please stand by message, "It's been like this for hours. Every goddamned station."

Terminator stopped at a rack of sunglasses, studied the styles for a second, and then picked a pair of Sama wraparounds and put them on.

He turned and headed for the door.

The cashier looked up from the television set. "Hey, man, you gonna pay for that?"

Terminator ignored him.

"Hey," the cashier shouted.

Terminator pulled up short, turned to the kid, then stuck out the palm of his hand, just like the stripper had done to him in the desert roadhouse. "Talk to the hand."

The cashier shrank back, not sure what to do, and Terminator turned and walked out the door.

Connor was just finishing with the water in the radiator. He set the can aside and closed the hood.

Terminator unbent the lug wrench locking the pet van's back door with one hand and pulled it open.

Kate leaped out past him. "Help!" she screamed. "Help me!"

Terminator wrapped his free arm around her waist before she took two steps and pulled her back.

Kate suddenly attacked him like a madwoman, kneeing him in the groin with every ounce of her strength, chopping his windpipe, driving her thumbs under his sunglasses deep into the sockets of his eyes.

Terminator was not affected. His diagnostic circuits were clear of any serious damage indicators.

He gently pried her away and shoved her back into the pet van. He adjusted his sunglasses, which had been knocked askew, then placed the basket of groceries in back with her.

Connor, who had watched everything, spotted the cashier through the window. The kid was on the phone. Probably calling for help.

"I think we should go," he said.

Terminator nodded indifferently, and he went around to the driver's side as Connor climbed in back with Kate and closed the door.

Kate was huddled again in the corner, her knees up to her chin. She braced herself as the pet van took off and swerved sharply back out onto the highway.

Connor didn't know how he felt about her now that he knew she would become an important part of the human resistance. But she sure could fight He had to grin.

"You've got some good moves on you," he told her. A flash of something came to him. "I remember now. You were like an army brat or something, right?"

Kate didn't look at him. He pushed the basket of food over to her. "Ice cream?" he suggested.

She kicked the basket away, scattering the contents. Connor held up his hands and shrugged. "Okay," he said in an effort to be conciliatory.

"You're kidnapping me," she said after a few moments.

"Look, I—"

"God, you were always a delinquent," Kate said. It was as if a dam had broken inside her. The words came put in an angry rush. "And look at you now. Sitting there like the bad boy thing still works." She gave him an extremely critical once-over. "What are you, some kind of a gang member? A drug dealer?" She was disgusted. Her loathing dripped from her tongue and attitude like venom. "How do you live with yourself?" she asked.

Connor shook his head, another smile coming to his lips. How was he supposed to tell her the real story when he had trouble believing it himself?

Kate's nostrils flared. She thought he was laughing at her.

"What?" she demanded.

Connor rapped on the divider window, and Terminator slid it open. "Tell her who I am," Connor said.

"John Connor is the leader of the worldwide resistance and the last best hope of mankind."

Kate shook her head again. was painfully obvious that she thought they were raving lunatics, probably high on something.

"Right," she said. "And him?" She nodded toward Terminator.

"He's a robot from the future. Living tissue over a metal skeleton. Sent back in time to—"

Kate sat back morosely. She was tired of the game. "Go to hell."

"He doesn't mean you any harm," Connor assured her, knowing how this must sound.

Kate held up her left hand, showing him her engagement diamond. "I have a fiance. He's going to be looking for me."

Connor sat back too, suddenly morose. His mood matched hers. If Terminator was right about the abilities of the T-X, they didn't stand much of a chance.

Kate watched him. "I… What is it you want?."

Connor lowered his eyes. "I don't know," he answered. And it was the truth. He didn't know what he really wanted. He looked up after a beat. How to tell her? What words? "I guess… Imagine if you know you were going to do something important with your life. Something amazing. Maybe the most important thing anyone's ever done."

He had her attention. She looked at him in a slightly different light, though it was clear that she didn't understand what he was trying to say. But she was beginning to believe his sincerity.

"But there's a catch. Something terrible has to happen. You couldn't live with yourself if you didn't try to stop it. But if you do… The rest of your life is pointless."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Kate asked.

"I mean someone normal. Someone sane—" He wanted her to understand. "It's just that… The life you know, all the stuff you take for granted, it's not going to last."

She still wasn't getting it. Connor could see the skepticism and confusion in her pretty eyes. And there was something else. Something in the way she held herself. Something in the way that she was looking at him at that moment that seemed familiar. It was something she'd said to him earlier.

"Wait. Back at the clinic. Why did you say, 'Mike Kripke's basement'?"

Kate didn't answer.

Connor was suddenly remembering. "Kripke's house. That's where the kids used to make out." He was trying to bring it all back. "So you and me. Did we—?"

Kate looked away, more uncomfortable now than confused.

"Holy shit — we did!" Connor said. "We made out in Kripke's basement. I can't believe you remembered."

Still Kate held her silence, but a slight color had come to her neck.

"I guess I must've made quite an impression," Connor said.

Kate turned on him. "Gimme a break. I only remembered because the next day you were in the news."

Suddenly the impossibility of the coincidence dropped into place for Connor. He glanced through the mesh at Terminator, then back at Kate.

"You and I hooked up the day before I first met him? And then again now, twelve~years later?"

"Right," Kate said sarcastically. "We were supposed to meet. Fate, right?" She shook her head. "Coincidence."

But it wasn't coincidence and Connor knew it "Yeah," he said to appease her, nothing more. He glanced at the back of Terminator's head. "What was going on?"

The bedroom was still dark because the shades were drawn. Kate's nightshirt lay on the floor where she'd tossed it a few hours ago, and her fiance", Scott Peterson, was still asleep in the double bed.

T-X stood in the doorway, cataloguing the homey scene. Kate had not returned yet, but she would have to come back here sooner or later.

Either that or someone would come looking for her. She was the key to finding John Connor again. Her fiance was expendable.

T-X moved silently across the room and sat down on

Kate's side of the bed. She picked a framed photo off the nightstand and studied it. It was Katherine Brewster at her graduation. Robert Brewster stood beside her. Smiling. The proud father.

Scott stirred on the bed. T-X put the photo back as Scott sat up. "Hon? You just get in?"

T-X swiveled her torso 180 degrees to face Scott, who stared at her with incomprehension. She reached over with one hand, almost gently caressing the man's face, before she lowered her hand, thrust it deep into his chest, and destroyed his heart before he could utter a sound.

He fell back in a bloody heap.

T-X went to the bathroom where she fastidiously washed the blood from her hand as the front doorbell rang.

She cocked her head, her sensors picking up electronic emissions from a plain sedan parked on the street. Police frequency emissions.

She glanced at Scott's body, then headed to the living room, her body thickening, her clothing melting away and changing so that by the time she opened the front door she had assumed the infiltration mode of Scott Peterson, including the boxer shorts and T-shirt he wore for bed.

Two men stood in the corridor; one a bald white man, the other a black man with short dark hair. They were dressed in cheap suits and ties.

They held out their gold shields. "Detective Martinez, LAPD," the one introduced himself. "We're looking for Katherine Brewster. Is she here?"

T-X, as Scott Peterson, shook his head.

The detective consulted his notebook. "You're her fi-anceScott Peterson?"

T-X nodded.

"A few hours ago there was an incident at the veterinary hospital where she works. We're concerned something might have happened to her."

"Where is she?" T-X asked without inflection, as if the Scott character were in shock.

"Well, we got a report from a gas station attendant out toward Victorville about a possible kidnapping. Might be related."

T-X nodded his head. "I can help you find her."

The two detectives glanced at each other and nodded. "Sure. Any idea where she might have gone?"