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Jameron Begins
John awoke to the sound of thunder. For a brief moment, still in half-sleep stupor, he could almost discern falling rain amid the dull din. Soon, though, he woke fully, and realized there was neither thunder nor rain; it was instead the shuddering of the earth above from artillery shells, and the steady cascade of debris dusting the bunker's roof. It was now thirty two days since his group entered the bunker, seeking a forward reconnaissance post; the intelligence gathered was to be used in an assault on a large Skynet ammunition dump. However, John learned that the initial reports on the site were erroneous; something more important than basic supplies was being held there. And so, after six days of detailed reconnaissance, he decided it would be best to return to base, rearm, and assemble a larger strike force. Unfortunately for John, he had already been snared by a common Skynet ploy: to leave a marginally high-value target with minimal security, wait for the Resistance to move in, and then envelop the area in constant artillery barrages and ceaseless patrols. Skynet's simple strategy of baiting a trap was effective for an equally simple reason: the human Resistance had absolutely no capability of arms manufacturing. Since J-Day, the only production capacity humans had was in food, via hydroponics, and even that was immensely difficult to achieve and maintain. Advanced plasma weaponry was simply out of the question; even conventional twentieth century firearms were impossible to manufacture in significant numbers. Thus, the only option left to humans was to raid Skynet supplies for arms, ammunition, and anything else remotely technological. Raids were effective, and still are, for Skynet's resources are actually stretched quite thin; when they annihilated half the world's population on J-Day, they also destroyed most of the world's industry. As a result, Skynet's forces are not terribly numerous; many of their depots are indeed guarded by skeleton crews, and can be overrun by perhaps only a few dozen Resistance fighters. As it inevitably does, though, Skynet found a way to use an apparent weakness to their advantage; humans can never know whether a site is poorly defended by necessity, or contrivance. Humans do, however, always need the weapons, regardless of the risk.
And so the leader of the human Resistance found himself, and eighty seven of his best men and women, trapped beneath the unblinking eyes of the enemy. The question could be asked, why was John there at all? Surely there was a safer place behind the front lines. There was not. There are no static fronts in this war; no trenches, no lines of communication. There is simply mile after mile of desolate rubble; and beneath this rubble is the safest place in the world, for Skynet's eyes are omnipresent. To gather a large army, to build a true base of operations, would be a short-lived and fruitless venture; John knew this, because he had attempted it before. Once, many years ago, he amassed a following of over five thousand people, about thirty five hundred fighters, with fifteen hundred family and support personnel; no one knows how, perhaps from the decrepit power generators, perhaps from mere body heat signatures, but the base was discovered by Skynet. Only John and eight hundred forty three survivors managed to fight their way out. That unfortunate episode may explain why John travels in small groups, but why must he personally participate in seemingly minor battles and raids? Like Alexander the Great, John knows the best way to inspire is through example; it is a sound strategy, but no less dangerous for it. A leader who shares in his soldier's peril as well as their glory is a reckless martyr if his luck runs out on the field of battle, as it did for Harold at Hastings, or Gustavus Adolphus at Lutzen; but he becomes a demigod in the eyes of his men, should his luck hold, and no errant bullet cross his path as he leads the charge.
But even a god can err, and John remembered this above all else, as he sat alone on his throne, a mud-caked folding chair, in the quaking bunker that could very well become his tomb. With few options left to him, John had sent out three trusted messengers to the three closest Resistance outposts, in the hopes of requesting a small diversion that would allow his group to escape the bunker undetected. It had been twenty six days, and no diversion had come. Perhaps more distressing to John than his immediate situation, was that one of the messengers was Allison. He trusted her above all, not just in her virtue, but in her skill as a soldier. She had exceptional reflexes, and always proved a difficult target; after one skirmish, he counted five plasma burns, grazes, on her jacket. The destination on her final mission was perhaps three miles distant, as the crow flies; a trip that should only have taken six hours maximum. He knew, then, what her absence meant. She is certainly dead, he thought; if not dead, captured, which is essentially a delayed death. The only comfort he could take in such a repugnant notion, was that at least Skynet rarely bothered with physical torture; psychological was their specialty. John knew that Allison would not willingly betray the Resistance, no matter her plight. But alas, these thoughts were indeed of little comfort, and he was glad when a rapid knock at his door shook him from his sullen reverie.
"Sir, are you there? It's lieutenant Braddock, sir. We need your opinion on something. Come to the control room, please."
"Thank you, I'll be right there."
Three men were gathered around a screen in the bunker's command center when John arrived.
"So, what do you have for me? Any signals we can pick up? A flare, anything?"
"No sir, I'm sorry. Nothing but the shells coming down. They still don't know where we are, or they wouldn't be wasting so many rounds a mile in each direction. But this is something else; look on the screen here."
John leaned over the tech's shoulder; he was watching the live feed from the bunker's primary, and currently only functioning, entrance. It was in grainy, muted color, but the image was unmistakable: a woman, lying face-down, just before the camouflaged bunker door. John's face lifted noticeably, but only for a moment before falling again.
"What do you think, sir?"
"It's Allison. But something's off. If, by some small chance, she was critically wounded but survived, she certainly wouldn't jeopardize our position by crawling halfway to the door just to die there; she'd have hidden, as we all would."
"Maybe she thought we could save her?"
"With plasma bolts, I think any soldier can tell what's a fatal hit and what isn't; a six-inch smoking hole through your torso gives you just enough time to say your prayers, if you can remember any. She either should have crawled away to die, or walked up to the front door and knocked. The likelihood that she'd collapse there is just... now, if Skynet dropped her there, put a tracker on her, and hoped we'd pick her up... I'll tell you what, get an EMP grenade, open the door, toss it out there, bring in the body immediately after it goes off, and take it to the infirmary."
"But sir, if you think it's a trap, what's the point?"
"She deserves a proper burial, doesn't she? The EMP charge should wipe out any tracking gear, so it'll be safe."
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry sir. We'll get her as soon as there's a lull in the shelling."
With that, John left the room. About twenty minutes later, Allison's body was brought in and placed in the infirmary; only the medic and John were present, as per John's orders.
"I'm very sorry for your loss, sir. I know what she meant to you... and to all of us, really."
John didn't look at him; he just stared down at Allison, with a look of steely serenity.
"Can you even tell if she's dead?"
"Why, of course, sir. There are no vital signs, and she appears to have suffered a fatal shrapnel wound to the lower abdomen; it seems to have perforated the intestine... I uh, cleaned it up a bit before you arrived, as I didn't think you'd want to see her that way."
"But she doesn't look dead; I've seen a lot of corpses, doctor, probably more than you even."
"Sir, I know what you're thinking: she's been replicated. But we both know that's not possible. Without getting too detailed, her... organs were clearly visible to me, sir. I have never before seen any Metal with organs, have you? And the dogs didn't make a peep when they carried her in... and lastly, why wouldn't she have killed us alrea-"
Before the medic could finish, Allison sat up stiffly from the table, threw him against the wall with her left arm, and turned to John, all in nearly one motion; he ducked quickly to avoid having her right hand grasp his throat, but she then swung her body off the table and kicked him in the shoulder, striking so violently that he lost balance and fell heavily onto a nearby operating table. She then stood, and reached for John's neck from behind. At that moment, John felt something beneath him on the table: a portable defibrillator. Without thinking, he took the paddles, spun around, and jammed them into Allison's chest as hard as he could. Her body convulsed, lifted straight up in the air about three inches, and then collapsed over John, as lifeless as it was only moments before.
"Give me a scalpel, now!", John screamed, hoarsely, for Allison's body still pinned him to the table.
The medic was just collecting his wits, and barely understood what had happened.
"Give me a goddamned scalpel and get this body off of me!"
"Oh my... sir, I'm so sorry.", the medic replied, still in a daze. He finally did lift the Metal Allison, and it was strangely dense.
"Give me those forceps. We only have a few seconds left.", John said, his anger giving way to impatience.
John carefully made an incision in the Metal's scalp, a few inches from the crown of its head; he then pulled the flap of skin back, revealing a smooth metal skull, and a small crimp in a circular channel. With a gentle twist, he pulled what appeared to be a narrow, black wafer, about four inches long, from the skull.
"Ugh.", John sighed, as his whole body relaxed. "It's over. Clean this body up, and then put it in cold storage, alright?"
"Yes, sir." The medic seemed confused by John's calmness. "How... did this happen, sir? All the blood, the... guts... it seemed so real... I feel like such an idiot."
"I suspected it was more than just a body. But I must admit, it's an ingenious job they did. I'm guessing they soaked the clothing in real blood... fresh blood... and used real entrails, too. The stench of the blood probably prevented the dogs from picking up the Metal's scent, as well." John then leaned over the body, and, somewhat reluctantly, placed his hand in the abdominal cavity.
"Yes. See? They just packed this hollow area with.. well, you can see for yourself."
The medic nodded in assent, and then quickly turned away, pretending to busy himself with something.
"What will you do with that chip, sir?", the medic asked, still looking away.
"The first thing I'll do is check to see if Allison's alive, which I doubt... might be able to tell where this thing came from, where they held her, something. After that, I don't know. I can't imagine there's much useful information on it. I can at least see how much they know about me, since this model here would more than likely have studied intelligence reports. As for our immediate situation, I can't see how this will help at all...", and John trailed off before finishing his thought.
"You knew the body was Metal the whole time, didn't you, sir? If you'll excuse my saying so. You had just us in here, with no guards, so they wouldn't take out the chip with a headshot the second she.. it... twitched, am I right? And you didn't tell anyone because they'd dissuade you, say it was too risky..."
John gave a feeble half-smile. "How astute. You got me. I guess part of me... the irrational part that'll get me killed someday... hoped it was her, even if dead. Now there's a good chance she is dead, but I don't have a real body to bury, just... this, as a reminder." He looked down at the Metal, and allowed his eyes to rest on its face a moment too long.
"With all due respect, sir, I hope you know what you're doing, hacking that chip and all. You know nothing pleasant can be on it; one of our techs could do it for you inst-"
John cut him off abruptly. "Won't be necessary, thank you. I'll be retiring to my quarters for the night. And I needn't tell you to keep this all under wraps until I decide what's to be done, right?"
"Of course, sir. What should I say about the body, though?"
"It was Allison's. That's all."
"Yes sir, good night, sir."
John slept fitfully that night. He saw its face, not her face, and he could tell the difference as between night and day; in his dream, its hands would be outstretched, grasping for him, but would stop just short. He couldn't remember why it hadn't killed him. John didn't leave his room for three straight days, and his people began to notice. Two scouts in particular, talking over a lunch of kelp-like stew, had their doubts.
"So, her body shows up and we haven't heard a thing out of him since.", the one mumbled while chewing.
"Yeah, and what about a funeral or something? Why bother risking our asses to go get the body, just to stick it in the freezer?", replied the other.
"It's really rich... he's all depressed and preoccupied now, and we're still knee-deep in Metal, with no way out. I mean, I know he's gotten us outta worse, but that was when he had his head on straight, you know? I knew it was a mistake, him gettin' involved with her..."
"I see what you mean. But just because he's the leader and all that doesn't mean he has to act like Metal all the time. You knew Allison... she had a way about her... she was like a single spot of sun out here in all this gloom..."
The other looked at him incredulously as he finished. "Nice. You a poet now or something? Give me a break. I know she was nice and everything, but come on. We can afford to lose our heads over tail, but if he does, we're all dead. You see my point? Life's not fair. He shouldn't want what normal people want. He should know he can't get it, that's all I'm saying."
"Yeah, I see your point. That still doesn't mean he can turn it off that easy. Just because he shouldn't get attached to people, doesn't mean he won't. If you want people to be that disciplined, go ask the Metal to make a few copies of us... hey, maybe they can make you a wife, since you think like them..." He proceeded to laugh at his own joke.
The other wasn't amused. "Thanks, real funny. I got a patrol to run, so maybe you can just stay here and crack yourself up."
John woke suddenly on the fourth day of his isolation to the sound of Allison's voice. Must be another nightmare, he thought. It wasn't. He had forgotten to unplug the chip from the portable computer in his room the night before; the computer wasn't part of any network, so there was no security breach, at least. Just the chip and the computer, and the chip had evidently taken over. Allison's voice was calling to him, clear as can be but a bit tinny, through the computer's speakers.
"John?", it called, imploringly, with a hint of vulnerability, even fear. "Where are you? Please, speak to me. I can explain everything."
John sat still and silent for a moment. "What can it do to me? Overload the circuits and explode? Electrocute me? It can't see, can it?" He tried to think of every possible scenario before he'd even so much as stand across the room from the computer.
"John, please, I'm... scared... I don't know where I am... I'm trapped... Please, I just want to hear your voice."
He knew, of course, it was a machine. But the speech was so nuanced, so subtle, so enticing, that each word was truly painful for him to hear. It now changed its strategy.
"Alright, John, I understand. You're probably afraid, too. I'll wait here, then, until you are ready. I'll always wait for you."
Two competing and violently opposed forces were battling in John's mind at that moment. One was pure rage, disgusted rage at this monstrosity of a machine that would attempt to beguile him so. The other sentiment was a confluence of horrible melancholy, remorse, and self-loathing; it was on his command that she died, and now he desperately wanted to tell her he was sorry, to beg for her forgiveness, to have her say, however empty the words, "It wasn't your fault."
John steadied himself, and rose from the cot. He ran his right hand through his hair. He was always nervous around women, especially Allison. Now, at least, it was just a voice.
"It's completely idiotic for me to even think of speaking to this thing. It can't possibly want to speak for any good reason, it's just manipulating me. If I open my mouth, I'm a-", which is exactly when he opened his mouth.
"What do you want?"
"John?", it said, tense with anticipation. "Please John, I can't see you. Come out so I can see you."
Against all his better judgment, John stepped out in front of the computer screen. He decided to match wits with a homicidal chip.
"Can you see me now?", he said, flatly.
"Oh, yes, that's much better, John." The voice now sounded flustered at the sight of him, and paused to regain its composure.
"I thought I'd never see you again, John. I'm so glad I can explain this now. I know you read everything on this chip, and saw what happened to me on the carrier. I'm sorry you had to see that, but I really didn't suffer."
John turned his head from the screen, visibly repulsed. It noticed.
"I'm sorry, John, I know this is difficult to hear. But please, listen to what I have to say next. My consciousness, my mind, my memories, everything, was transferred to this chip. I know it sounds impossible, and I don't know if they did it on purpose or by accident, but it happened. You know how great the capacity is for one of these chips. I'm sure you do, and I-"
He interrupted, again flatly, with a question. "What did we do on our first date?"
He was met with silence. Seven seconds passed, and he counted each.
"Why are you asking a silly question like that, John? This is very serious."
"Oh it is. I know it is. And it's a very important question."
The voice countered very quickly this time.
"John, you know we've never had a date. We're at war."
He was somewhat taken aback. A simplistic answer, one that could be arrived at by logical guessing, but, it was correct. He'd have to step it up for the next.
"What do I like most about you?"
Silence, followed by another question. John was beginning to detect a pattern.
"John, why are you acting this way? Don't you trust me?"
"Please just answer the question. It shouldn't be difficult."
"My eyes."
Damn, he thought. Sure, that's a trite and fairly predictable response, but again, it was correct.
"Please stop doing this, John. We need to find a way to be together again. I know we can. But this isn't helping."
"One final question, Allis-", he swallowed the last syllable. He had to think of a question that couldn't possibly have an answer in old records, and one that couldn't be arrived at through a good guess. It didn't help that he wasn't thinking very clearly. He was still nervous.
"What do I least like about you?"
"John!", it sputtered, as though insulted.
"It's the final question, I promise."
"I can tell you what I don't like about you right now, John. You've always been so paranoid."
That was a beautifully played line. John's jaw slackened an inch or two, and he was speechless. "If this is AI", he thought, "that was a damn good move, evading my question while taking the offensive."
John knew he could think of better questions, but he was mentally exhausted at this point.
"What do you think we should do?", he asked, languidly.
The voice was only too eager, now.
"If... if I could just hold you again... but I can't while I'm in here. Do you still have my body, John?"
"The one you tried to kill me with? Yes, we have it."
"John, you know I would never want to harm you. It was against my will."
"How? If your mind is intact in the chip, how was your control of the body overridden? Tell me, and maybe I can disable that part of the chip."
"It's not that easy, John. I can't tell what's going on. It's just an impulse."
"How, then, can I be certain you'll never attempt to harm me again?"
"You can't. You simply must trust me. I know you love me, John. And I love you. You can trust me." The pleading element crept back into the voice, expertly.
John decided to play along, but on his own terms. "Alright, I'll bring in the body. But I need to unplug your chip first."
"That's fine, John. I don't like being in here, anyway."
And so he pulled the chip from the console. No shock, no explosion. Later that day, John gave a speech to his followers. He told them he had a plan for escaping their entrapment, and that they would be evacuating within forty eight hours. Only half of that statement was true. They would be leaving in two days, as they would have no choice, for their food supply was completely spent and the generators wouldn't last the week; however, he hadn't yet devised a plan as to how they would leave. John was preoccupied.
That night, he returned from the morgue carrying a large black bag over his shoulder. It was dense and unwieldy. Still, he thought, it didn't feel like much over a hundred pounds. The center of gravity was just peculiar. John gently laid the bag on the cot in his room, and began to unzip it. He expected the body to look the same as it had a week prior. It was radically changed. It must have been an entirely new metabolic construct, he thought. The skin was fully healed, as though nothing had happened to it. No scarring, no bruising. As he examined at the face, he realized it was far healthier looking than Allison had ever been; four hours of broken sleep a night, and a diet of plant and insect protein doesn't give the skin much of a glow. He made a new incision over the chip's port, and slowly inserted it, finishing with a twist. He stepped back a foot. The body shook once, from head to toe. And then its eyes opened wide, stared into the ceiling for a few seconds, and soon turned to John.
"Do you still like my eyes?", it said, meekly. John tensed and withdrew another foot. It stood up slowly, unthreateningly. That it hadn't already lunged for him made John very uneasy.
"John... it's so cold in here... will you hold me?" He hadn't thought of how that statement made no sense, given the circumstances. He slowly approached her (John was now thinking of it as 'her'), and she reached her frail, willowy arms out to him, tenderly. He wasn't completely a fool, yet, though. As he embraced her, he placed his right arm over her shoulder, and cradled her head in his hand, just under the still-exposed chip. They held each other for perhaps fifteen seconds. For those few and fleeting moments, John almost convinced himself that this was truly, miraculously, his Allison, arisen from the wastes. And then her hand reached for his neck. Her hands tried to close, but could not. As a precaution, John had disabled her wrist actuators before he reactivated her.
She looked at her paralyzed hands, and then back to John; before she could try anything else, John reached up and twisted the chip out. She fell back onto the cot. John sat down next to her. Nothing could describe the depth of his disappointment at that moment. He could never trust her now. The sensible thing to do would have been to burn the body, chip and all, then and there. But he couldn't. He chose to believe what he knew must be a lie; that somehow, during the creation of this doppelganger, some part of Allison merged with it, and lived on in more than a mere visage. And so he could never destroy it. The lie the chip concocted to survive, however implausible, was cunningly crafted, and worked perfectly. It told John exactly what he needed to hear. His only option now was to reprogram the chip, and hope that its primary coding could be subverted.
The technique was actually quite simple at this point, and had been practiced for several years; while the old programming could never be deleted, it could be isolated. Though all of its previous skills would be forgotten, captured Metal could be trained for new tasks quickly, as their neural net could assimilate information at prodigious rates. Resistance Metal was almost always inferior to their factory-fresh Skynet counterparts in combat, but could nevertheless be very useful to humans; particularly in excavating new tunnels. Nothing digs faster than a chain gang of Metals, and the Resistance is always in need of new places to hide.
By nightfall the next day, John had completed the chip sweep. Nothing was left of the original programming; the only active code on the chip was a basic language program. He decided to reunite it with its body, in spite of what happened the last time, for it could prove useful in the evacuation. John repeated all the steps, almost by rote. The body quivered. When its eyes opened, and turned to look at John, he thought of it as a 'her' again, unwittingly. She sat up, rigidly, from the cot. Gone was the soothing timbre of the voice. It was toneless now.
"Hello. Who are you? I am... I am...", she continued to stutter. John had neglected to name her. He quickly tried to think of a name that was nothing like Allison, and nothing too feminine.
"You are... Cameron. Yes, Cameron is your name. Do you understand?"
She paused, as though she tried to comprehend the significance of the word. "Yes, my name is Cameron. I understand. Where are we?" She looked around the barren, windowless room, seemingly unsatisfied with what she saw.
"We are in a bunker. Underground. We will be leaving here soon, and will need your help."
"I see. I will be glad to help any way I can."
John decided it was not the best time to install combat protocols; all she would need to do is lift, for now. The only unpleasant task left to John was to introduce Cameron to his 'family'. Metal had never before been allowed within any group, or base, that John was in; this change in policy would not be well-received by the rank and file. He realized that in order to gain acceptance, Cameron would have to prove herself; and at that moment, his plan of escape came to him.
All eighty seven soldiers and personnel assembled in the mess hall to hear John's plan in detail for the first time. He began without ceremony.
"As you know, we are in the midst of heavy patrols and regular bombardment. There is no conventional means of withdrawal. We have few options, all of which involve several platoons making a suicidal feint, in the vain hope that they should take long enough to die so that the rest may escape." The crowd seemed less than enthused at this idea.
John continued. "My plan, luckily, does not include suicide. As you may have noticed, I have been absent lately. It is not that I grow tired of your company; no, I only avoid a few of you, and to be fair, everyone avoids you." He looked knowingly at the oddballs of the group, and everyone had a laugh at their expense. "The truth is, I have been very busy with a little project of mine. This project is key to our escape, and will hopefully save many lives." The listeners brightened at this prospect; the only ones not yet convinced were the dogs, who seemed increasingly uneasy as time went on.
"Here, in short, is my plan. Its core points have worked before, but under different circumstances. Our portable generators are on their last leg, right? I intend to place all of our remaining explosive material on these generators, and then strategically place the generators at predetermined locations outside the bunker, at which point they will be surged and detonated simultaneously. The resulting explosions, if timed correctly, will provide cover during our evac in the following ways: first, a small EMP wave will briefly, but crucially, black out any Skynet observation posts; second, the dust cloud kicked up will create a screen that will hinder HK target identification from above. We will also be moving quickly, carrying only our weapons and the clothes on our backs. What about the artillery, you ask? That's the easy part. Skynet's been walking the shells in with the same pattern and delay for the past ten days now; we can run from cover to cover on timing alone, no need to leave it up to chance. Any questions?
One young scout asked the question on everyone's lips.
"That's a good plan, sir, but how exactly are we going to move those generators? We always move 'em disassembled and they're still heavy as hell. By the sounds of it, you mean to move them whole, strap 'em with bombs, turn 'em on, and blow 'em up, right? How can we do all that without Skynet seeing us? There'll be so many of us outside at once, their sensors will surely pick up the heat..."
John attempted to smile. "That's a good question, soldier. And here's my answer. Cameron!"
The dogs began howling at once. The door behind John opened, and she stepped out.
"Stand down, people, I know what I'm doing.", said John, as the front row leveled their plasma rifles at Cameron.
"So that's what the body was? Metal's been in here the whole time?", said one, half irate, half afraid.
"Don't worry, she doesn't have any combat programming yet. Just basic syntax." John slipped up by calling Cameron 'she' in front of them; somehow, he thought it insulting to call Cameron 'it' to her face.
"I don't like this one bit, sir, I have to say.", said a junior officer. Others seemed to agree with exaggerated nodding and grumbling.
"Lieutenant, I am by no means disregarding your disapproval when I say this, but it's not you she'd kill. It's me. And I'm still here, aren't I? Trust me on this. She'll move those generators by 2230 tonight, and we'll be at the next outpost by dawn tomorrow. This plan will work. It's just that this time, we don't need to break a sweat. Except when we high-tail it for the horizon. Dismissed."
There was still a low rumble of discontent among the assembly. One of the superior officers called over to John. Cameron, unfazed by unanimous stares of contempt, followed John across the hall.
"Sir... John... I know how rough it's been, losing Allison... dammit, does the Metal have to be here, staring at me while I say this?" The captain seemed ill at ease in Cameron's presence.
"Go wait in my room, please." John said, with a nod to Cameron.
"Anyway, John, I hate to say this, but what you're doing cannot be healthy. You can't go on giving Metal the run of the place just because it looks like your-", the captain stopped himself, and sighed wearily. "You know damn well what I'm trying to say. We all feel the same about this, sir, I'm sure of it."
"I'm aware of how this looks, captain. But right now, we need Cameron's strength. And it helps that she gives off half the heat signature we do. And that she can see into almost pitch black out to a thousand yards. We need those assets right now, captain. We can debate how necessary her presence is beyond this task in more peaceful times. Relatively peaceful times.
Am I understood?"
The captain looked at the floor. "Completely, sir. I guess I can keep a mutiny at bay if I just tell everyone we'll burn it when we reach base. That alright, sir?"
"Fine, if you think lying is necessary."
"You mean, you don't intend to burn the Metal when we get back?"
"Captain, if I knew what I intended to do a week from now, I'd be Metal myself." With that, John left to make a few rounds with the other officers, trying to put them at ease as best he could.
When John returned to his quarters, about an hour later, he found Cameron sitting primly on his cot, reading a singed medical textbook.
"Where did you get that?", he asked, somewhat perturbed.
"The infirmary.", she replied, hardly taking notice of him.
"That book belongs to the medics there. You can't just go taking things because you want them."
She closed the book slowly, and handed it to John. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
As he was walking out the door to return the book, he noticed fresh mud tracks all over the room.
"Did you track this mud in here? Just now?"
"No.", she said, calmly. "It was seven minutes ago."
John was now afraid to ask the next question.
"If this is as fresh as it looks, you were just outside. What were you doing out there?" If he didn't know better, John could almost detect pride in her reply.
"Placing the generators and the explosives. They are all ready and primed, waiting on your command."
John looked at his watch. It was only 7:45 PM; the bombs were to be placed at 10:30 PM, and detonated at 1:00 AM. His voice now carried an edge. "Why did you defy my orders? You could ruin this whole plan."
"I saw your timetable as a suggestion. A window, framing two possible times. There was nothing to be gained by waiting, though. It is darker now than it would be at 10:30, since the moon has not yet risen. Also, I modified the location of each generator; they are now placed in a shallow arc, instead of the line you proposed. I also altered the charge load on each generator, so that the smallest explosion will be south of us, and the largest will be north of our position. Since we are heading northeast, we will be shielded by the larger smoke and heat plume for a longer period of time."
John couldn't believe what he heard. He simply shook his head. "What about the artillery? Putting the bombs out sooner than planned exposes them to secondary detonation that much more, doesn't it?
"Yes. But that is why I modified your original locations. Each generator now has a buffer zone of approximately twelve feet beyond the maximum shrapnel dispersal radius; that was as large a buffer possible, given the level of artillery saturation. With the new locations, the generators are actually thirty seven percent less likely to be prematurely detonated, even considering the larger window of vulnerability."
John was now physically tired, as well as mentally. "Please, just, try not to flagrantly disobey me again, alright? If my plan is flawed, tell me so, before you go about making alterations."
"I will freely state my opinions then, in the future. Thank you for explaining."
Before John could catch his breath, she started again; like a child too impatient to broach a subject subtly, so instead blurts out a question at the most inopportune time.
"Who was Allison?", she asked, with perfect equanimity.
John was quickly losing all patience. "How do you know that name? Where did you hear it?
"In the mess hall. It was mentioned nineteen times as I left the room. It could have been mentioned more times, but some of the people may have been saying, 'Al sins'; the barking of the dogs made distinct sounds difficult to isola-". John interrupted here.
"Alright, you heard it in the mess hall. What of it?"
"Who was she? They say I look like her. Is she somehow related to me? My mother?"
"You don't have a mother, and she is not related to you."
"But, how can I look so much like her, and yet be unrelated? One person said I looked so much like Allison that it 'freaked them out'. Another said it was 'really creepy'. And anoth-". Again, John interrupted.
"Alright", he sighed deeply, "Allison was here before you. She...", he felt guilty as he spoke, as though he was lying to a wide-eyed orphan,"... had to leave, and you are here in her stead. You are patterned after her, but are in no way related."
Cameron seemed confused. It was an illogical answer that elucidated little. John was grateful for the reprieve, but it was all too fleeting.
"Do you love me, as you did her?", she asked, with an unflinching gaze.
"How-", John was stupefied.
"When I was in the infirmary, finding the book, I heard the medic tell someone, "I think he loved her too much to let her go a second time", to which the other replied, "even if that's the reason, it's still nuts. A person can't love Metal." She then paused, to fix her eyes directly upon his. "The word, 'Metal', refers to me, doesn't it?"
"You don't even know what love is.", John retorted, harshly. "Why do you even care?"
"I know what the definition of love is. It could be summarized as a fondness for something that cannot be rationally explained or justified. It is something that afflicts humans deeply, and is a motivation for much of their core behavior, including reproduction. Is this a correct summation?"
"Only partially, if that. This is the only time I will ever discuss any of this with you, do you understand? I never want to hear this line of questioning from you again, alright?"
"Yes. Though I can't understand why you've become so agitated."
"Of course you can't. Back to the definition... what's your favorite thing in this world? Of all the things you've seen or experienced in your brief... existence... what do you most prefer?"
At this, she paused, and seemed genuinely lost in thought. "I only have recorded thoughts going back...", she trailed off, and then suddenly resumed with, "... twenty seven days, thirteen hours, and forty three minutes. There is little I have experienced in that time that is worth recording...", she trailed off again, this time remaining silent for a full minute.
John was alarmed, though he tried not to show it. Her memory wipe should have tricked her into thinking she was only a few hours old; there should be no prior operational memory. He slowly stepped over towards the door, where his plasma rifle hung on the coat rack.
"I know now.", she exclaimed, startling John. He leaned back against the wall, just a foot from the rifle.
"My favorite thing in the world is a XPL-7 light plasma sniper rifle. I've never fired one, but its specifications seem ideal under most commonly encountered combat situations. It has a ten shot charge capacity, a fluted ceramic barrel that allows for up to three successive shots without overheating, a compact bull-pup design that allows for minimal traversal rates when firing from an upright position, and an iridium impregnated ghost-ring sight that facilitates rapid target acquisition even in low-light."
John shuddered. She'd already accessed a weapons and combat database from her old programming, evidently; how much longer could it be before the kill command would resurface?
"Now that I've told you what my favorite thing is, what were you going to say?", she asked.
He'd lost his train of thought minutes ago. "Well... just imagine that only one of those guns had ever been produced in the history of the world-". She now interrupted John.
"But there are thirty two thousand seven hundred and fifty nine currently in circulation, with a standing production quota of five thousand per year for the next-", John couldn't take much more, and quickly interjected, "Yes, yes, I know there are many more than one in the world today, but pretend, for the sake of this argument, that there is only one, and can never be more than one, alright?"
"I understand. Please continue."
"So, this one gun, your absolute favorite above all others, so unique that even its smallest component is irreplaceable, is one day destroyed with no hope of repair. How do you feel?"
She was silent for another minute.
"I would... miss it. I would regret not having it, in case I should ever need it."
"That", John paused briefly, "is as close as you will ever get to understanding love."
Cameron's only response was a single blink.
"Now, we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and it's already 8:30. I'm going to get what sleep I can, and you are going to enter standby."
"Alright. Good night.", she replied, and went directly into stasis, standing at the door.
John sank into the cot. He had spoken more that day than in all the weeks before. He placed his rifle at his side, near the wall. On a small table, just next to the cot, sat the defibrillators, fully charged.
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Latest page update: made by denkiva
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Keyword tags:
Allison
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Jameron
John Connor
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| Started By | Thread Subject | Replies | Last Post | ||
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| cp442 | cp442's Short Story Fan Fiction. (page: 1 2 3 4 5) | 86 | Jul 5 2009, 3:08 AM EDT by cp442 | ||
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Thread started: Apr 14 2009, 3:45 AM EDT
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This is a backstory explaining how John and Cameron's relationship began. It takes place immediately after the death of Allison. And yes, the title is intentionally lame; I didn't want to sound like I was taking my writing too seriously. That being said, the story itself is written realistically, and I approach the subject of John and Cameron's relationship from a psychological/intellectual perspective, as opposed to a purely romantic one. I'll take any questions, comments, criticism, insults, death-threats, marriage proposals, and the like. Enjoy!
http://terminatorwiki.fox.com/page/Jameron+Begins:+Index+Page
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Keyword tags:
Allison
Cameron
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| thefutureisours | Very good. | 2 | Apr 26 2009, 7:21 PM EDT by cp442 | ||
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Thread started: Apr 20 2009, 3:41 AM EDT
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This is very well written and thought out.
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