Terminator Salvation

underwater—faster even than he remembered being able to—but not fast enough to escape the pile of metal that landed almost on top of him. The river quickly quenched the flames that were pouring from the fatally damaged aircraft. It also dragged the plane and the man who had been trapped beneath it swiftly downstream.

He had no idea how long he had been underwater or how far from the destroyed bridge he had been carried. Of the downed A-10 there was no sign. Coughing up river, barely conscious, wondering how he had survived, Wright grew aware that half of him was still submerged in the eddy that had deposited him on the sandy shore. He told himself firmly that answers to such questions could come later.

For the moment, being alive was enough.

Feeling that if a sudden rush of water came downstream and caught him he would not have the strength to fight it, he knew he had to get completely out of the river. Rolling over, he lay on his back exhausted, trying to recover some sense along with his wind.

This won’t do, he told himself. Out in the open and lying flat on the riverbank, the sun would dehydrate him quickly. Furthermore, sprawled helplessly he was completely exposed to the eyes of any patrolling machine. With a groan, he rolled over again and worked to get up onto his knees. That accomplished, he took a deep breath, stood, swayed for a moment, and steadied himself.

Since he had fallen into the river it stood to reason that any Terminators looking for him would begin by searching there. Checking the position of the sun, he headed inland in a northward direction and away from the water.

The wall of sand and loose scree that fronted the waterway was not easy to climb, but it did have one unexpected benefit. As he ascended, loose sand and gravel slipped downward to fill in and obscure his footsteps. He would leave no trail. Having no local destination in mind but retaining his northern bearing, he angled toward the only structure in the vicinity. If nothing else, it might offer some shade.

As it developed, the half-collapsed high voltage transmission tower not only offered shade, but a surprise.

It was impossible to miss the parachute that was hanging from one of the tower’s twisted cross-supports. The lightweight material fluttered slightly in what passed for a breeze. No doubt the chute had been deployed from one of the two downed fighter aircraft. As he drew nearer he saw that something was dangling from the lower end of the chute, at the terminus of the multiple nylon lines.

It was a body, sagging limp in its shroud.

The body proceeded to address him.

“Hey!” It was a feeble salutation, but certainly far more than Wright had expected to hear. The weakness of the shout notwithstanding, he determined that the suspended pilot was possessed either of an unusually high voice or a different set of chromosomes. Walking over to the ruined structure and peering upward, he saw that it was the latter supposition that was accurate.

“Hey!” Her second shout was slightly more vigorous than its predecessor. “Gimme a hand, will you?”

Standing on the sandy surface staring up at her, Wright studied the warped metal spire for a moment, chose an angle of ascent, and went up it like a gibbon. The speed and agility with which he reached her side took her by surprise. Took him by surprise, too, but then as a kid he had always been adept at tree climbing. He studied the surrounding landscape.

“Nice view.” Turning to examine the snarl of chute lines he started wrenching and pulling, trying to untangle her.

“Name’s Williams. Blair Williams.”

“Marcus Wright.” He continued wrestling with the lines. They were not cooperating. Standing atop the transmission tower he knew he was almost as out in the open as he had been lying on the beach, and he didn’t like the exposure. Hanging helpless in the straps of her ejection pack, the Resistance pilot was an even more obvious target.

Their thoughts and concerns coincided.

“I like to think I’m a tidy person, Marcus,” she told him, “but this is no place to waste time on neatness.” She nodded toward the ground. “How about we cut to the conclusion? I’ve got a knife.”

He stopped wrestling with the frustrating knot of ropes.

“Where?”

“Back of my left boot. Ankle sheath.”

Her right foot was hanging over emptiness. Holding onto a section of metal with one hand, he leaned out and flailed at the indicated limb with his other hand.

“Can’t reach it.”

“Hang on.” Dangling from the lines, she began to rock back and forth, building up momentum without regard to whether or not it might cause her to spill out of the harness. Wright waited, waited, and then timed his reach perfectly, locking his hand around her boot. Probing fingers released the catch on the sheath and he pulled the knife free. It was bigger than he expected; long, sharp, and with one edge lined with jagged teeth.

Sitting back on his perch, he eyed it admiringly. For the first time since regaining consciousness he had come into contact with a memory that was pleasing. In a life devoid of friends, knives had always been there for him, ready and willing to do whatever he wanted them to do. Sometimes too often.

He shook off the worthless reverie. “Nice knife.”

Something in his voice, maybe, or something in his expression caused her to keep her response short.

“Thanks. My knife.”

Without comment, he began sawing at the thickest part of the tangle. He was halfway through when he realized that with nothing to hold her back she was going to take a hard tumble when he cut through the last cords. The sand below the crumpled tower was thick and soft, but it was still a substantial drop. Turning slightly, he extended his left arm toward her.