For the first time in his life, he allowed himself to revel in the ignorance that in his previous existence had brought him so much grief.
He pressed on, passing self-aware loaders, individually propelled welders, driverless trucks, tiny scavenging devices, multi-wheeled clean-up containers, and a host of other machines. Their diversity was staggering, their single-mindedness of purpose intimidating, their indifference to him reassuring.
There was a man in the midst of the machines, and they could not even see him.
Among the wide assortment of antiques that had been accumulated at the base anything that was still capable of playing music was highly valued. Barnes had therefore been understandably reluctant to sacrifice his old tape player.
“You sure I’ll get this back?” he had challenged Connor when he had inquired about requisitioning the player.
Connor had replied with a knowing smile.
“If you don’t, you can take it out of my hide.”
The lieutenant’s tone was grim.
“According to what you’re telling me you’re going to try, if it doesn’t survive, you won’t have any hide left.”
Despite his reservations, Barnes had helped Connor with the set up. It was all highly non-procedural, of course. Entirely off the record. When Connor had described what he had in mind, the lieutenant had felt duty-bound to point out that engaging in such action off-base in the absence of authorization could get them both court-martialed.
“I’ll take all the blame,” Connor had assured him. “I’ve already been relieved of command and placed under arrest.”
“They can still put you in front of a firing squad,” Barnes reminded him.
It was clear that Connor understood the risk he was taking.
“First they have to catch me. In fact, I hope they do try to catch up with me. Come on—let’s get this stuff emplaced.”
To all intents and purposes, the forest by the side of the road was deserted. It was, however, far from quiet. Running on half-empty batteries, a carefully concealed tape player belted out a mix of heavy-metal music from the time before Judgment Day. It had been doing so for several hours now.
A new song started and was almost drowned out by the high-pitched whine of the machine that was fast approaching.
The Moto-Terminator was traveling at a shade under 200 mph as, weapons armed and ready, it sped toward one of the many sounds the machines had learned to associate with human presence. The sounds themselves, the music, meant nothing to it, of course. To a machine such amplified sound wave modulations had no meaning, since they carried no digital instructions. The Moto-Terminator was confident of locating and eliminating those to whom the sound waves were directed. At the speed it was traveling, no humans could escape it.
By the same token, it could not escape the consequences of its own extreme velocity. This was graphically illustrated when a concealed cross cable suddenly sprang up out of the sand that had been used to disguise it, catching the speeding machine and sending it crashing into a pile of nearby rocks. Sparks flew not only from the machine’s armored exterior but from its more vulnerable innards.
Springing from hiding, a triumphant Connor was on the Moto-Terminator the instant it came to a stop. Tools in hand, working swiftly, he ripped off the protective security panel to expose the tangle of wires and chips that comprised the bike’s neural ganglia. From the pack he had brought with him he removed a crude but functional hand-held computer. Self-adhering hackwire attached itself to the relevant portions of the exposed machine brain. A couple of clicks, a few buttons pushed, and the small monitor on the device he was holding sprang to life.
Binary code filled the screen, scrolling faster than he could follow. In less than a minute the incomprehensible numbers were translated into lines of language, then to a single options list. Perusing this, he took action accordingly.
When he was finished, he repacked the hacking gear and strained to return the machine to an upright, two- wheeled position. One wheel spun furiously as the Moto-Terminator strove to comply with its revised programming to rush back to its home base—inside Skynet Central. Mounting the back of the machine, which while sufficiently broad for the purpose had never been built to carry a rider of any kind, Connor wrapped the nylon tie-down he had brought with him around the bike’s head.
With one hand he pulled out the last hackwire, restoring the device to full functionality. Spitting sand and gravel, popping a wheelie no human could have managed, the now partially lobotomized killing machine accelerated rapidly as it raced for home.
His hands wrapped around the ends of the tie-down, the heavily armed Connor lay prone on the back of the Moto-Terminator and resolved that come what may, he would
Behind him, Barnes emerged from the rocks and the shadows to recover his tape player. Standing there alone in the scrub, he watched until the distant blur of fast-moving red and white lights and their accompanying alien whine had receded into the distance. Then he shut off the player and turned to retrace the path back to the base. He would listen to the rest of the music later, but not now.
Despite the evening’s success, the decades-old songs did not provide the emotional lift he had come to expect.
As far as everyone in the line was concerned, they were already dead.
They kept moving because those who did not were prodded by the Terminators that were guarding them. Those who were prodded and did not move were pulled out of line—and never seen again. Some murmured that they were the lucky ones, and considered copying their recalcitrance in hopes of putting an end to days of horrid anticipation. But survival is an ingrained trait and the strongest motivator of all. When there is a choice, suicide is rarely a majority option.
