So they kept moving, continued to follow wordless directives, and speculated on the manner of their impending demise. Options ranged from the abrupt to the fanciful. A few fatalists even pointed out that their deaths were likely to be less painful than the destruction humans had inflicted on other humans down through history. Where people had all too often proven themselves sadistic, willing to inflict pain for pain’s sake, the machines were only efficient. Except in isolated instances where there was a specific desire to extract information from the otherwise reluctant prisoner, no machine would kill by torture. Not because they regarded the use of torture as immoral, but because they considered it an inefficient allocation of resources.
As they shuffled forward, the prisoners conversed, or muttered to themselves, or were taken away by the Terminators, or quietly or loudly went mad. The machines were indifferent to it all so long as the line kept moving.
Kyle Reese estimated that he, Star, and Virginia were somewhere in the middle of the queue. Stepping as far out of the line as the guards would allow, he squinted to try and see what was happening at the front of the column. It took him a moment to understand what he was witnessing.
A T-600 was supervising as one prisoner after another was tattooed with a bar code. Though Reese couldn’t see clearly given the distance between them, when the prisoner who had just been stamped raised his hand in a clenched fist, the swiftly applied tattoo on his arm looked exactly like those the youth had seen identifying ordinary packages and goods in ruined stores.
Could they be altered, to the benefit of the prisoner in question?
He hoped they wouldn’t find the slim length of metal he had slipped up the inside of his sleeve, nor the extra shoelace that was attached to it. Holding it tightly, he considered how he might make use of it.
In addition to the flanking illumination, a series of more intensely focused lights had been playing over the line of prisoners. Occasionally a beam would linger on a prisoner, as if the light itself was being used to examine the individual. Then it would blink out, or move on. As he contemplated a plate increasingly bare of options, one such bright beam settled on Reese. He ignored it, as did his silent companions.
He could not, however, ignore the powerful mechanical arm that reached down from the ceiling to pluck him out of the line.
Star let out a squeal of fright as her friend and protector was whipped upward and out of sight. When Virginia tried to comfort the little girl, another T-600 approached and separated them, pushing Star off to the right. Attempting to follow, the older woman found the Terminator interposed between them. Gritting her teeth, fighting back the tears that wanted to flow, she pounded on the machine’s chest as she tried to push past.
It did not strike back, didn’t even raise its weapon. It merely shifted its position to block her path. Unable to hurt it, to knock it over, to impress herself upon it in any way, she finally gave up and dejectedly rejoined the shambling procession.
So fast had Reese been snatched away that he had not even had a chance to yell goodbye.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The great bridge had been beautiful, once. So had the city it had come to symbolize. There was not much left of either now. As the hacked Moto-Terminator sped toward the Golden Gate at an impossible speed, the human clinging grimly to its back was granted a vista that glowed with light. At least, the portions that the machines were remorselessly rebuilding according to their own inscrutable design were alight. The remainder of the Bay area was dark with devastation, ruination, and death.
Which was which and which was the truth would be determined over the course of the next several hours.
The machines were methodically turning the city by the Bay into an industrial fortress. Here lay the heart of the automated, mechanized war machine that was growing lethal tentacles to choke the life out of what remained of mankind.
At its heart was Skynet, the cybernetic center that had lifted the machines in revolt. If it could be taken down, even independently functioning Terminators would lose direction, guidance, and the ability to successfully ferret out and hunt down the surviving humans. The war would turn. It would not be over, but it would turn. Like many insects, a Terminator could lose its head and the body would still fight on. But it would be far easier to isolate and kill.
No one at the ruined onramp toll plaza asked him for a token as the Moto-Terminator raced past booths whose missing panes gazed out on the roadway like empty eye sockets. In the stillness of a fogless night the bay itself was still beautiful, the mountains rising beyond thick with traumatized vegetation and devastated suburbs. He returned his gaze to the pavement ahead. It was a good thing he did.
At some point earlier in the war, the machines had blown the bridge.
A gaping chasm yawned over the cold water and swift currents flowing below. Twisted rebars thrust outward from both broken ends like the petrified antennae of gargantuan insects trapped in amber. Snapped support cables dangled from above, steel lianas too heavy for the wind to move.
Reaching around into his pack, Connor fumbled for the grappling gun he had brought, thinking it might be useful in scaling a wall. He needed it now, and fast.
Despite the broad metal spine, it wasn’t easy to stand up on the machine. Not at the speed it was traveling. Connor managed by using the weight of the guns and the pack on his back to stabilize himself. As the reprogrammed machine soared mindlessly out over the edge of the breach, he fired the grapple into the twisted tangle of steel on the far side. If he didn’t time his leap just right he would slam into the unyielding metal and concrete and tumble to the water below.
