The smallest figure in the tent moved forward to take the hand of the most complex. Star’s small soft fingers slipped into those of Marcus Wright, and she felt the warmth of his response through the cool metal. From the cot, Connor looked toward Kyle Reese, then to his jacket. Interpreting the glance correctly, Wright picked up the jacket and handed it to the younger man.
“Kyle,” Connor croaked, “take it. You’ve earned it.”
Nodding, the teen accepted the jacket. As he stepped back he saw that Star was holding Wright’s hand. Marcus eyed him evenly.
“Remember the difference.”
“Kate. Take mine....”
John Connor looked at him, visibly uncertain. Only one person in the tent was certain of what the big man’s words implied. Blair came up to him without hesitation. There were tears in her eyes and when she spoke, her voice cracked.
“Marcus....”
He gazed down at the woman who had saved him, who had made the great, grand difference in his recent existence.
“Everyone deserves a second chance. This is mine.”
Smiling, she stood tall and regardless of what anyone in the tent might think, kissed him affectionately.
“Thank you.”
He eyed her a moment longer, out of eyes that had already seen too much. Then he turned away and began to strip off his shirt....
Wright and Connor lay side by side on tables in the portable operating theater. Two warriors: one dying and the other—the other....
No words passed between them. None were needed. Knowing looks, a respectful nod, were enough for these two. Prepped for surgery, Kate Connor moved first to the side of Marcus Wright.
A host of conflicting emotions raced through her as she stared down at the powerful, silent, strangely calm figure. She had been wrong about him, all wrong, and now it was too late. She might have said something, but she couldn’t find appropriate words. Not for the sacrifice he was about to make. A surge of compassion rose within her.
She made herself force it down. Deeply as she might want to express it, there was no time for that now. All she could do was what she had been trained to do.
The syringe she wielded was substantial. It had to be....
A single slab of smooth river rock constituted the tombstone that stood at the head of the grave site. Despite the heat, the young man patting down the last shovelfulls of dry earth wore a heavy jacket. Sweat streamed down his face but neither the heat nor the dripping perspiration dissuaded him from his work. He had carved the obituary on the stone himself, with his own knife.
MARCUS WRIGHT
A GOOD MAN
A short epitath, he knew, but no better one could have been composed.
Taking a break before placing the last spadeful of dirt, he dug into one of the jacket’s pockets for the handkerchief that rested there. Deeper, his fingers encountered something less flexible, less soft. Brow furrowing, he pulled out the old photograph. It showed a single woman, attractive but stolid, her expression resigned. It was just a picture, nothing more than a photograph—but the eyes of the woman he was staring at seemed to burn into his soul. A tremor ran through him. He was not looking at an old picture—he was gazing at his destiny.
The woman in the picture was Sarah Connor.
More than a little to everyone’s surprise, including that of Kate Connor, the transplant not only took but held. But then, John Connor had always been just a little stronger, just a little tougher, just a bit more resilient than any other human she had ever met.
Face sutured, chest swathed in heavy gauze, he stood outside the chopper and regarded the surviving core of the Resistance. He was not the only survivor. And, he knew in his heart as well as in his mind, there would be more. Many more.
Would there be enough? Only time would tell.
“
One by one the surviving functional aircraft lifting into the sky and headed off into the sunset, leaving behind only the usual detritus typical of temporary human occupation, regrets, and the single grave of a human being....
Keep reading for an extract from
PROLOGUE
The last day of his life, he remembered thinking afterward, had been hell on earth.
