The Future War

DOT LAKE, ALASKA

We're getting organized, John Connor thought. Which means… paperwork!

Luckily, he and Sarah and Dieter had all been in favor of a decentralized structure, which kept bureaucracy to a minimum.

Which did not mean 'small.'

He sighed and leaned back in the chair until it creaked dangerously, even with his boots on the table to stabilize it, and took another sip of lukewarm herbal tea. For a moment his mouth crooked up at one corner; the central HQ of humanity at the moment was a man barely old enough to drink, in a nowhere town in the wilderness.

Lists were scrolling across the screen of his laptop, mostly of new recruits brought in by various resistance cells across North America, Europe, and East Asia. Skynet hadn't had a chance to pulverize Latin America quite as thoroughly, yet—it had probably been much worse in the 'original' Judgment Day scenario, which had happened back when the major powers had tens of thousands of ready-to-go nuclear warheads, instead of a couple of thousand all up. Of course, once Skynet got its production facilities fully operational, it would probably make more nukes—

'Christ!' he said suddenly, putting the cup down fast enough to slosh.

Jack Brock had sent in his list from Missouri, from the Ozark Redoubt. One of their more promising cells…

Dennis Reese.

He called up a picture. No absolute proof, but there was a resemblance—thin features, light brown hair, something about the eyes…

How would you define the relationship? Technically he's my granddad…

Even though the lieutenant was only twenty-five to John's recently turned twenty-one. John shook his head slowly. I think the reason time travel makes my head hurt is that it makes my eyes spin. Right now his gut was hurting, too. He felt an overwhelming urge to send a priority-one message to Brock: keep Reese safe at all costs!

But I can't do that, he knew, with a sinking sensation. That might be the exact thing that would keep Reese from fathering the son who's going to father moi!

The chaos-butterfly-wing thing evidently wasn't entirely correct; for all the time-loops and frantic attempts to change the past, each cycle tended back toward the original course of events.

But the past was changeable; sometimes the future created its own past. He had to be so careful…

* * *

John turned his attention to the single truck and bus waiting for passengers in the town square. Poor suckers, John thought.

They should be all right, though. He'd moved some of the resistance into that old logging camp and they'd be watching the road for these newcomers. If Skynet tried anything, it would lose.

They planned an attack on the 'relocation camp' any day now. As soon as thirty of the new plasma rifles arrived from California. He had no intention of sending his people into battle less well armed than the enemy. At least not if he could help it.

Reports on conditions in the camp weren't good, but they weren't as bad as the Black River camp in Missouri. For some reason, Skynet seemed to want the humans in B.C. to survive.

Ah, here she is.

Ninel rode up on a blue bicycle, put down the kickstand, and took a clipboard out of her saddlebags. Then she blew a whistle to get the small crowd's attention.

'If I ever see that white-haired bitch again, I'll kill her!' one of the mothers who'd survived the massacre had declared.

Can't blame her, John thought. But Ninel's okay. I can feel it in my gut.

For a moment he imagined Sarah Connor's eyebrows going up sardonically.

Okay, okay, my Internalized Mom Superego, yeah, it's partly another portion of my anatomy. But I'm a good judge of people— have to be, if I'm going to do this job. And my judgment says Ninel's no mass murderer.

He looked out the window at the exotic blond head—hair a bit rattailed, like everyone's right now, but still a bright beacon in the gray day. She seemed such a levelheaded sort of woman, not the kind to join a group that would deliberately kill ordinary people for no very good reason. She'd also seemed more like a loner than a joiner. The term lone gunman flitted through his mind.

The truth is I don't know her and shouldn't be making judgments about her sanity or lack thereof based on such short acquaintance.

Another phrase he was having trouble tamping down: He was so quiet, so helpful, seemed like such a nice fella. He so didn't want it to be true. Ninel was such an endearing little thing, she looked kind of like a blond, blue-eyed Bjork—elflike.

Although, Tolkien aside, mythology didn't paint elves as friendly to the average human—but as chancy and extremely dangerous.

It didn't take Ninel long to process the travelers and soon she was waving good-bye. John kicked his bike to life and roared up behind her. She kept her back to him as she put away her clipboard.

'How is it that you can run that thing?' she asked loudly enough to be heard over his motor. Ninel looked at him over her shoulder. 'Are you hoarding or something?'

'Or something,' he said, and cut the motor. 'I jiggered it to run on wood alcohol and I've set up my own still.' She looked impressed, which pleased him.

Then she frowned. 'It doesn't burn very clean, though, does it?'

He twisted his mouth. 'Does it matter at the end of the world?'

She laughed. 'It's not the end of the world, and yes, it does matter.' She grew serious. 'It always matters.'

Some small flake of dread sank through his being. Her parents had been activists. Ineffectual activists in an idiot cause, but an upbringing like that had to have some effect on her character.

'Can I buy you a burger?' he asked.

She grinned. 'If you could buy me a burger, I'd give you a medal. But you can buy me an elk kabob.' Ninel jerked her head at a nearby cafe. 'What have you got to trade?'

'Never fear,' John said, 'I'm prepared. I wouldn't offer if I wasn't.' He gave her a reproachful look that made her laugh.

'We can park in front,' she told him. 'I'll meet you there.'

When she caught up with him and had finished locking down her bike, she grinned to see him pull a pair of rabbits from his saddlebags. 'That should do,' she said. 'If they're fresh.'

He gave her another reproachful look. 'Fresh this morning,'

he said. 'Guaranteed.'

The burly man behind the counter of the improvised restaurant had a pump-action shotgun and a skeptical expression. That thawed as John shoved the two carcasses across the wood; he bent, sniffed, felt, and nodded.

'Okay, you got credit at the Copper King,' he said. 'Rack your weapons there, enjoy yourselves, and no fighting or you go out in pieces.'

'Come again to Burger King, and will you have fries with that?' John muttered under his breath.

The platters of grilled elk chunks on sticks did include potatoes; boiled, of course —nobody was wasting oil on cooking—but still tasty to carbohydrate-starved bodies, with a little salt.

'So,' Ninel said, biting into the juicy meat, 'did you get to the camp in B.C.?'

'Not all the way,' John said. 'As you said, it's a long haul.'

She shrugged. 'I'm a little disappointed. I've been wondering what it's like and if I should pack up and go.