Dark Futures t2tnjcc-1

  Dark Futures

  ( Terminator 2: The New John Connor Chronicles - 1 )

  Russell Blackford

  BASED ON THE WORLD CREATED

  IN THE MOTION PICTURE WRITTEN BY

  JAMES CAMERON AND WILLIAM WISHER

  Following the events of Terminator 2: Judgment Day, Sarah Connor and her son, John, had thought they'd been able to alter the timeline so that neither the artificially intelligent satellite SkyNet nor its Terminator killing machines would ever be created. But if they were so successful, why, then, are they now being hunted by yet another Terminator that's traveled back in time to ensure that John never grows up to be the charismatic leader of the few humans who survived Judgment Day?

  Told from the perspective of John himself, this first volume of The John Connor Chronicles provides insight to the thoughts and fears of a teenager who already knows what Fate has in store for him-and the burdens he has to bear along the path he must travel to become humanity's future savior.

  TERMINATOR 2@

  THE NEW JOHN CONNOR

  CHRONICLES

  Book 1:

  DARK FUTURES

  RUSSELL BLACKFORD

  BASED ON THE WORLD CREATED

  IN THE MOTION PICTURE WRITTEN BY

  JAMES CAMERON AND WILLIAM WISHER

  PROLOGUE

  MEXICO CITY, MEXICO AUGUST, 2001

  A fat, smug-looking dog foraged in the dim light, checking through the back alleys near the Zocaló: the Plaza de la Constitución. Out the back of a restaurant that fronted the huge public square, it found a trashcan full of scraps and bones. It nuzzled the lid off, and started to feast. Then it sensed something, something dangerous, in the alley, as papers, discarded cans, and dust began to move of their own accord. The dog backed away, with a low warning snarl, its tail low and nervously flicking from side to side. The fur along its back prickled up, like the devil's nightmare of a bad hair day.

  Flashes of blue electricity disrupted the darkness, raising dust and rubbish in a sudden upward spiral, like a miniature tornado. Trashcans shook and rattled, as if someone had stuck big electric motors inside them, then suddenly flicked the switch. The dog cowered and whined, as the lid it had nuzzled off flew away in the dark, and a geyser of trash spurted from the can, then rained back to earth. Bones, broken crockery and glassware, empty cans and bottles, vegetable peelings, discarded fruit, and leftover pieces of meat danced about the alley. Something hit a window two stories up, breaking it, and a light came on. There was shouting in Spanish. A metal Dumpster rocked from side to side on the paving stones.

  The dog ran from the alley, as blue lightning snapped and crackled all round it.

  Then, as abruptly as they began, the atmospheric effects ceased, and five human forms appeared in the air, falling quickly to the hard stone pavement, bodies twisting in pain. Some of them gave little strangled cries. They were naked In the faint glow of a distant streetlight, and the lit-up window overhead, their skin varied in color from ivory white to black.

  Close by came the sound of a police siren just for a few seconds.

  Miho Tagatoshi-always known as Jade—found her feet while the rest of the Specialists were still doubled up in pain, or leaning for support against the brick buildings. She shook her head quickly, then stretched her neck in every direction, groaning with the agony she felt, but letting it wash out of her like water. Having dealt with the pain, she looked round dispassionately. They needed clothes and weapons.

  Jade looked about twenty. Her black hair fell raggedly around her shoulders. Her oval face was almost perfect, but something about her lips and eyes was always solemn. Jade was something beyond human, something fast and strong, hard to kill or even hurt. She gave a sad smile. "Time displacement successful."

  The black man, Daniel Dyson, took command. He was clean-shaven, with short, curly hair that fitted his scalp like a helmet. "Give the rest of us a minute, Jade."

  "Very well."

  She waited for the others to recover. They were less deeply morphed than Jade, closer to the human norm, yet engineered by experts. They were well placed to complete their mission.

  Elsewhere in the huge, densely populated city, more blue lightning played, like a crown of writhing hair, above a four-story building in the Zona Rosa. What emerged on the building's roof looked human, but quite extraordinary. It was a naked, shaven-headed man, over eight feet tall, with hands the size of shovels.

  The giant T-XA Terminator looked round quickly, alert as a bird, getting its bearings. It was alone on the building's roof, looking northeast at the city's lights. Mexico City was a teeming nest of humans such as the experimental, autonomous Terminator had never seen in its own time. It had geometric skyscrapers as stark as razor slashes, and endless high-density sprawl: row after row, mile after mile, of medium-rise glass, steel, brick, stone, and concrete. All of it built for humans, many millions of them. Whichever direction it looked, the city lights showed more of the same.

  It was repulsive.

  Time to act quickly. The T-XA changed, losing the characteristics of any specific human. It became smooth, sexless, abstract. Clawing the fingers of one powerful hand, it reached inside its massive chest, which parted viscously. Its arm sank in nearly to the elbow.

  The T-XA felt no pain from its time displacement. Its carefully tuned, multiply redundant nanoware had ridden the space-time displacement field better than living flesh.

  It withdrew the arm, a phased-plasma laser rifle now gripped in its big boulder of a fist: a black metal weapon almost three feet long, with no stock attached. The rifle looked like an oversized, elongated handgun, and that's how the Terminator gripped it. If other small arms were honeybees, this device would have been an angry, deadly

  Now the T-XA’s mass adjusted inwards, filling the cavity left by its weapon, and the Terminator scaled town just slightly-yet was still fully eight feet tall. It resumed it's original appearance of a giant, naked man.

  Termination of humans was its purpose. Pointing the laser rifle ahead, it commenced a course of action.

  CHAPTER ONE

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA MAY 1994

  Their running battle with the shapeshifting T-1000 Terminator had brought them to a steel mill, its crew working the night shift.

  The workers ran for their lives when a tanker truck jackknifed and turned on its side—sliding, in a screeching agony of rent metal, right into the mill, where it cracked open like a huge, elongated egg, and spilled its dangerous freight: thousands of gallons of liquid nitrogen. The nitrogen sizzled into vapor when it touched the air, surrounding the T-1000 as it tried to struggle clear of the wreck. The shapeshifting, liquid-metal Terminator literally froze up. Stubbornly, it tried to walk, but soon, it was totally immobile, like a sculpture of painted glass.

  The T-800 raised its .45 caliber pistol. "Hasta la vista, baby," it said-then fired once. The T-1000 exploded.

  But even that was not the end. When its fragments warmed through on the floor of the steel mill, the T-1000 still managed to reform, even as they ran to escape it. Or tried to run, with their injuries and bruises. John Connor wondered how it worked. There had to be a limit to the redundancy of its artificial intelligence, a size too small for a fragment to retain its programming. But they hadn't found it so far. The T-1000 came after them.

  In the end, the T-800 fired a grenade right into its body. It exploded, and the T-1000 splashed out into a bizarre free-form shape, its programming still straining reform

  it, even as it fell backwards into a huge vat of molten steel. And that, finally was too much. In the pool of steel, the killing machine struggled to free itself, morphing into numerous shapes, but ultimately melting down. Then it was gone altogether, its high-tech liquid-metal alloy dispersing through the steel in the vat.

  "I need a vacation," the T-800 said. It was now a terrible sight. Its left arm had been torn off, fighting the T-1000 after they arrived at the mill. Much of its outer organic structure had been shot away.

  John looked down into the molten metal. There was no sign left of the T-1000. "Is it dead?"

  "Terminated."

  They threw in the arm and hand of the first T-800 from 1984-the one that had tried to kill his mother, Sarah, before he'd even been conceived. John had taken it from the Cyberdyne building. Then he tossed in the chip from its head.

  "It's finally over," Sarah said.

  "No." The T-800 touched a finger to the side of its head. "There is another chip. It must be destroyed also."

  John immediately realized what it meant. But the T-800 had become his friend. In interacting with humans, it had begun to seem human itself. John had already taught it so much. After all that, it couldn't be simply melted down like scrap, like a worn-out machine, just in case the wrong people got hold of it. "No!" he said.

  "I'm sorry, John," the T-800 said.

  "No, no, no! It'll be okay. Stay with us!"

  "I have to go away, John."

  Sarah was agreeing silently. As had happened so often in his life, John felt the adults ganging up on him. Surely this couldn't be necessary. He tried ordering the Terminator not to destroy itself, but Sarah overrode him. She lowered the Terminator into the molten steel, using a motorized chain. Soon it was gone.

  All over.

  Yet the nightmare was never over.

  John heard police and ambulance sirens, then shouts. Sarah froze at the sounds, looking about warily, like a hunted animal. They had to get out of here. Though the T-1000 Terminator was destroy
ed, they were still wanted by the police. If the cops caught them, Sarah would be sent back to the Pescadero State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. John himself might be placed in some kind of detention. His foster parents were dead, killed by the T-1000, and no one else would want to take him in. Not now.

  Despite their bruises and injuries, they had to escape fast, steal a car, get to Tarissa Dyson's hotel in Anaheim— and away.

  The mill was now deserted. John helped Sarah hobble down a metal plate staircase to the concrete floor. One of her thighs was covered in blood where a bullet had penetrated. The strength was going out of her.

  "You go ahead, John," she said. Her long, honey-colored hair fanned wildly round her head and shoulders in the dim light. Her face was marked by grime, and by tears of relief, pain, and hope. "Get back to Enrique's compound. You can trust the Salcedas." Sarah had accomplished her mission. Now, with John safe, she scarcely cared about herself.

  "No!" John said. “Come on. We've got to make it."

  He half-dragged her through the mill, with its glowing fires. They penetrated deeper into its recesses, searching desperately for a way out in the labyrinth of pipes, ladders, conveyor belts, heavy machinery and metal support beams. Glancing over his shoulder, John saw the glow of flashlights sweeping from side to side at the entrance. There were more raised voices and shouts.

  "Come on, Mom," he said in an urgent whisper. "Please."

  "All right," she said. "Just stop for a minute, John. Just one minute."

  "Okay," he said doubtfully. "One minute," she said again, holding up her hand. "Let me get my breath." She was panting with the effort. She'd fought like a hero, as she'd trained herself to do for so many years, since the first Terminator attacked her. "Come here." She gave a pained smile, then drew him close to her body, holding him tight, as if she'd never let go. "Whatever happens, John, we won. Even if no one ever believes us, even if they hate us and lock us away, and never understand what they owe us, we've stopped Judgment Day."

  He hugged her round the waist as the emotion welled up through him. "I know," he said, tears in his eyes. "But now we've got to think about our own future."

  "Come on, then. We can make it."

  He flashed a crooked smile. "Hey, soldier, now you're talking my language."

  As they staggered, half crouched in shadow, over the hard concrete, the noises and lights came closer. Sarah tripped on a piece of sinter, keeping her footing, but grunting with the pain. Though she tried to muffle the sound, their pursuers must have heard, for someone called out, "You there!" Then running steps, people conferring urgently, and the torch beam playing close by.

  As the light swept past, they huddled into a dark corner, behind a staircase, then moved quickly, spotting an illuminated sign that pointed to a fire door. John scurried for it, trying to be quiet He turned the handle carefully, not wanting to make a sound-and pushed. He made it outside to an alleyway, with a dark carpark to the left, lit by a pair of streetlights. One of them flickered erratically. There was a scatter of vehicles, left behind when the mill was evacuated.

  He held the fire door open, and Sarah followed him. Still trying to move like mice, they eased the door shut and pushed a trash Dumpster against it. Leaning against the Dumpster, John picked out a 1970s Honda sedan, slightly worn looking but not too battered.

  "Stay here," he said in a whisper. "I'll be back."

  He found a broken half-brick in the car park, quickly used it to break the driver's side window, and reached in to unlock the door. He threw his backpack into the rear compartment, then fumbled to hotwire the ignition. His heart was pounding as seconds went by. At last he got the car going, shifted it into drive and crawled it back to the alley, leaving its headlights off.

  "I'd better drive," Sarah said. "You're going to look suspicious. They might not notice me."

  "Okay. Cool. Let's get going, then." Someone was pounding from inside the building. Too late, amigo, John thought as he wriggled across to the passenger seat.

  Sarah maneuvered her injured leg into the vehicle, groaning slightly, but then she was fine. She drove out of there slowly and quietly, turning on the lights only when she reached a narrow service road. "You may need to drive later," she said. "Once we're out of the city."

  “No problemo."

  She turned right into the service road, then took another turn at a set of traffic lights.

  "You know where we are?" John said.

  "Yeah, I think so." Two turns later, they were on the freeway to Anaheim.

  At Miles Dyson's home earlier that evening, when they'd planned their "raid" on Cyberdyne, Sarah had raised an issue about logistics. "We'll need the Bronco afterwards," she'd said. "We shouldn't risk it at the Cyberdyne site."

  John had grasped the point immediately. If they kept using stolen cars, they'd leave a trail-sooner or later, the police would track them down. Where the police were, the T-1000 was never far away. With its shapeshifting abilities it could easily infiltrate them.

  The T-800 had turned to Miles. "We need your car."

  They'd packed their weapons and explosives into the Dysons' Range Rover, then given Tarissa the keys to Enrique Salceda's Bronco. Tarissa had named a hotel in Anaheim for them to contact her when it was over.

  Now they cruised past the hotel, checking out its location. They parked one mile away in a dark back street. If someone reported the Honda missing, John and Sarah wanted it found as far from the hotel as they dared leave it. At the same time, they could not risk walking more than a mile. They were both hurting. John felt bruised all over, like someone had stuffed him in a sack and bashed him against a wall for the fun of it. Sarah was trying to be brave, trying not to limp, but the flesh wound in her leg was obvious.

  Besides that, her face had been all over the TV from the breakout at the Pescadero Hospital. That was even before the firefight and explosion at the Cyberdyne building. Right now, they were L.A.'s most wanted. Anyone might notice and recognize them. Even without their bruises and wounds, they were far from inconspicuous. It was past 1:00 A.M., so what was a young mother doing out on the streets with her kid? What's more, this young mother wore a striking all-black lighting outfit that left her shoulders bare, displaying her lean, rippling muscles in the streetlights. Sarah had dressed for the battle of her life, and she'd won, but now she stood out like a beacon.

  John counted his steps: 1498, 1499, 1500... almost there. Almost He was feeling like the world's oldest nine-year-old. All his life, he'd been force fed with technical know-how and grown-up ideas: everything from information warfare to rifle training, car mechanics, jungle survival and basic urban street skills. He'd lived in so many places, done so many things. Sarah had educated him to grow up and lead the fight against the machines, as the messages from the future said he'd do—to save the world for humankind. Well, now they'd done exactly that, or so he hoped, yet he felt more than ever like a juvenile criminal. Though they'd saved the world from Judgment Day, there was no one they could tell, no one who'd believe them. Only Tarissa—and they had bad news for her.

  Still counting: 1599, 1600...The hotel, with its bright neon sign, was within sprinting distance, but they kept walking slowly, trying to look normal. Only about fifty yards to go now, so long as nobody recognized them, or tried to pick on them. The streets were almost deserted, but it just took one cop on the beat to blow their cover. Just one busybody who'd seen them on TV. Or one aggressive street punk.

  Footsteps and bantering voices behind them. Sarah squeezed against a shop window, tensing and taking in breath, ready to react. She held John close to her. Two ] tall, beefy motorbikers strode past, dressed in black jeans and shiny leather jackets, almost like a pair of longhaired Terminators. The bikers kept right on walking, while a dating couple approached from the direction of the hotel: teenage kids in jeans and T-shirts, too busy hugging, laughing, and playfully shoving each other around to no-tice John and Sarah.

  A cop walked by on the other side of the road, then turned a corner. He hadn't noticed them. Quickly now, hand in-hand, they half-ran to the hotel, Sarah still limping but bearing up. Beside the hotel lobby was the entrance to an underground car park, so they wouldn't have to show their faces. They walked briskly down the concrete ramp, looking out for the Bronco-they had no idea where Tarissa had parked it, but it must be here somewhere. John had memorized the number plate, IE49973, but Sarah spotted it first. She tugged his hand and nodded in the Bronco's direction. It was parked in a good drive-out bay, so they wouldn't need to maneuver it.