"Easy!" John said. "Slow down, take long slow breaths."
Her eyes locked onto his as she visibly tried to take his advice. But it was no good, she couldn't breathe, and in seconds she was gasping again, dragging in huge, whooping breaths as tears streamed down her face. Her hand clenched on his pant leg and twisted the cloth.
John looked into her eyes, so stunned by her anguish that for a moment he was completely at a loss. Then Wendy arched her neck and he saw that the column of her throat bore a slight dent in the front.
"You've got to trust me," he said to her as he put his hand on her throat.
Wendy nodded, her eyes on his. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed on her windpipe and to his great relief it popped back into shape. Instantly her breathing grew easier and she closed her eyes.
John let out his breath in a huff and went back to scanning the room; still, nothing moved. He'd been so afraid that he would have to perform an emergency tracheotomy on her. John had studied the simple operation and knew its principal points, but reading about it and trying to do it to someone wide-awake and in distress—someone you loved—that would have been hard.
Wendy opened her eyes and looked at John; he seemed far away somehow, as
though she was looking at him through the wrong end of a telescope. A halo of black-and-white speckles surrounded him and her vision seemed to grow dim.
She had to warn him, had to make him erase the program and take the disk.
Without the second half of the program they'd be doing just the opposite of what they'd come to do. Her hand still held on to him and she tugged on the cloth.
"Ja…" she said. Almost no sound had come out and her throat burned with a raw agony when she tried to speak. She squeaked and tried to swallow and writhed with the pain. "Ja…" she said, trying again.
"Don't speak," he warned her. "Your larynx must be damaged."
Wendy sobbed, then licked her lips and swallowed once more; her lips drew back in a rictus of pain. Stubbornly she took a deep breath and looked at him, willing him to understand her. Wendy formed the word computer with her lips and he looked over at the computer she'd been using. She tugged on his pant leg and he looked back at her. She shook her head, then formed the word erase. John frowned and she tried to say it again. This time when she tried to speak no sound came out at all and the agony surprised a sob from her.
John winced in sympathy and then he got the idea. "It's okay," he said. "I've got it. I'll take care of it, you just rest. Okay?"
She smiled at him and closed her eyes, concentrating on just breathing. She heard the soft whir of the disk drawer closing and looked over at the computer in astonishment. She watched as John followed the prompts and finally hit "enter,"
causing her program to begin downloading directly to the hard drive.
No! Wendy screamed silently behind him, her injured throat producing an nearly
silent screee. NO! she shouted in her mind.
Yes! Clea thought triumphantly from her hiding place behind two mainframe computers. Yessss! She'd better make sure the girl didn't warn Connor that he'd done exactly the wrong thing. Though I like it. She liked it very much.
Wendy shook her head violently and slapped the floor to attract John's attention.
She didn't even see Clea rushing toward her with inhuman speed and she barely felt it when the I-950's foot crashed down, crushing her throat and shattering the vertebrae in her neck.
John turned to see a beautiful woman raise her foot high and bring it down on Wendy's throat. He heard the terrible sound of things breaking within her and watched the light fade from Wendy's eyes. For a long moment he stood frozen, utterly stunned with horror. He lifted his eyes to meet the gleeful smile of the female Terminator.
Clea was almost upon him before he brought up the gun; before he could fire her foot flashed out, kicking the gun from his hand hard enough to break two of his knuckles. The gun went flying and Clea reached for Connor's throat. He leaned back just far enough that she missed, and struck at her throat with a straight hand blow. The I-950 knocked it aside easily and tried to close with him.
If she could only get her hands on him she could tear him apart. Reaching back, John picked up the keyboard and smacked her in the face with it. She stepped back slightly and shook her head. Somehow that had surprised her; she'd expected better of the famous John Connor.
John moved away from the computer table, trying to get some space between
him and the Terminator; his eyes found the gun and dismissed it. It was too far away. He risked going for the knife in his boot.
Clea watched him, and when he moved so did she. It was evident that he was going for a weapon and she wouldn't allow that. Stepping lightly, she twisted herself to deliver a flying kick. John ducked under it and grabbed her leg, twisting it and bringing his fist down, intending at the very least to tear ligaments.
But the I-950 was both stronger and more flexible than a human; she wrested her leg from his grasp and spun in place, managing a body blow that knocked him on his heels, staggering backward, with a look on his face that told her he was in pain. Instantly she followed up her advantage, rushing toward him, intent on his eyes.
John staggered back, breathing carefully and with no little difficulty. He felt nauseated from the kick to his stomach and he almost stumbled over an office chair. Yanking it in front of him, he held it like a shield as the Terminator tried to close with him. Part of his consciousness looked desperately around the room for something to use as a weapon, while the rest watched the Terminator and tried to counter its every move. Computer labs, unfortunately, seemed to lack much in the way of combat-ready items. The best he could hope for was to make it to the door and perhaps escape to a better-supplied lab.
Clea was nonplussed by the great savior of humanity's methods. This was what would defeat Skynet? After a few feints were thwarted by the stupid office chair, she simply grabbed it and tore it from his grasp.
John turned and raced for the door. Clea swept out her leg and tripped him, then sprang erect and moved in for the kill. As she leaned toward him John flipped
over and swept his leg up; his booted foot connected with her jaw and the I-950
fell, momentarily stunned. He scrambled to his feet again and turned to run.
Before he could take a step she grasped his pant leg and pulled him toward her.
Pivoting, John kicked her again and she let go.
But only for a moment; before he'd gone far she was on her feet again and running after him. Catching up; she shoved him and he hit the wall beside the door hard enough to knock the breath out of him. As he slid down, Clea approached; she grabbed the front of his shirt and swung him around.
"Did you think it would be that easy?" Clea asked, grinning. She drew back her fist for a fatal strike. While he struggled for breath, watching her. He brought his own hands up.
Wait a minute, he thought. I can't die yet— the war… But it was impossible to care, because Wendy was—
"Hey!" Dieter called from the doorway.
Clea turned her head, snarling like an animal, just as Dieter threw his knife. It hit her high in the center of her back, cutting her spine and slicing into the great artery that fed her heart.
She dropped onto her back on the floor, where the knife held her body in an arch; her eyes found von Rossbach with a hate-filled glare.
"Chill out, Bennet," Dieter said grimly, coming into the room.
The I-950 coughed once, spraying blood, then closed her eyes and stopped