“That’s what John Connor says,” a Japanese general pointed out. He scanned the dais. “Where is Connor? Is he here?”
Ashdown massaged his temples, as though he felt a headache coming on.
“There may be a misunderstanding here. John Connor is not the leader of this Resistance. As far as we can determine, he is a well-informed civilian who has taken it upon himself to alert the world to the danger posed by Skynet.” Confused muttering greeted Ashdown’s statement. “Don’t get me wrong. Connor is performing a valuable service to humanity. His broadcasts provide both information and inspiration, both of which are sorely needed in time of war. I respect and admire his efforts on behalf of the Resistance. But he is not a part of our command structure. He’s a symbol, a mouth-piece—nothing more.”
“Do you know where Connor is?” the Japanese delegate persisted. “Have you been in touch with him?”
Ashdown sighed. Losenko got the impression he was tired of having to answer such queries.
“We are making every effort to contact Connor. If he’s as committed to the Resistance as he says, I’m sure he will eventually enlist and take up arms under our banner. Right now, though, he’s proving a hard man to find— not that I blame him. That’s how he’s survived so far.” A note of exasperation crept into the general’s voice. “But, again, he is just a civilian. Not a trained military commander like everyone here.”
Just a civilian? Ashdown’s dismissive tone bothered Losenko, who recalled the Russian freedom fighters who had come to his rescue back home. Grushka and her valiant comrades had been “just” civilians, too, but they were the ones on the front lines, fighting against the machines.
“Excuse me, General,” Losenko interrupted. “Are you saying that there is no place for civilian militias in your Resistance?”
“Not at all,” Ashdown replied. “My country was founded by citizen-soldiers who fought back against oppression. Local militia groups have their uses. They harry the enemy, disrupt supply lines, and keep Skynet distracted.” He shrugged as though this wasn’t a topic on which he wished to waste too much breath.
“But let’s be realistic. Amateur guerillas and backyard saboteurs aren’t going to win this war. Skynet is too big and too smart. In the end, only a well-organized army and navy—commanded by professional soldiers—can keep the machines from overrunning our world.” He looked up at the gallery. “You, ladies and gentleman, are the hope of humanity, not scrappy fugitives like John Connor. Together, we can take back our planet.”
“Under whose command?” a Libyan colonel challenged. “Yours?” He shook an accusing finger. “Your arrogance created this disaster, but the rest of us paid the price!”
“We’ve all paid dearly,” Ashdown acknowledged. “My only son was stationed at a U.S. military base in Alaska. He died on Judgment Day, before any of us knew what was happening. We didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.”
What?
Losenko dropped back into his seat, shaken to the core by what he had just heard. His mind flashed back to that terrible hour in the control room of K-115. He heard himself issue the command to fire, felt the deck lurch upon the launch of his missiles. Mushroom clouds blossomed like poisonous fungi over a land on which he had never laid eyes. Ashdown’s faceless offspring was consumed in a nuclear firestorm. His ashes were reduced to atoms. The Russian captain averted his gaze from the podium, unable to look Ashdown in the eyes. An inescapable truth rendered him numb.
This man’s flesh and blood died because of me.
Only Utyosov noticed his reaction.
“Dmitri? What is it? Is something wrong?”
“I....” Words failed Losenko. He couldn’t speak. With shaking hands, he poured himself a cup of cold water and gulped it down. “It is nothing, Bela,” he finally managed to croak. “A bad memory, that’s all. It... it took me by surprise.”
The older man nodded knowingly. He placed a comforting hand on Losenko’s shoulder. Sad eyes gazed on the captain with compassion.
“I understand, Dmitri. It happens to me sometimes, too.”
In the meantime, Ashdown’s painful admission did little to silence the voices of his attackers.
“You expect us to feel sorry for you because you lost your son!” the Chinese general rebuked him. “Billions of sons and daughters have died. My country is a wasteland because of you. Now you expect us to help you clean up your mess? Your arrogance is beyond comprehension!”
“Let him speak!” A British naval officer came to Ashdown’s defense. “What’s done is done. The real atrocity now would be to fight amongst ourselves while the machines sink their claws into the world.”
“If there really are machines.” The Indian delegate stuck to his conspiracy theory. “They are using scare tactics to bring us all in line.”
“Didn’t you hear me before?” the Israeli snapped. “Skynet is real. It’s been in the works since the 1980s.”
The Sikh smirked.
“Don’t be so naive. The Americans could have been laying the groundwork for this deception for years. To cover their tracks in the event of a failed global takeover.”
“If that’s what you think,” a Pakistani general growled, “then why are you here?”
The Sikh gathered up his things.
“I’m asking myself that same question.”
The Indian contingent headed for the exit. The Chinese, Cubans, and Libyans moved to follow them. Losenko saw the entire summit unraveling, along with any hope for a united front against the machines. This was just what John Connor had warned them not to do.
“Wait!” He rose and blocked the door, despite the glares that confronted him. “My friends, let us not make any rash decisions. We all need to maintain an even keel—or this storm will sink us.” He looked at Ashdown. “Perhaps a recess is in order?”
“Good idea,” Ashdown agreed. Tempers needed a chance to cool. “It’s time for a break.” He stepped away from the podium. “Lunch will be served in the library next door.”
Scowling, the departing delegates halted their exodus. Losenko backed away from the exit. Old tensions, it seemed, had not been burned away in the fires of Armageddon. He could only hope that the Resistance was more movement than mirage.
If it was an illusion, then John Connor really would be just an empty voice on the airwaves.
Lunch consisted of turtle soup served in an upside-down tortoise shell the size of a large banquet punch bowl, and steamed sea cucumbers. The Israeli woman turned up her nose at the former, but the rest of the delegates looked eager to sample the exotic fare. The tantalizing aroma of the soup was tempting after many months spent subsisting on canned fare from the Gorshkov’s galley, but Losenko found he had little appetite.
The heated emotions and troubling revelations of the summit left his stomach tied in knots. He spotted Ashdown across the small, one-room library and his spirits sank. He was not looking forward to meeting the man in person.
Best to get it over with.
Leaving Fokin and Utyosov to share a meal, Losenko crossed the floor toward the American. The other delegates huddled in small cliques, mostly defined by their old global alliances. There was little mingling going on; the various factions kept to themselves.
Oversized color blow-ups of the islands’ unique flora and fauna were mounted on the walls. Two-dimensional petrels and iguanas posed against lush, verdant foliage. The rainbow-hued photographs ill fit the tense atmosphere. Nobody examined the various scientific journals shelved upon the stacks. Survival—not science—was all that mattered now.