Even Terminators had protocols, he assumed.
Leaning back, he studied the structure across from him. While the first four floors were dark, lights gleamed on the uppermost level. The absence of illumination on the lower floors was not surprising. The machines did not need light, or not very much, to carry out their assignments. Light was for hunting humans. Then why the illumination on the top floor?
He waited for the T-600 patrol to disappear around a corner. Then he dropped into a crouch and started across the street.
In contrast to the perimeter wall, the outside of the building was replete with handholds. Wright scurried up one side all the way to the top like a squirrel on steroids. Once on the roof he had to navigate a cautious path through a jungle of antennae. He had never seen so many dishes and receivers in one place. Packed together though they were, none intruded on its neighbors’ space.
Well out of sight of the ground below, he paused to consider his options for entry. He could lean over the edge of the roof and swing himself through a window. That would be noisy and might well draw attention. He could try to fit himself into a ventilation shaft. Given the heat they generated, the machines needed a flow of fresh air as much as did humans. Or he could....
A glance through the moonlight revealed a rectangular shape sticking up above the rest of the roof. Rising, he darted over to the old access door. It was unlocked.
The top floor command center boasted more processing power than had ever existed on the rest of the planet combined. For all that, it was nearly silent. Illumination came not from the usual overhead fluorescents or lamps set on tables, but from the thousands of telltales that indicated whether or not a particular component was functioning properly. A few of the lights were red, some were yellow. Unfortunately for humankind, the vast majority were green or white.
Wright took the seat in front of the multiplicity of monitors. Several minutes of fruitless examination found him giving vent to the frustration and impatience that were, if nothing else, patent hallmarks of the human Marcus Wright.
Reaching out, he dug his fingers into the panel that covered the main control board, ripped it free, and flung it aside. Revealed to his probing gaze was an intricate maze of glowing wiring, silent chips, and busy processing units. He stared at the lambent display, memorizing all that he could.
Finally he gave up and shoved his hands deeply into the electronic wonderland.
The initial contact caused him to spasm as if in pain. It wasn’t pain, exactly. More akin to an interrupted heartbeat. One or two skipped thumps followed by a resumption of normal rhythm and circulation. More than blood was circulating through Wright’s mind now that he had made contact. Accumulated knowledge flowed through him in a river; a class five series of data packets over which his perception bounced and swirled. Another mind would have been overwhelmed by the sheer volume.
He did not know how he understood any of it, far less perceived it, but he managed to do both. Reams of information flashed before his eyes. He was a distributor, he was a sponge. The informational surge ought to have killed him.
It didn’t even give him a headache.
Gradually, the data storm subsided. On leisurely reflection he discovered that he was able to inspect, process, and discard an enormous quantity of numbers and records. Elation replaced disquiet when he came across the security codes for the perimeter defenses. Knowing that it might well set off multiple alarms, his fingers flew over several of the keyboards as he proceeded to shut these down.
That accomplished, he ran a thorough database search until he found exactly what he was looking for. Not the location of new prisoners, nor of old. Not the present location of the majority of human detainees. He was hunting for one particular individual.
Finding him, he used the complex’s own communications set to send forth a single terse, pre-agreed-upon signal. Though it would be broadcast widely and might be picked up by humans and machines alike, the special significance of the coordinates that indicated Kyle Reese’s present location would be understood by only one human.
Out in the mass of twisted girders that somehow still underpinned one side of the Golden Gate Bridge, Connor heard the soft beep of his compact communicator. Pulling it out, he studied the single red dot that was now flashing in the center of an overlay map of the old city. No words accompanied the pulsating dot, nor were they needed. He knew what the sound and sight signified.
Hauling himself out of the concealing tangle of steel and concrete, he started to climb down the remainder of the severed structure. At the bridge’s other entrance a pair of automated gun emplacements detected the movement and swiveled toward him. He tensed and prepared to run. When nothing further happened, he took a couple of cautious steps in the direction of the turrets. Still, the guns didn’t fire.
They didn’t fire when he was within maintenance range, nor did they alter their aim when he continued walking between them. Overhead, a small Aerostat hissed past. Its weapons systems tracked and fixed on the now running human figure—and without taking action it moved on.
So did Connor.
***
Having accomplished his purpose in coming, Wright was suddenly reluctant to leave. There was so much more to learn, so many details that could prove useful to the Resistance. He made himself stay, continued scanning and studying, soaking up as much potentially constructive information as he could.
That was when he came across a particularly interesting file with a simple yet profound designation.
MARCUS WRIGHT
Old headlines whipped past in front of him. Leaning toward the monitor, he scanned them with a mixture of anxiety and eagerness.
“Murderer Donates Body to Science.”
“Doctor to Congress: Death Row Inmate’s Body Can Aid Cybernetic Research.” This one was accompanied by a photo. A photo of someone he knew, a memory from his past. One of his last memories.
Dr. Serena Kogan.
Relentless and unemotional, the file continued to spill information. An obituary sped before his mesmerized gaze.
“Dr. Serena Kogan, cyberneticist, succumbs to cancer. Was infamous for convincing Congress to allow death row prisoners’ bodies to be utilized in scientific research.”
The subject matter abruptly changed, from the personal to the apocalyptic.
“Defense system goes online. Cyberdine Research says system foolproof.”
Then, “Rumors of glitch in multi-billion dollar defense system abound.”
And following, “Missiles in air: Russians retaliating. Hundreds of millions to die.”
From a religious website: “Judgment Day Upon Us!”
And finally, almost calmly, a simple computer readout.
NO FURTHER INFORMATION: WORLD WIDE WEB DISCONTINUED AFTER THIS DATE.
“Welcome home, Marcus.”
A voice, firm and unexpected, suddenly filled the room. Whirling, he looked up and around, but there was no one to see. He was still alone, still the only presence.
At least, the only physical one.
He knew that voice. It was one of the last voices he had heard. The voice of Dr. Serena Kogan. Who was dead, of cancer.
As he fought to resolve the apparent impossibility, something slammed into the back of his skull—from within. Reaching up and back, he clutched at himself. There wasn’t so much a sensation of pain as of—finality.
Then he collapsed.
Within the submarine that was home to Command, the communications operator turned from his console to look back at the waiting Admiral.
“Signal broadcasting at full bandwidth, sir.”