Terminator Salvation: The Official Movie Novelization (15 page)

They paid no attention to his frantic questions. It was almost as if he wasn’t there.

Almost as if he wasn’t one of them.

“
What the hell are you doing?
”

“You were right, John.” Kate’s attention shifted back and forth between her husband and the—creature. “Something
has
changed. This—thing—is unlike anything we’ve encountered previously. Aside from the technology that’s been incorporated into it, the surgical skill required to fabricate such a hybrid is beyond anything I could even begin to imagine.” She turned thoughtful. “Even back in the late twentieth century they were successfully implanting all kinds of artificial parts into people. First hip joints, then tendons and ligaments. Hearts, too. But it’s one thing to transplant a heart from one human into another. Linking it up with an entirely synthetic circulatory system—that’s new.

“As for linking it all to a half-machine brain and still having the original retain its full bank of memories without any apparent permanent loss or damage....” She shook her head. “It’s a miracle or a horror—take your pick.”

Connor studied the agonized figure that was hanging in suspension.

“We don’t know that the brain in question is retaining actual memories from the original cortex. The ‘memories’ the creature is experiencing could be implants designed to enhance its feeling of humanity and thereby augment its ability to deceive.” His tone was icy. “It’s all clever programming. To make the thing believe it actually is human.”

She blinked. “That’s possible. Or there could be a cerebral divide; part original memories from the time when the brain was in a human body, and the rest adjectival programming by whoever fashioned the final amalgam.” She returned her attention to the despondent, dangling body. “Given time and access to sufficiently sophisticated instrumentation, there might be a way to separate them out.”

“There might be a quicker way. And an easier one.” He also turned back toward the hanging shape. “It might also reveal nothing. On the other hand, the cost in time and equipment will be negligible. We’ll just ask it.” Taking a step toward the figure, he waited until the eyes—human eyes, Kate had determined, but with ingeniously disguised electronic enhancements—rose to meet his own.

“Who built you? What is your ‘T-class’ designation? How are you supposed to carry out your prime function when depth scans have revealed no internal armament, no concealed explosives, and only internalized communications facilities?”

As the figure being questioned stared back at Connor, exhaustion and despair gave way to defiance.

“My name is Marcus...Wright.”

Fascinating
, Connor mused. Enticing and yet repellant. With this device Skynet had really advanced its human-simulation programming. Probably one of the reasons they continued to seek and keep live captives.
Study your enemy in order to duplicate him.
This thing hanging before him was so convinced of its humanity that it was incapable of admitting the truth about itself even when exposed to irrefutable reality. Here was a case study for the machine psychologists as well as a demolition team.

Despite its apparent helplessness, did they dare allow it to continue functioning?

“So you’re Marcus Wright,” Connor reiterated. “And you think you’re human?”

Wright looked down at himself again. Looked into his wide-open chest, which ought to have been causing him excruciating pain, but was not. Eyed the gaping breach from which blood should have been pouring in streams, but was not. His visible heart beat steadily, even powerfully, giving no indication that it might cease to function. It was the same with the lights and instrumentation and gadgets and inexplicable mechanical contrivances that hummed softly in its vicinity.

“I
am
human!” was his response to Connor’s scathing query.

Connor turned back to Kate. There was not a shred of sympathy in his voice.

“It doesn’t even know what it is. The programming is flawless. Earnest self-denial in the service of survival and subterfuge.”

“Please.” Wright continued to plead. Maybe his gaping chest was not causing him to fail physically, but the unavoidable reminder it provided of his apparent and unfathomable alienness was starting to unsettle his mind. “Please let me down.”

Connor looked back at him, spoke calmly and with complete assurance.

“If I were to let you down it’s extremely likely your first act would be to kill everyone in this room, or at least try to do so. Where were you manufactured? Where were your consciousness and independent cognitive processes activated?”

Wright swallowed, fighting to remember. Struggling to stay sane.

“I was
born.
In Abilene, Texas. August 22
nd
, 1975.”

Connor nodded sagely.

“You look pretty good for someone who’s forty-three, Marcus, and just got blown ass over entrails by a landmine powerful enough to cut a T-1 in half.”

Wright’s panic left him with a suddenness that would have been frightening to another. It didn’t surprise Connor. Very little did.

“I know you,” the prisoner murmured. “Your voice. From the radio broadcasts. You’re John Connor.”

“Of course you know who I am.” Connor shook his head knowingly. The machines were capable of devilishly brilliant things, but on occasion they could also be painfully obvious, even naïve. “You were sent here to kill me. To kill the leadership.”

“No...no....” Wright mumbled ineffectually. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Connor was perfectly willing to discuss matters with the creature. It would be interesting to catch a conversant machine mind in a philosophical quandary and see how its logic circuits responded.

“Why else would you come here? To this particular base? Kill John Connor and you’ve proven your value. But you had to go and set off that mine. Skynet won’t be pleased.”

Wright seemed to struggle to understand what Connor was telling him.

“Blair—Blair Williams said you might be able to help me. I was trying to help a couple of kids. Skynet took them—in a big Transporter. They helped me when I—when I came to in this place, in this world. I’m trying to save them, and you’re stopping me.”

Connor was impressed. This thing’s programming was complex indeed. It could even replicate empathy. Relating to human children—that was pure genius on the part of the enemy.

“You’re a pretty convincing liar, Marcus. If I wasn’t trying to obliterate every last self-aware machine on Earth, I could almost admire you.”

Kate leaned toward him.

“Looks like he really believes it.”

“Of course he believes it,” Connor snapped. “Otherwise the whole charade loses its verisimilitude. Let me talk to this thing alone.”

“Are you sure? If its mission is to kill you....”

“...It would already have done so if it could, whether anyone else was present or not. I’ll be okay.” He gestured at Barnes, who nodded and accompanied Kate from the silo. Once they had departed and the door had shut behind them, Connor turned back to the creature that claimed the name of Wright.

Was that name coincidental, he wondered, or had Skynet developed a sense of macabre humor?

“Is this it? Is it you? You’re Skynet’s big plan?”

Struggling to hold himself together mentally as well as physically, Wright met the other man’s gaze without flinching. Summoning his remaining reserves, he finally once again sounded like the man who had been known as Marcus Wright.

“Listen, Connor. I don’t give a shit about you. I don’t know why this Skynet thing might want you dead and I don’t care. I’ve never even heard of you before two days ago. All I want....”

As he moved nearer and cut the prisoner off, Connor’s voice dropped threateningly.

“No. You listen. You and me, we’ve been at war since before either of us existed.”

That was enough to give Wright pause.

“That—doesn’t make any sense.”

“A lot of what’s happened doesn’t seem to make any sense. That doesn’t make it any less real. And reality, sensible or not, is what I have to deal with. The reality is that you’ve tried to kill me and my family so many times I’ve lost count. And you failed. Every time. You tried to kill my mother, Sarah Connor. And you killed my father. So I want you to listen closely, because I’m going to tell you something you need to understand. If Skynet wants me dead it’s going to need a better plan than you.” He stepped back, satisfied. “Hell, you couldn’t even get ten feet inside the base perimeter. Skynet must think we’ve gone stupid.”

Like so much else he had been forced to deal with since regaining consciousness in this insane world, Connor’s words left the overwhelmed Wright searching for answers. And as with so much else, he had none.

“No...I know who I am. I’m
Marcus Wright.
I’m not part of some wacko plot to kill you or anybody else. I don’t know a goddamn thing about your crazy war or your crazy world or....” His words trailed away. There was no point in continuing his protestations because it was evident that Connor wasn’t listening to them. His head drooping, Wright resumed mumbling as much to himself as to his interrogator.

“You’re all out of your minds. Kyle Reese is on a Transport on his way to Skynet. If I’d wanted to kill him, I would have done him in L.A. I just came here hoping to get some help—your help—for Star, and for him.”

Connor was halfway to the door when he stopped and whirled on the prisoner. He blinked, as if he had been grazed on the back of the head with a two-by-four.

“What—what did you say?”

Almost beyond caring, Wright didn’t look up.

“I told you. I’m trying to help a couple of kids who helped me survive this lunacy long enough to get out of L.A. Said they were the Resistance. If it wasn’t for them I’d probably be dead.” Now he did raise his gaze again. “Wouldn’t be here for you and your friends to sneer at.”

He shook his head slowly, trying to make sense of it all, of what had happened to him, and failing miserably.

“I don’t know what happened to the world. Or me. I don’t much care what happens to either. I’ve done some things in my life I wish I could take back, Connor. I can’t do that. But those two kids—I’m not letting them die. Or whatever it is these machines have in store for them.”

Connor listened, but his thoughts were focused on a single utterance of the prisoner.

“You said—Kyle. That the name of one of these children you keep babbling about?”

Wright frowned. “Why? You know him? Kyle’s not Bob or Bill, but it’s not that common a name, either.”

Connor said nothing. Neither did his expression. For a change it was Wright’s turn to scoff.

“Didn’t think so. ’Cause anyone who knew him wouldn’t have left him alone out there in this shit.” Connor’s expression contorted slightly. He was clearly struggling to restrain himself, and Wright was pleased to have finally gotten some kind of rise out of his captor.

“Let me go, Connor. You fight your endless war—win or lose, I don’t give a rat’s ass—or whether that ass is meat or metal. All that matters to me anymore are those two kids. I’m going to help them.”

Pivoting smartly, Connor headed for the exit. His mind was racing. As he closed the door behind him, Wright shouted after him, the sound echoing off the walls.

“You let me out of here, Connor.

“
Connor
...!”

The sound of the heavy metal barrier clanking shut behind his captor left Wright feeling more alone than he had at any time since the return of his memories. One of those recollections reminded him of—some-thing. Of another door closing, long, long ago.

No
, he corrected himself.
Not so very long ago.
The door had shut on him just before he had awakened into this nightmare. He remembered things being done to him, though he could not recall what. Had they even been explained before they had begun?

None of that mattered except peripherally. It didn’t matter what Connor or anyone else said. He knew who he was. Marcus Wright, bad boy extraordinaire and anti-social foe of genteel society. A lot of good that had done him, he mused bitterly. A life of running and fighting, drinking and drugging and whoring. A life consisting of a series of mistakes and bad decisions, culminating in one that had seen him sentenced to death.

He frowned slightly. What was wrong with that picture? Well, for one thing, he ought to
be
dead. One way he knew that he was not deceased was because he hurt too much, too bad, and too persistently. Furthermore, he didn’t
feel
dead. Physically, he felt perfectly normal.

What was wrong with
that
picture?

He looked down at himself. At his torso, with its skin peeled back and the chest cavity gaping like a display case in the gadget department of a custom auto parts store. Surrounding his heart were enough blinking telltales and miniaturized parts and elegant wiring to fill a hundred tech magazines. Someone—or several some-ones—had done terrible wonderful things to his insides. The intricate modifications were as sophisticated as they were alien.