Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines

C.6

Terminator moved across the open desert like a ship on the sea, homing in on a distant port that his onboard sensors had detected hours ago.

He felt neither heat nor cold nor impatience with the duration of this primary phase of the mission. He had been sent back to execute an operation. Nothing would stop him. No power on earth could divert him from his path, except for the destruction of his neural circuitry or the complete destruction of his battle chassis.

If and when he needed information on file for comparison, measurements, identifications, or decisions, his CPU was alerted to fire a series of networks that would act like an electronic adrenaline to his system.

Without breaking his long, distance-eating stride, Terminator's infrared, optical, electromagnetic emissions, and directed audio sensors continued to pick up a melange of data: heat signatures from dozens of ground conveyances — cars, trucks, and motorcycles — electronic noise from what he computed as excited neon gas, sixty Hz common electrical circuitry, some high-frequency broadcasts to and from portable communications devices called cell phones, dozens of human body heat sources mixed in ever-changing blocking and additive patterns, and combinations of sounds of mixed frequencies at varying rhythmic speeds that he understood to be music.

He enhanced his optical system, focusing on a neon sign, desert star, in front of a ramshackle building.

A highway ran directly past the building, which Terminator classified as a roadhouse/drinking establishment, common to many parts of the continental U.S.; most specifically this variety was to be found in the West and desert Southwest. A gathering place for human ritualized mating and aggressive behavior, catering mostly to a narrow socio-economic range of people.

His CPU pulled up a variety of programmed response patterns and overlaid them on his basic real-time mode. His head came up, he rose slightly on the balls of his feet, and a small, sardonic smile played at the edges of his mouth.

The T-800 series, which had been modeled after a U.S. Marine Corps chief master sergeant, was, in its infiltration mode, a handsome cyborg, with short dark hair, broad craggy features, prominent nose, and deep set intense eyes. It was built with the musculature of a world-class athlete, perhaps an Iron Man gold medalist, with strong pecs, a washboard stomach, narrow waist, and massive but well sculpted thighs and biceps. The Marine sergeant who had been a man's man, who epitomized speed, agility, expertise, reliability, and dedication had been perfectly translated into the various model T-800s.

He did not hesitate at the side of the highway, but stepped up on the pavement that was finally cool after the day's desert heat, and strode directly across the filled parking lot to the front entrance of the rustic redwood bar and club.

The music was very loud, thumping with a heavy bass. By the sounds of the cheering and laughing coming from inside, the bar was packed and people were having a good time.

A large, beefy man in jeans, leather vest, and broad-brimmed cowboy hat sat on a stool next to the main entrance. His eyes narrowed slightly when he spotted the nude Terminator, but he showed no real surprise.

He languidly got to his feet as Terminator approached. He stepped directly in front of the door. He was six five at three hundred pounds, and he looked mean.

He motioned to the left. "You're supposed to go round back."

Terminator gave no indication that he had heard the bouncer, simply sweeping the man aside with one hand as if he were batting away an irritating insect.

"What the hell—"

Terminator pushed open the saloon doors and stepped inside to a loud, smoky room filled with at least two hundred women all cheering, whistling, applauding, and stomping on the wooden floorboards for the male stripper who was just prancing off the small stage at the back. Music blared from big speakers suspended from the ceiling and bracketing the stage. Glittering curtains were lit by red and green and blue and pink rotating baby spots. A large sign attached to the back curtains read

LADIES NIGHT.

Terminator scanned the audience. A few of the women had turned around and spotted him. Overlaid on his head-up display were the size and shape parameters for clothing to fit his frame. Most of the sizes and none of the styles that the women were wearing would do, though many of them were dressed androgynously in jeans, denim shirts, and boots.

He also correctly catalogued that his earlier assessment about the probable socio-economic class of the people who might frequent such a club as this was correct. In many instances humans were too predictable.

A buxom, floozy blonde, wearing thick makeup and long, fake eyelashes, got unsteadily to her feet and clapped her hands over her head, a toothy grin from ear to ear. "Shake it, baby!" she shouted.

Terminator's sensors evaluated her size. Her short denim skirt, boots, and fringed blouse might fit him, but his head-up display read inappropriate.

A much smaller, younger redhead, nearer at hand, looked Terminator's body up and down, her eyes lingering on his anatomically correct groin area, a lascivious grin on her narrow face. She was mostly inebriated. "Need a date?" she asked.

Other women had spotted him now, and they were jumping to their feet, applauding and giving catcalls and whistles. If this was a part of the show, it was the best part, most of them were thinking.

A loud, super-rhythmic song suddenly blared from the speakers. Terminator correctly identified it as a piece called "Macho Man," performed by the Village People.

A tall, huskily built male stripper bounced out onto the stage. He was dressed in a cap, a red scarf around his neck, and biker boots and leathers.

Terminator turned to look at the man. His head-up display instantly evaluated a match. He strode through the crowd of cheering women to the stage.

"Take your clothes off," he told the stripper, who shot him an interested smile, but shook his head.

"Patience, honey."

Terminator climbed onto the stage, and the women, still believing that this was part of the show, went wild; cheering louder than before, whistling their encouragement.

"Whoa, bitch, wait your turn!" the stripper said. He was already into his act, swaying his hips and shoulders. Terminator was nice, but just now he was nothing but competition. Irritating.

"Your clothes," Terminator repeated adamantly.

The stripper stuck a hand directly in Terminator's face. "Talk to the hand," he suggested, and he turned away.

Terminator grabbed the stripper's hand, the wrist crunching like a Shredded Wheat biscuit. "Now."

The stripper screamed in pain and fear, stumbling back a step as Terminator let go. This was far worse than competition. The son of a bitch didn't have an ounce of decency. He was probably on something. The stripper hurriedly pulled off his cap and kerchief, then the jacket, awkwardly because his wrist was dislocated or maybe broken. But his blood was pumping with raw terror so he wasn't feeling much.

The women were on their feet, crazier than ever. This was by far the very best show that any of them had ever seen. It looked so real!

Terminator donned the stripper's clothing, the boots a little tight, then turned without another word, strode across the stage and through the curtain to a back storage area that had been converted into a dressing room for the acts.

A few of the strippers did a double take, realizing that the man in Larry's outfit was definitely not Larry. He didn't have the walk.

"Macho Man" was still playing, and the women were still screaming, as Terminator stepped out the back door into the parking lot.

The heavyset blonde from the audience came right behind him. "Hey, you!" she shouted drunkenly.

Terminator turned to regard her, but he said nothing.

"Will you be back?" the woman demanded.

He looked at her for a long moment, then turned and scanned the parking lot, almost immediately spotting a big-wheeled Dodge pickup truck, an NRA sticker on the rear bumper, a shotgun in a rear window rack.

He headed directly for it, but caught his reflection in the window of a car. He stopped and looked at his image, bringing up one of the memories that John Connor had supplied of what T-800 had looked like twelve years ago. He took off the stripper's star-shaped sunglasses and tossed them aside. He did the same with the cap and red bandanna. His current image now nearly matched the previous overlay.

He walked to the truck and without hesitation poked his fist through the driver's side window, opened the door, and climbed into the cab. The truck's alarm system shrieked and the lights flashed. Ignoring them, Terminator casually ripped the ignition switch from the steering column, which silenced the alarm, and hot-wired the start and run systems.

The truck's engine roared to life. Terminator's eyes lit on a pair of sunglasses on the dash. He put them on, dropped the truck into gear, and hammered the gas pedal.

The truck shot out of the parking lot, spewing a rooster tail of gravel behind it.

As Terminator bumped up onto the highway and headed west, toward Los Angeles, he looked in the rear-view mirror in time to see the bouncer in the broad-brimmed cowboy hat running after him, a fist raised in the air.