The Future War

CORUNA, MEXICD THREE YEARS LATER

The Terminator turned its head toward the ill-defined heat signature, trying to refine its focus. After a few seconds, when the brightness refused to become distinct, it turned away. Its processors told it that the bright mass was probably rock with a high metal content still hot from the recently set sun. It was the last evaluation the Terminator would ever make, because its neural net processor was completely wrong.

John grinned as he raised his head from behind the rock and watched the Terminator turn away. Snog's new gizmo might not have much staying power, but it was a real lifesaver while it did last. It offered a false signal for a space of about four feet around its wearer, evening out the heat signals, making the body appear a bright, amorphous mass, such as might be left behind by an explosion. He carefully lined up the Terminator's head; the plasma bolt struck in a beam of actinic light, and the hard resistant alloy of the thing's skull turned into a strobing mass of molten gobbets and burning gas.

John's night-vision goggles automatically turned the brightness down; he rolled to another rock—always displace after you shoot— then flipped the switch on his unit and moved forward.

Others moved forward with him, the HQ strike unit. They went from rock to rock across the stony hillside, scattered with chamisos and cactus. The night air smelled of the herbal scents of desert shrubs, and of ozone and hot metal as bolts split the darkness.

It was unusual for John to do fieldwork these days. Most of what he did now was plan and organize and give orders. Actually carrying a rifle into the fray? He honestly didn't have the time for it.

But in this case, nothing would have kept him out of it. His mother was in trouble.

From out of nowhere a spring box leaped up before him, multiple legs reaching, acid-filled hypo already exposed. John swung the butt of his plasma rifle like a baseball bat, knocking the thing flying and followed up with a blast that turned it to melting parts—one of which stung his arm through the coarse strong fabric of his uniform. He swore and batted it away; the cooling metal crackled as it spun away, leaving a discolored spot on his sleeve.

Up until now most of the Central and South American auto-factories had mainly produced these small but quite deadly killers. They were very simple, with very simple programming: the mechanical equivalent of a weasel. Leap up from the front, inject the heart with hydrochloric acid; leap up from the back, inject the brain. Small, cheap, and easy to produce, their only defect from Skynet's point of view was that they could kill only one human at a time.

And so Skynet had slowly expanded its smaller south-of-the-border factories until they could produce full-scale HKs and Terminators. The resistance had taken out the factories that they knew about, but knowing they would, Skynet had built many more of them, not always in remote areas. The HKs had seemed to come out of nowhere and twenty small villages had been destroyed before the resistance in Mexico had even been able to get the word out.

The attackers crested a rise; the maps said it was an abandoned lead-silver mine, with an equally deserted village gradually crumbling back into the adobe mud it had been made from.

Instead, it was seething with not-life. Before him, John could see the ground moving, a glittering ripple as the tiny robot killers came forward, and his stomach clenched. There was something about an infestation like this that brought the hair up on the back of his neck and made him want to kill mindlessly. He swept the plasma beam from right to left and back again, retreating before the tide of them, cursing as the rifle began to burn his left hand through the insulated forestock.

Beside him a soldier came up and swept the ground with a low-tech—but for this operation, equally effective—flamethrower.

His heart beating overtime, John put up his rifle. He should save the batteries for the big killers. Skynet was keeping them back, sending in these little monsters to wear the resistance fighters down and to use up their ammunition.

Not gonna work, John thought. When's the damn thing gonna learn? If the future wasn't something he could change significantly, then neither could Skynet. The humans were going to win. Not yet. Probably not for a long time, but piece by piece, bit by bit, they were gaining ground. Biologicals had a distinct advantage over the machines. They could reproduce without having to mine, refine, transport, mold, and construct themselves; the biosphere took care of that.

The soldier stopped spraying and the two of them waited to see if anything would come out of the flames. When nothing moved, they did, cautiously making their way through the burned parts. Stepping on an acid-filled needle would be a stupid way to lose your foot.

According to reconnaissance, the factory was in this basin.

John gripped his rifle a bit tighter. It had been a long time since the factories were easy targets. Skynet didn't rely on keeping them remote anymore; it would fight the resistance for this factory with all its power.

John ducked down when he saw the lights. HKs had huge spotlights mounted on the top of their metallic carapaces, not that they needed them. Like the Terminators, they had IR

sensors that tracked by body heat. But there was something about those huge lights that intimidated, and distracted, and, unfortunately, rendered night-vision goggles less effective.

John flipped his own up. "HKs," he said succinctly, informing everyone in the network that Skynet was sending in the big guns.

He relayed coordinates so that their own big guns could respond to the threat.

It was better when the things were destroyed sight unseen.

Skynet liked, on occasion, to bind prisoners, or bodies, or both to the machines. Not knowing which was which tended to make firing on them difficult. Even though those manning the guns knew they were not in any kind of position to save those people, still, they would hesitate. It had been one of Skynet's many psychological experiments.

The problem is, John thought, every time it does something like this and we have to act against our own instincts, we lose something of our humanity.

War, Dieter had told him, tended to do that. But in John's opinion, Skynet, through trial and error, was making them all more machinelike.

"What are we going to be like when this is over?" John had asked.

"Happier," Dieter replied. "In the meantime, we have to do what we must to survive."

John ducked behind an outcropping of rock and waited for the HK to make its appearance. You'd think they'd have learned not to outline themselves against the skyline, John thought. But then, there wasn't any other route the big machine could take out of the valley where it had been manufactured.

The rocket screamed by his position and John curled into a fetal position, trusting his armor to catch any fragments and his luck to save him from the explosion. The detonation was about fifteen yards in front of him and the concussion felt like someone hitting him hard on the back, pushing the air out of his lungs.

The heat was briefly intense.

He rolled back to see the machine trundle forward a few more meters, most of its top half blown away, the bottom a furnace. It rolled away, mindless and blind. Behind it, illuminated by the flames, came a gleaming squad of T-90s, the skeletal Terminators, red eye sensors gleaming, grinning with human-shaped teeth.

John barked an order and the artillery behind him opened fire again—25mm chain guns this time, mounted on Humvees. The killing machines scattered like bowling pins in the blast, parts twinkling away like stars in flight. Those on the outside of the explosion were struck dormant for a few seconds. Stooped over, John ran forward and shot a blast into the head of the nearest Terminator. The one beyond it came slowly back to life, found its plasma rifle by feel, and began to raise it.

A burst of fire blinded it and John himself fired again, destroying it. He turned to the soldier with the flamethrower and found it was a young woman—no, a girl. If she was more than fifteen, he'd be amazed.

"Thanks," he said briefly, feeling suddenly senior. "Sweep these bushes; confuse their sensors so that we can move in under cover."

"Yes, sir."

She went to work and in moments the heat was almost more than he could stand. He was squinting, lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace. But the girl had her visor down and what expression he could see was serene. It was weird to feel safe enough to bring his people through in all this light, but the machines had difficulty adjusting their sensors to this much heat. John gave the order and men and women came streaming through, scattering over the rocky terrain.

"Careful," he said. "Spring boxes." You could almost feel the tension go up. Everybody hated those things.

Below, an HK moved into position.

"Clear the gap," John shouted, and soldiers dived away from the rise and the burning bushes; he rolled down the hill toward the factory, stopping himself by grabbing onto a low-growing bush.

The Hunter-Killer fired and the ground behind him heaved and burned in the blast, the rocks themselves melting. It moved forward and John could tell that it was going to sweep the ground behind him in descending arcs. Even blind, that would allow it to do maximum damage.

"Fire!" he shouted. That blast would give the artillery some idea of trajectory.

All around the HK were Terminators, also blind, no doubt.

They would wait for their big brother to finish; then they would come forward to mop up any resistance.

Only two HKs, John thought. And none of the flying kind, thank God.

But what did it mean? Why was the factory so lightly guarded? His eyes went to the factory itself. The outer surface was honeycombed with little rectangular slots for the spring boxes; it looked like some kind of high-tech nest. The thought made him swallow. On the roof were antennae that would directly connect it to Skynet.

No doubt the bastard is watching this right now, he thought.

He got some satisfaction in knowing that Skynet wasn't seeing any more than its creatures could show it. Lots of white heat haze and black background, and the same thing from orbit.

The factory was small up top, but he knew from experience that it could go down as many as six levels. A place like this would probably have no human slaves. They'd check, just to be sure, but there had been no signs of cultivation, as there usually were when humans were present. Nor any sign of a waste dump.

Still. Skynet was a tricky bugger. And these days every human life was of value.

And now for the really tricky question, he thought. Now, if I were my mom, where would I be?

"Major Hopkins," he said aloud. "Standard attack on the factory. Give me a schematic—is there an outlying relay com dish?"

"Yes, sir. Just about… here."

The data came in over John's optic; he noted it, and matched the view to the terrain. "Which means Mom is over there," he said. "HQ squad, follow me!"

An IR scan showed a thermal bloom halfway up another one of the endless rocky hills; there was another on top, where the melted remains of a transmission tower showed.

Good tactics, Mom, he thought. Taking that out would reduce the enemy's coordination throughout the area. Getting trapped in a cave, not so hot.

The ruins of the machines were thick about the entry to the cave; which meant Sarah's squad was probably about out of charge and ammo.

"Mortars," he said. "Gimme a strike on the following position."

* * *

Sarah was propped up against a rock outcropping, giving orders to a young man who knelt on one knee by her side. A medic was just fitting her arm into a sling.

"AH!" Sarah barked. She glared at the medic, then, turning away, sullenly apologized.

There was a large bandage wrapping the greater part of her shoulder, showing a seepage of blood at the center, and burn cream glistened on her neck and upper arm. Dark circles surrounded her eyes like shiners, but it was exhaustion and too little food that had put them there.

When the soldier and the medic became aware of John standing there, they murmured "excuse me" and moved away.

Sarah smiled up at him, then closed her eyes and leaned her head against the rock.

"Thank God you're here," she said quietly.

"Thank God you're here," he responded. He shook his head.

"Mom—"

"Don't start," she cut in. "I'm not in the mood. This could have happened to anybody."

That was true, he knew. It wasn't bad leadership or foolish bravado that had gotten her into this scrape. She was still one of the best field commanders in the resistance. But she was hurt, and she was his mother.

Sighing, John dropped cross-legged beside her. Just sitting and looking at her, and waiting for her to open her eyes. For a moment he thought that she actually dropped off to sleep and he felt a bit guilty, as though he'd been unfairly pressuring her.

Then he steeled his resolve. If she was asleep he'd wait until she woke up, even if it took all night.

By which time I'll be asleep and she'll decide to wait for me, then she'll fall asleep again. He smiled, and waited. In a few moments she struggled to open her eyes and smiled at him. It made her look years younger.

"I think I dropped off there. I wasn't sure if I'd dreamed you or not."

"You did. Drop off, I mean." He reached out and placed his hand on her head, stroking the hair back from her brow. "How bad are you hurt?"

"Don't know yet," she said. "It'll take a real doctor to tell me that. Hurt enough to really want a painkiller." Sarah looked puzzled. "Did that kid give me one?"

"I'll find out," he said, and rose.

He came back in a few minutes with something in his fist. He sat down again, and taking up her canteen, unscrewed the top and poured some water into it. Then he offered her a pill.

"Codeine," he said.

"Ah, codeine is our friend," Sarah said, and popped it, taking the cap and swallowing the water. "I feel better just knowing I'll feel better."

He smiled, but in a worried way. "Mom, I've been thinking."

"Good," she said. "You make a mother proud. Keep that up and we'll all get through this."

He grinned. "I've been thinking about you."

She sighed and signaled him to go on.

"Mom, I think it's time you died."

She turned wide eyes on him. "Hello?"

"Not really," he said quickly, smiling. "Look, Mom, you're badly hurt here. It might be an incapacitating injury, which means your fieldwork days may be through. I think it's time you went home."

"Home?" she said, as if she'd never heard the word. Sarah pushed herself up a bit, gritting her teeth as she did so. John made to reach for her, but she warned him off with a look.

"Where exactly is home?" Sarah raised her brows. "Paraguay?

L.A. perhaps?"

He pressed his lips together and smiled. "Home, for you, is where Dieter is. And since his injury, Dieter has been in Washington State training people. He could use your help. And I think you'd like to see him again."

"You know I would," Sarah agreed. "But you also know that there's still a lot to do."

"I'm not proposing that you retire, Mom. Not that you ever would. I'm saying that maybe it's time you stopped fieldwork."

"Before I make a fool of myself?"

"More like before you get killed. I think you're too valuable.

One of the things you do best is train. Look at me," he said, flinging his arms wide.

She grinned. "Yeah, the Great Military Leader Dickhead." She nodded sagely. "That's my work."

"You bet it is. I also need you to run herd on Snog. He and his gang are getting into some very weird tribal stuff. You're the only human being on the planet that scares him enough to rein him in." John paused and chewed his lower lip for a moment before he continued. "I also think that we need a martyr."

Sarah raised her brows. "Oh, really?"

"Yup. See, I think that people need to be reminded what they're fighting for. And I think that bringing your story"—he looked sympathetically at his mother—"your struggle, before them will remind them that there is hope."

She frowned. "Maybe I'm tired, but I still don't see why I have to actually die."

"Well," he snorted, "you don't actually die. We'll just say you did and give you a new identity."

"Uh-huh. Did I miss the why part?"

"Because if you just sort of semiretire, I'm afraid that people will be reminded how long this thing has been going on and how long it might well continue. Which, as you can see, would be a real downer."

"And my death would be a signal to party. Yeah, sure, I can see that."

"Mom. Your death would make you a saint." He paused. "A legend."

She blinked. "Oh." It was what Kyle had called her. The legend. Sarah looked up at John with tears in her eyes. "I see."

He patted her hand. "Why don't you sleep on it tonight."

Yawning hugely, she tried to speak. Then repeated, "I don't think I have any choice in that. Codeine's kicking in. G'night."

She moved her lips in a kiss and sank under the drug.

John sat and watched her for a long time. The medic came and checked her, nodded positively at John—which was a relief—and went away. The rest of the battle was routine; the only real question was how many casualties they'd take, and how much productive gear they could capture—and how much they could make sure wasn't booby-trapped.

He thought he'd convinced her. At least he hoped he had. The last thing he wanted was to make her mad. But she needed time to recover from this wound, if she ever did. And he saw no reason why that recuperation shouldn't happen in Dieter's vicinity. And once there she'd be able to see how much she was needed there.

He thought he'd convinced her about the legend thing, too. At least he hoped so.

It took time to become a legend and Kyle was already ten years old. John sighed. Even though he thought this move was necessary, he disliked the dishonesty of it. The "first" time, maybe his mother really had died in this cave. But since, thank God, she hadn't… now was the time to remove her from immediate danger.

His aide came and tapped John's shoulder, waking him from a doze. With a last fond look at Sarah's sleeping face, he rose and followed the soldier to where his people were waiting to make their reports.

MISSOURI

The clinic was ill lit, small, and not very clean. But given the supplies they had, the three-nurse staff had managed to save a fair number of lives in the three years Mary Reese had been there. There were patients in three of the five beds, two with the mystery fevers that tended to afflict the prisoners here. One with a nasty injury from having his hand dragged into some machinery.

Mary was changing the man's bandages and thinking about the days when microsurgery might have saved his hand. The accident had only happened yesterday and so far infection hadn't set in. That, at least, was good. But if the hand didn't heal and the man couldn't work, he was doomed.

Stretcher bearers rushed in with a man who was badly burned around the head and upper body. He was unconscious and apparently quite heavy.

"Where do we put him?" one of the men barked.

Mary gestured to an examining table and took a second look at them. They were unfamiliar and, she noticed for the first time, not wearing the prisoner's uniform of baggy gray cotton shirt and pants. They were dressed for the outdoors, wearing cammies. The stretcher bearers put the patient down on the table, and abandoning the stretcher, scurried away as though afraid of getting caught someplace they weren't supposed to be.

Mary met the eyes of Tia Nevers, her assistant, a young black woman whose very short hair molded a beautifully shaped skull.

"What the hell was that all about?" Tia muttered.

"My thoughts exactly," Mary agreed. She quickly finished with her patient and went over to their sink to wash her hands.

Then she brought some warm soapy water over to the examining table and began to briskly wash off the man's face and head. Tia brought scissors and started clipping off the burned hair, clearing his scalp for treatment.

"Looks to me like a plasma beam passed pretty close to this boy," Tia said.

Mary nodded. "It does, doesn't it? Which makes me wonder what he's doing here." The HKs didn't routinely round up the wounded for treatment. They were much more likely to crush them under their treads. Was he resistance? If so, what evil plan was Skynet working on?

She scrubbed, as gently and as quickly as possible, and the soot came off the man's face unwillingly. At last she'd cleared the better part of his countenance and suddenly she recognized him.

Shock froze her and she stood with the dripping cloth in her hand, staring.

Tia looked up at her from where she had been cutting his shirt off and then glanced at the patient. "Holy shit!" she hissed.

"I know this bastard! He's a goddamned Luddite! His name is Sam." She stood back from the table and looked at Mary.

"What's he doing here?"

Mary looked around and leaned toward her friend. "I don't think he is supposed to be here. Those guys took off like a shot once they'd dropped him. At a guess, I'd say Skynet is starting to liquidate its human followers."

The other woman looked at Sam like he was a half-squashed bug and pulled her lips back from her teeth. "Gooood," she said.

Tia threw down the scissors and started to walk away.

"Hold it!" Mary grabbed her arm.

Tia swept Mary's hand away with a stroke and glared at her.

"He killed my husband," she said coldly. "No way am I treating him." She met Mary's eyes. "You can't ask me to do that."

"First of all," Mary said, "he's the first person from outside this place that I've seen in two years. He can tell us what's going on."

"He's a Luddite, Mary! You can't trust anything those assholes say!"

"Second, he's badly burned; there's very little we can do but make him comfortable."

" I'm not givin' that bastard our painkillers. Let him suffer like he's made other people suffer." She glared defiance at her friend.

"We can't do that," Mary said. She looked at Tia sympathetically.

Tia rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes we can!" She compressed her lips and moved a step closer to Mary. Looking down, she said softly,

"That… thing raped me while my dying husband watched." Then she looked up. "I won't lift a finger to help him. Not one finger!"

Mary grabbed her arm and gave her a shake. "Yes, you will!"

Tia stared at her, taken aback. "And why is that?" she finally asked.

"Because you're better than he is. Because you're a healer. And because we are not going to give Skynet that kind of victory over us." This time she took a step closer, her gaze boring into Tia's startled eyes. "Because we have to hang on to every shred of humanity we've got. Because every time we do that, it's a victory over Skynet. I can't keep that thing from killing my body, but I will never let it kill my soul!"

Tia pulled her head back and looked at her. "Oh," she said.

She blinked a few times, then added, "Then I guess I'd better finish cuttin' off that shirt."

"I guess you better." Mary felt as surprised as Tia looked.

Where did that come from? she wondered. She went back and picked up the cloth, and continued washing away the soot.

All they had to treat him with was some

over-the-counter-style antibiotic cream. It was past its use-by date and they didn't have much of it, but it was probably better than the nothing they'd be using otherwise. Mary doubted that he was going to make it.

Looks like getting sterilized wasn't enough, she thought contemptuously.

* * *

Every day Mary left some of her dinner and a short note for Kyle in a different place. The next location was mentioned in the note, which usually said only, "I love you." Once or twice a year she might chance actually talking to him and she tried to get a glimpse of him every week.

It was hard, but it was safer. They hadn't been in the factory a week before they realized that if anyone showed a partiality for another then that person might have to bear punishment for the transgressor. Since the transgression might well be imaginary Mary told Kyle that she would always love him and would try to help him, but that she was going to keep her .distance. Even at seven, he'd seen enough to understand.

She walked along; then, so quickly it was hard to see, she left a small bundle on a hidden shelf. Yet, before she could withdraw her hand, a smaller hand caught her wrist. Startled, she looked to the dark slot between machines and saw her son. She smiled and sat down, pretending to remove a stone from her shoe.

"Are you all right?" she whispered.

"Yeah. Just wanted to hear your voice."

She held the shoe up in a way that allowed her to turn in his direction. She could see a smudged face and bright eyes. She grinned in pure pleasure and hid it with a grimace. "Good to see you," she said, trying not to move her lips. "I love you."

He smiled. "Love you, too, Mom."

She turned the shoe over and pretended to be prying at something. "Everything all right?"

"Except for being here, yeah." His face wore a rebellious expression. "I want, I need, to see the sun, Mom. I can't stand this much longer."

She stopped fiddling with the shoe and looked at him. "Do not panic," she said sternly. "And don't do anything foolish."

"I think I know a way out," he whispered. "I could find Dad and bring help."

"You need information about what it's like out there," Mary said, returning to picking at her shoe. "I think I can get it for you, but it might take some time. You have to wait."

He looked at her for a moment. "I'm not sure I believe you," he finally said.

Mary half smiled, and looked up at him from under her eyebrows. "Yeah, I've led you astray so many times. How could you possibly trust me?"

It distressed him, and he kind of wiggled, looking all over the place before his gaze returned to her, whereupon he frowned.

"They brought Sam into the clinic today," she said.

"Who?"

That made her blink. "Sam. The guy who caught us, remember?"

He nodded slowly, his eyes big. "You're helping him?" His voice indicated total disbelief, as though she'd suggested that she and one of the machines were going to have a baby.

Mary gave him a very serious look, a hard look. "I'm going to pump him for information," she said. "I think I can get him to tell me the truth. Once we have some information, we'll know how to proceed."

Kyle looked at her with the eyes of desperation. "Mom," he said, "I need—"

"I know," she said quickly. "I really do know exactly how you feel. But you've got to give me some time. Meet me beside the stampers in a week. Same time." She looked at him, willing him to agree.

He got up and began to withdraw. "I'll be there," he said.

Then he was gone.

Mary fiddled with her shoe a bit more, then put it on and went on her way.

* * *

The next day—morning to Mary, though it could be midnight in the world outside—she glanced around and saw that the hand injury was gone. According to his chart, which she found in the file, he'd been removed during the night shift. Glad I wasn't here

, she thought. Nothing that happened here was uglier than

"removals."

The two fever cases were resting, both of their fevers had broken during the night. Nothing needed there, she thought with satisfaction. She found Sam awake and hyperalert with pain. His heart was hammering at a hundred forty beats a minute and he was shuddering violently, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.

"Gimme something for the pain!" he demanded through clenched teeth. "Now!"

Mary checked his chart; he was certainly due for something, overdue in fact. Looks like Sam had another satisfied customer on the staff last night. She nodded. "Okay, looks like you're due."

"And turn the heat up; it's freezing."

She looked at him with pity. "You're cold because you've been badly burned. I'm afraid there's nothing I can do to help you there." She ignored the impatient sound he made and went to get him some codeine. "How did this happen to you?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Accident."

She looked over at him. His eyes were closed and he shuddered, but she could see he was trying to contain it. Mary tightened her lips. He was pitiful, but she couldn't let him see that. "Oh, right," she said. "It must have been an accident because no machine would ever deliberately harm a human."

"Fuck you," he said.

She stood over him, pill in one hand, glass of water in the other. "You know what, Sam? You're not supposed to be here.

Your guys rushed you in here and then dropped you like a hot potato. Here, in the prisoners' clinic. Think about that." She leaned toward him. "I don't think they thought your accident was an accident."

"Fuck you," he snarled.

"Redundant," she said. "But then, I guess you're not at your best. What's it like out there?"

"It's paradise." The look in his eyes was pure evil.

"That must be why the machines thought they could dispose of your services," Mary said lightly. She leaned forward again and stage whispered, "Does it occur to you yet that turning the world over to the machines might not be the best thing for the birds, and the bees, and the bunnies?"

"I hate you," Sam growled.

"Gee, and I was gonna ask you to be my valentine. Do you want this?" she asked, holding up the pill. His eyes went from it to her face and he couldn't hide his desperation. It was a look that made her feel sick and triumphant at the same time. "All I've got is pills. Can you lift your head to take it and swallow water?"

He did so, straining visibly.

"What is it like out there?" Mary asked, spacing her words.

She held the pill and the water ready.

After a second he dropped his head down and closed his eyes.

"You bitch," he muttered, panting slightly.

"Look," she said firmly. "Just answer me. What's the difference? It's not like it's going to help me; I just want to know.

Tell me, and tell me the truth."

He lay as still as he could, swallowing hard. She could see his heart beating overtime.

"What's the difference?" she asked, deadly quiet. He opened his eyes and turned his head slightly. Tears trickled down his cheek. "The difference is, if you don't answer me, or if I think you're lying to me"—she held up the pill—"I'm going to put this away."

"I'm gonna tell them about that kid of yours," he said, sneering as best he could.

Mary put the pill and the water down, her heart pounding, and picked up a pillow. She stood beside his bed.

"I could always do you the favor of putting you out of your misery," she said. "Mention the boy again. Go ahead. Mention him." She could see that he saw the truth in her eyes; he turned away, blinking.

"Am I gonna make it?" he asked.

Mary bit her lips. Then decided to tell him the truth. "No.

You're too badly wounded and we don't have anything like the facilities for treating burns of this magnitude." She watched him take that in.

"They shoulda let me die," he said.

"Yes, I guess they should have. But they didn't know that you didn't have a chance and they wanted to give you one. They were friends and they meant you well."

"Stupid bastards."

"Yeah, well. Thing is, you could last anywhere from forty-eight hours to two weeks. Two long, long weeks. And I could help you.

Keep you as comfortable as possible; let you die with a little dignity. Or I could just ignore you and let you die in your own shit." She rolled her eyes thoughtfully. "Unlessss, you threaten the boy again. In which case"—she tossed the pillow away—"this is much too kind." Mary leaned close. "I know some very, very painful ways to die, Sam."

She shook her head sadly. "You don't have to go through this.

Just answer me. C'mon. Tell me what I want to know and I'll give you the pill. Trust me, you'll feel a lot better."

Mary stood back and waited. Soon he was shivering again, in pain and from the effect of losing so much skin. Mary bit her lip.

Withholding medication went against everything she believed in.

She could only do it for Kyle, and because she despised this man.

"There's fewer Luddites," he said at last, sounding out of breath. "Most of my friends are gone."

Mary rolled her eyes. Like I care, she thought.

"There's tons more Terminators. Whole squads of 'em. They're everywhere. And the HKs, they're bigger and better than ever.

Some of 'em can fly; they're deadly accurate, very heavy weapons."

"And they just 'happened' to get you by mistake," Mary said.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, breathing heavily.

"Go on," she said. "What about the resistance?"

"They're still there. They're not winning, but they're not losing, either. That's why they need us Luddites," he said, his voice sounding plaintive. "We could infiltrate, spy, sabotage.

They'd never know what hit them."

Oh, yes they would. "Skynet doesn't control you," she said aloud. "If you'd turn on your own kind, you might turn on Skynet. It could never trust you. And why should it, when it can manufacture the perfect soldiers? To Skynet you're a risk not worth taking."

He closed his eyes again.

"And Skynet will make the rest of the world just like this valley. One unending industrial shed. Because it doesn't need deer and elk and trees and free-running streams. It needs mines and factories. It's going to make the world into your worst nightmare. That's what all your work is going to amount to." She watched him swallow and knew she'd hit the mark. "What's it like up there, around this place?"

He looked at her. Then he began to speak.