Behind it, a deeper rumble filled the night air as the Transporter, now packed with men, women, and child-ren who had once given themselves up for dead, lifted off, banked sharply to the north, and began to accelerate in the direction of Mount Tamalpais.
Inside the chopper, Kate Connor leaned toward her husband.
“The others—the rest of the survivors—they’re on their way.” Reaching down, she wrapped the fingers of both hands tenderly around his. He nodded slowly to show that he understood.
“But the charges—have to go back—find the....”
He broke off as his gaze fastened on a small shape hovering nearby. Star moved closer. Silently, she unfolded her closed hand, the fingers opening like the petals of a flower. Still intact and full of quiet promise, the detonator lay exposed in the center of her tiny palm. As their eyes met, her lips trembled with the effort of trying to speak.
Fighting through horror, she formed words. Two.
“End this.”
Connor nodded. Gently, he took the detonator. Then he rolled his head to one side so he could see out the open side of the chopper. After everything that had happened, after all that had transpired, he did not want to miss the fireworks.
He squeezed the trigger.
In order for any designated Terminator to operate and carry out its programmed functions, an enormous amount of energy had to be packed into the small, portable container that powered it. Thousands of such containers lay stacked in a secure corner of the main Terminator factory below. When the C-4 cord that had been wrapped around them detonated, so did they.
This in turn set off a great many unstable substances that were also stored within the factory. When the factory went up, in a blast sufficiently wide, deep, and loud enough to satisfy the most vengeful Resistance fighter, this in turn touched off similar explosions in every facility nearby.
By the time the chopper was well on its way across the bay, a good deal of machine-transformed San Francisco was blowing itself skyward in a series of sequential eruptions that were little short of volcanic. The moonlight that glistened on the placid water below was in complete and peaceful contrast to the cataclysm that was ripping apart the land falling steadily farther behind them.
One hand still clamped over the fuel leak, Wright hung half in and half out of the chopper. He did not mind the wind that whipped at what remained of his face and hair. Despite his awkward position he could clearly see those who were safely inside the helicopter.
Lying on its floor near the back, Connor—badly damaged but still alive. His wife tending to him with a mixture of professionalism and affection. Kyle Reese, tougher than he knew. The little girl Star, silent but aware.
Reaching into the chopper, the moonlight softened and seemed to heal all of them, rendering Kate Connor’s face angelic instead of just determined, making Reese look as young as he actually was, glinting redly off one of Star’s eyes....
Wright blinked. The glint was gone. As if it had never been.
It was nothing at all, he told himself with assurance. There had been nothing there, nothing to see. The briefest of flickers of moonlight on cornea. Nothing more than a second of reflection, singular twinkle.
Or a singularity.
The disparate collection of fighting aircraft, from helicopters to converted civilian planes to A-10s, sat in the broiling sun of the desert dawn like so many shiny carapaced insects waiting for the rising heat to bring them back to life. That would eventually be done not by the sun but by the exhausted yet triumphant crews scattered nearby. Tired as they were, they did their best to offer succor and reassurance to the prisoners they had just rescued from Skynet.
Considerably less joy was present in the wind-stirred tent that had been set up nearby. Inside, the leaders of the attack on San Francisco stood in silence. Their attention was focused not on the victory they had just won, but on a single figure lying at the center.
The great spark of life and defiance that was John Connor was slowly but inexorably fading away.
Struggling to sustain the life of the prone human to which it was attached, a portable heart-lung machine muttered softly. It made more noise than any of the somber onlookers. Connor’s wife held his arm—gently, reassuringly, but without hope. Certainly less than her husband evinced. He managed a feeble smile.
“Don’t worry, Kate. See you later....”
She nodded, then rose to confront the others. The words she spoke were her responsibility to them.
The tears in her eyes, however, belonged to her alone.
“He’s dying.”
Hat dangling from one hand, Barnes kept his voice low.
“How long?”
She tried to shrug but was unable to lift her shoulder.
“Any moment. His heart can’t take it.” Her eyes meet the sergeant’s, and she continued. “The Terminators have beat him up and history has worn him down.”
Barnes tried to think of something to say. Of the right thing to say.
“It’s going to be okay.”
The smallest figure in the tent moved forward to take the hand of the most complex. Star’s small soft fingers slipped into those of Marcus Wright, and she felt the warmth of his response through the cool metal. From the cot, Connor looked toward Kyle Reese, then to his jacket. Interpreting the glance correctly, Wright picked up the jacket and handed it to the younger man.
“Kyle,” Connor croaked, “take it. You’ve earned it.”
Nodding, the teen accepted the jacket. As he stepped back he saw that Star was holding Wright’s hand. Marcus eyed him evenly.
“Remember the difference.”
Remember the....? What was Wright talking about? As he pondered the cryptic command Wright gently eased the little girl toward her original protector. Kyle took her hand as the bigger man moved back.
“Kate. Take mine....”
John Connor looked at him, visibly uncertain. Only one person in the tent was certain of what the big man’s words implied. Blair came up to him without hesitation. There were tears in her eyes and when she spoke, her voice cracked.
“Marcus....”
He gazed down at the woman who had saved him, who had made the great, grand difference in his recent existence.
“Everyone deserves a second chance. This is mine.”
Smiling, she stood tall and regardless of what anyone in the tent might think, kissed him affectionately.
“Thank you.”
He eyed her a moment longer, out of eyes that had already seen too much. Then he turned away and began to strip off his shirt....
Wright and Connor lay side by side on tables in the portable operating theater. Two warriors: one dying and the other—the other....
No words passed between them. None were needed. Knowing looks, a respectful nod, were enough for these two. Prepped for surgery, Kate Connor moved first to the side of Marcus Wright.
A host of conflicting emotions raced through her as she stared down at the powerful, silent, strangely calm figure. She had been wrong about him, all wrong, and now it was too late. She might have said something, but she couldn’t find appropriate words. Not for the sacrifice he was about to make. A surge of compassion rose within her.
She made herself force it down. Deeply as she might want to express it, there was no time for that now. All she could do was what she had been trained to do.
The syringe she wielded was substantial. It had to be....
A single slab of smooth river rock constituted the tombstone that stood at the head of the grave site. Despite the heat, the young man patting down the last shovelfulls of dry earth wore a heavy jacket. Sweat streamed down his face but neither the heat nor the dripping perspiration dissuaded him from his work. He had carved the obituary on the stone himself, with his own knife.