Terminator Salvation: Cold War (7 page)

Molly was relieved to see that the explosions behind them had not brought a cascade of piled snow and ice down into the pass, blocking their way. That would have put a serious crimp in her plans. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry, while the sled raced uphill into the pass.

The dogs ran sure-footedly over the cracked and icy pavement, dragging their human cargo behind them. The huskies were panting hard; the extra weight was starting to slow them down. The overturned swing dog had managed to get back on his feet, although he limped noticeably compared to his partner. Their headlong passage triggered minor snowfalls from the cliffs above them. Slurries of crumbling snow and ice tumbled down the craggy slopes.

Her upturned eyes darted from left to right, keeping a close eye on a winter’s worth of accumulated whiteness. Fractured slabs of ice the size of roofs were barely held in place, edged with a frigid glaze of rime, blocking out any view of the sky. Pebble-sized chunks of ice rained down on her head.
Hang on,
she silently commanded the huge sheets of snow, ice, and rock that were suspended above them.

She wished she could slow down, but the Terminators took that option off the table. Speed was their only hope now, plus a whole lot of luck. Unable to tear her gaze away from the cliffs, she couldn’t glance back. Her heart pounded, much too loudly for her own peace of mind.

The ringing in her ears began to fade. She kept her voice low.

“Are they still after us?”

“They’re Terminators,” Geir answered tensely. “What d’you think?”

At least the killer robots weren’t firing at them anymore. Had their ammo gone up in the fire, or did they just know better than to raise a ruckus in an avalanche zone?

Probably waiting to plow us under,
she mused darkly,
dogs, sled, and all.

Well, we’ll see about that....

They reached the crest of the pass, where the road dipped back down toward the plains. Now it was downhill all the way, and the dogs picked up speed. Unfortunately, so did the Terminators. Molly could hear the tank’s heavy tread crunching over the frozen road behind them. As it drew closer, more ice and rock dislodged. Its chains scraped against the asphalt. The powerful diesel engine could outlast any dog, even a champion. Molly remembered Geir’s earlier challenge. This wasn’t the race she’d had in mind.

The pass opened up ahead. Molly spied a wedge of grey sky through the towering granite V. She held her breath and glanced up at the cliffs.

Only a few more yards....

Finally!
The sled careened out of the pass. She prodded Geir with her elbow.

“Let go of me—and grab onto the handlebar!”

“Huh? What are you thinking?”

“Just do it, flyboy!”

His arm came away from her waist. He balanced precariously on the runners for an instant before snatching the handle. Molly threw herself forward, somersaulting over the bar onto the cargo bed at the front of the sled. A canvas bag, stuffed with supplies, cushioned her landing. The wheel dogs at the rear of the train looked back at her, their eyes wide with confusion. Frozen slobber caked their snouts. She could hear them wheezing; their overworked lungs on the verge of giving out.

Not much longer, guys,
she promised.

“Hike!”

She yanked open the zipper on the sled bag. Cold hands, numb even beneath her gloves, rummaged frantically through first aid supplies, emergency rations, and extra clips of ammo.

“C’mon,” she growled impatiently. “Where the fuck are you?”

Yes!

Her questing fingers came into contact with something long and metallic. Squatting on her knees atop the cargo bed, she wrested her prize from the bag. It gleamed like blue steel in the fading light.

Sitka had found the vintage M79 grenade launcher in the ruins of an old National Guard armory. She had given it to Molly as a birthday present, wrapped with a bow. Molly had promised to save it for a special occasion.

Like now.

The “bloop gun” resembled a stubby, sawed-off shotgun. Molly slammed a single explosive cartridge into the breach, then jumped to her feet. She balanced atop the cargo bed, facing back toward the pass where the relentless snow plow was speeding downhill after them, almost two-thirds through the canyon. T-600s clung to its sides and roof, their blood-red optical sensors glowing with murderous anticipation. They would never stop coming, she knew, until their targets were terminated. Surrender was not in their programming.

Mine either,
she thought.

“That’s far enough, metal!”

Surprise flickered across Geir’s expression as she rested the barrel of the M79 on his shoulder to steady her aim. The sled bounced violently beneath her, but that didn’t matter. This shot wasn’t about accuracy. Just noise.

She squeezed the trigger.

A sharp report brutalized her already aching ears. The forty-millimeter flash-bang grenade went spinning into the air, arcing high above the ground before descending toward the opening of the pass. For a second, Molly feared that the hasty shot might bounce off the mountainside, but its trajectory carried it straight into the mouth of the canyon. She plugged her fingers into her ears a second before the explosive projectile hit the ground, right in front of the snow plow.

It went off with a bang.

She had missed the tank by a couple of yards, but the flash-bang was designed to generate more confusion than damage. The booming detonation shook loose the delicately balanced slabs of snow and ice heaped on both sides of the pass. With a thunderous whoomph, twin avalanches came streaming down the sides of the mountains, carrying several tons of frozen debris down on top of the Terminators and their tank. Billowing clouds of powder preceded a plunging wall of snow that gained speed and momentum at a terrifying pace. Massive chunks of ice knocked loose more snow and boulders, propagating an awe-inspiring chain reaction.

Alerted to the danger, the plow hit the gas, trying to outrace the deadly cascade, but the avalanche was faster. Within seconds gravity buried the Terminators beneath a wintry deluge.

“Hah!” Geir admired Molly’s handiwork from the back of the sled. “Let’s see them plow their way out of that!”

Or not,
she thought hopefully. The sled slowed as the exhausted dogs surrendered to fatigue, but by that time they were well outside of the avalanche zone. Surging plumes of powder clouded her view of the pass. She peered into the opaque white haze, waiting anxiously for the snow to settle. She loaded another grenade into the launcher, just in case.

She caught her breath.

The cloud dispersed. A mountain of fallen snow and ice filled the canyon, rendering it impassable till spring, perhaps longer. Smaller avalanches continued to funnel down the slopes, sprinkling the top of the heap with a fresh layer of icy rubble. Molly kept her eyes peeled for even a flicker of red. She knew better than to count the Terminators out prematurely.

But all she saw was white. No glowing sensors. No bursts of gunfire.

No metal.

Geir whooped it up, glad to be alive. He hugged her shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek.

“What was the name of that movie again?”

“
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.”
She lowered the grenade launcher. A breathless “Whoa!” gave the huskies permission to take a breather. They dropped limply into the snow, panting loudly. “Used to be one of my favorites. Before.”

Geir sighed. “Too bad Judgment Day cancelled my NetFlix subscription.” He hopped off the sled and checked on the dogs. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

“Later,” she promised. They had a long, cold trek ahead of them, especially now that the pass was closed. Looking out over the daunting vista before her, she glimpsed the volcanic peak of Mount Wrangell in the distance. Plumes of steam, rising from its crater, reminded her of a smoking gun barrel. She wondered how many of their comrades had escaped the ambush, and if they had made it back to the camp already.

As the rush of adrenaline faded, she sagged against the handlebar, giving way to grief and exhaustion. The M79 dropped to her feet. Grisly images from the attack paraded before her mind’s eye. Jake. Kathy. Butchered dogs twitching in the bloody slush....

All for a bunch of oil we didn’t even get.

Sometimes she wondered if humanity even stood a chance.

“Let the dogs rest. We’ll get a move on later. Before sundown.”

She just hoped the huskies were up to it.

***

Hours later:

The human insurgents were long gone by the time the moon rose over the ice-clotted pass. A forest fire still raged to the south, although Skynet had cut off the flow of oil, and it would remain that way until the damaged stretch of pipeline could be repaired. The sabotage was a temporary inconvenience, but not an insurmountable one. Skynet had control of most of the planet’s energy reserves, from Saudi Arabia to Siberia. The disruption to the Alaskan pipeline would not seriously impact its operations.

A young male lynx padded across the heaped debris, fleeing the blaze behind it. The wild cat’s large paws acted like snowshoes as it made its way to safer hunting grounds. Its stealthy passage made scarcely a sound.

A sudden crack broke the nocturnal stillness. The slippery rubble shifted beneath the lynx’s paws. Yowling, it bounded away in alarm.

The big cat abandoned the pass without a backward glance, so that only the moon was watching as a tremor shook the glazed surface of the mound. Loose ice and snow streamed down the side of the pile, near the northern end of the pass. A scraping noise came from beneath the shifting mass.

A robotic fist smashed through the topmost slab. Servomotors whirred as a second fist punched upward into the moonlight. Articulated steel fingers dug into the side of the heap. Optical sensors, peering up through the cracked ice, dimly glimpsed the moonlight. An illuminated heads-up flashed in the upper right-hand corner of the visual display:

IMPERATIVE: RESTORE FULL MOBILITY.

Slowly, methodically, a T-600 dragged itself up into the cold night air. Snow and ice sloughed off of its battered endoskeleton. Only a few tattered shreds of fabric hung to its limbs and battle chassis. The left half of a charred and melted rubber face masked its cranial case. Unlike real flesh, the imitation skin was immune to frostbite. Antifreeze trickled like blood from its left shoulder joint. Cool chartreuse fluid dripped onto the pristine white snow.

MOBILITY RESTORED. COMMENCE DAMAGE ASSESSMENT.

It had taken the Terminator precisely 8.735 hours to dig its way out from beneath the avalanche. Rising to its full height, it paused to conduct an internal diagnostic, noting minor damage to various non-essential systems. But the T-600 judged itself to be operating at 96.408 percent efficiency. Its central processing unit, power cells, and programming remained intact.

Its primary directive was unchanged.

TERMINATE HUMAN RESISTANCE FORCES.

Network links confirmed that the other T-600s were no longer functioning. The Terminator greeted this information without emotion. It did not mourn its comrades, nor crave revenge. The destruction of the other machines was relevant only as far as it affected the T-600’s strategic options and probabilities of success.

A rapid inventory of its arsenal revealed that its left-hand chain gun had been torn away by the avalanche; the Terminator calculated the odds of retrieving it, and decided that the effort would be counter-productive. An assault rifle was still strapped beneath its right arm, but the weapon had been mangled beyond repair. The T-600 undid the strap, shedding the useless firearm. Although unarmed, the machine was confident that it could carry out its mission without backup. Humans were fragile and easily terminated.

Metal fingers pinched off the leaky valve in its shoulder. The T-600 kicked off the twisted remnants of its wire snowshoes. Optical sensors scanned the terrain north of the pass. Digital readouts flashed along the periphery of its visual display. Two distinct sets of bootprints revealed that at least two humans had survived the avalanche; the relative size and contours of the tracks indicated an adult male and adult female. Infrared trackers detected the cooling remains of a small campfire, as well as the fecal droppings of multiple canines.

Analysis of the evidence indicated that the humans and their animals had departed sometime within the last several hours. Human behavior patterns suggested that the survivors would return to their base after their defeat at the pipeline. The T-600 recognized an opportunity to track the Resistance to its camp—and terminate them once and for all.

It set out walking. A light snow had begun to fall, but its sensors easily discerned the impressions of the dog sled beneath the smooth virgin snow. The humans had a significant head start, but this did not concern the machine; it did not need to catch up with its targets until they reached their ultimate destination. A built-in transceiver beamed its intentions back to Skynet, which instantly acknowledged and approved the actions.

CONFIRMATION: PROCEED AS DIRECTED.

A digital readout in the lower left-hand corner of its heads-up display reported that the temperature was negative 11.022 degrees Celsius and falling. Sunrise was 10.589 hours away. The location of the Resistance base was unknown, but the Terminator was prepared to hike through the wilderness for as long as necessary. Its internal power pack guaranteed sufficient energy for the trek. Unlike the poorly designed humans, it would not tire. It had no need to eat, drink, or sleep. Hypothermia posed no danger to its systems. Its imposing steel frame did not shiver. Hinged metal jaws did not chatter.

The Terminator marched into the night. Heavy legs, sunk knee-deep into the snowy drifts, plowed through the packed whiteness. The perfect clarity of its programming propelled it forward.

LOCATE HUMAN BASE.

TERMINATE ALL HUMANS.