Terminator Salvation: Cold War (9 page)

“Derailing the train is just the first step,” Doc Rathbone insisted. “Once you get inside, the uranium is still going to be locked up tight.”

The old man was hunched over a drafting table in what had once been the office of the mine’s general manager. It was housed in a two-story log cabin a short hike away from the massive mill and crusher. Maps of the train’s route and surveillance photos of the Skynet Express were spread out on top of the table, along with cobbled-together diagrams and blueprints of the train itself.

Much of the intel had been downloaded from the central processing unit of a factory robot the Resistance had captured several months earlier. That had been quite a coup, albeit one that had cost the life of the cell’s previous commander. Doc Rathbone had been instrumental in cracking the CPU’s encryption in order to access the information stored in the machine’s computerized “brain.”

He was useful that way, which was why Molly put up with his eccentricities.

“Locked up how?” she asked.

The bloodbath at the pipeline had only heightened her resolve to hit Skynet where it hurt. Over Geir’s objections, she had gone straight to work the minute they’d made it back to the camp, barely stopping to change into dry clothes. A moth-eaten black turtleneck sweater, buckskin trousers, and fur-lined moccasins kept her warm enough inside the office. Her parka hung from a set of antlers mounted by the door, above her soggy boots.

A wood-burning stove fought back the cold winter night. A pair of Siberian huskies were curled up in front of the stove, with Sitka plopped down between them. Molly didn’t usually let them sleep inside, but she figured her lead dogs had earned it after outracing the killer snow plow. Kerosene lanterns gave the humans enough light to work by. Closed wooden blinds trapped the light inside, maintaining the blackout regulations she had put into effect. A loaded assault rifle was propped up against the table, always within easy reach.

“The ore is likely sealed inside heavily guarded storage compartments to prevent theft or loss in the event of a crash,” Doc continued. “Each individual railcar will be one big rolling safe, with automated locks programmed to open only upon their arrival at Valdez. Since there are no conductors or technicians aboard, the locks will be under the direct control of the train’s own artificial intelligence, but it may be possible to override the locking mechanisms at the site.”

He pointed a bony finger at a schematic. Mussed white hair met in a widow’s peak above his bushy black eyebrows. A pair of scratched wire-frame bifocals rested on his nose. His face was worn and haggard. Swollen veins and a ruddy complexion hinted at a drinking problem that persisted despite Sitka’s best attempts to keep the old coot away from the camp’s homemade moonshine. A fraying tan cardigan hung on his withered frame; he looked like he’d been forgetting to eat again. A pocket calculator weighed down one side of the sweater. His shoelaces were untied.

“The processed ore will be in the form of a coarse, lightweight powder popularly known as ‘yellowcake.’” His gaze drifted off as his mind started wandering again. Then he came back. “The Navajo Indians of Colorado, on the other hand, used to call uranium ‘the Yellow Monster’ after careless mining practices contaminated their land and bodies. A shameful episode, really. The incidences of lung cancer, pulmonary fibrosis, and birth defects were truly appalling....

Fascinating,
Molly thought sarcastically. She wasn’t sure what that had to do with Skynet.

“Can you hack into the locks?” she asked. Henry Rathbone had once been the chief engineer for a Pacific Northwest company that designed high-tech security systems for upscale homes and businesses. He’d been on a fishing vacation in Alaska when the bombs fell. A lucky break for the Resistance, if not for Rathbone. He might have been happier going up in flames with the rest of Seattle. Story was, he’d lost his entire family.

“Probably,” he said. “Maybe.” A sigh escaped his quivering lips as he contemplated the blueprints. He tapped a schematic of the train’s storage compartment. “Reminds me of the panic room I installed for a paranoid Microsoft millionaire in Tacoma. You should have seen that guy’s mansion. Had a special vault just for his comic book collection.” His rheumy gaze turned inward as his voice took on a wistful tone. “You remember comic books? They used to come out every week, like clockwork. Me and the other tech guys always used to take a long lunch on Wednesday.

“There was this diner down by Pike Place Market where we’d get together to read the new issues. I usually ordered a turkey sandwich and a Diet Pepsi. Or was it a Dr. Pepper? You remember Dr. Pepper? ‘I’m a Pepper, you’re a Pepper....’”

“Off we go again,” Sitka groaned. The teen rolled her eyes. “Don’t you ever get tired of going on about way back when?”

Molly knew what she meant. Everybody who remembered life before Judgment Day longed for the past sometimes, but Doc had it worse than most. He just couldn’t seem to let go of the world he had once known. A melancholy aura hung over him like a cloud.

“Kids like you!” Rathbone turned, towered over Sitka, and shook his finger. “You don’t know what you’re missing, what life used to be like before everything went to hell. There were restaurants and museums and golf courses and Christmas and champagne.” A quaver entered his voice. His eyes grew wet. “We didn’t have to live like animals, being hunted by machines. We had lives then... real lives with plenty to look forward to. Not this. Nothing like this.”

He gestured at the rustic walls that surrounded them.

“You don’t know what it was like....”

Sitka yawned theatrically.

“Waste of breath. Heard it all before.”

Protesting a bit too much, maybe? Molly suspected that the teen was secretly fascinated by the old man’s frequent evocations of life before Skynet. Not that she’d ever admit it.
Must sound like fairy tales to her,
Molly thought.
Like Oz or Wonderland.

She made a mental note to have Sitka quietly search Doc’s bunk and workshop for illicit hooch. She needed to keep the traumatized genius on the top of his game, such as it was. Rathbone was teaching the girl what he knew about electronics and computers, but she was nowhere near ready to take his place.

Won’t be for years, probably.

“I remember Dr. Pepper,” Molly said gently. She took Doc’s arms and guided him back toward the table. The trick was humoring him just long enough to get his mind back on the present, before the maudlin nostalgia got out of control and he spiraled into a full-blown depression. She had to nip episodes like this in the bud. “But, anyway, about the train....”

“Right, yes, the train.” To her relief, he started sorting through the surveillance photos again. “Let me see. Assuming we can make our way aboard without being terminated, we’ll need a laptop, first-rate decryption software, hack-wires, clips... and maybe a screwdriver.”

A knock at the door startled her. She instinctively reached for the rifle, then caught herself and shook her head at her own jumpiness. What was she thinking?

Terminators didn’t knock.

“Yes?”

The door swung open and Geir walked in. Like her, he had changed clothes after getting back. Soot no longer blackened his handsome features. He had even taken a razor to his singed whiskers.

“Sorry to interrupt, but they’re ready to make it legal.”

Molly gave him a baffled stare.

“What are you talking about?”

“The wedding, of course.” He looked surprised by her confusion. “Roger and Tammi are getting hitched, remember?”

It all came back to her. The two young Resistance fighters had gotten engaged after surviving a firefight near Glennallen last month. The attack at the pipeline had completely driven the date from her mind.

“They’re still going through with it? After everything that’s happened?”

“All the more reason,” Geir stated. “Proof that life goes on, and all that.”

“Whatever.” She turned back to her battle plans and sat down in front of the drafting table. “Tell them to start without me. I’m busy.”

Molly was in no mood for such nonsense. The very notion struck her as ridiculous. Who the hell got married nowadays, the world being what it was? Weddings and bridal showers and “happily ever after” had disappeared in a mushroom cloud fifteen years ago. Mankind was locked in a life-or-death battle that left no room for the rosy frivolity of days gone by.

Till death do you part? That was a joke, and a sick one at that.

“Sorry. Not an option.” Geir yanked the chair out from under her. “This won’t wait.”

Molly stumbled to her feet to keep from falling.

“What the fuck are you doing?” She whirled around to confront him. Over by the stove, Sitka snickered out loud, enjoying the fireworks. Doc Rathbone backed away uncomfortably and pretended to be somewhere else. “Goddamn it, Svenson, I’ve got a war to fight. I don’t have time for some stupid wedding.”

“Those people out there need this, Molly. Now more than ever.” Standing over her, Geir refused to back down. “And they need you to share this moment with them.” He looked her squarely in the eyes. “You’re their leader. This comes with the job.”

She could tell he was serious about it. He didn’t often challenge her, so she took a deep breath, counted to ten, and reconsidered. Maybe he had a point.

“This is, like, a morale thing?” she ventured.

“If that’s how you need to think about it, then sure.” He sounded mildly exasperated by her attitude. “Whatever gets you to the church on time.”

She reluctantly gave in. Geir usually had a pretty good feel for the pulse of the camp; he was more of a people person than she was.

“Fine,” she grumbled. “Just give me a minute.”

She scooped up her plans and locked them securely in an antique roll-top desk that dated back to the Great Depression. A cup of black coffee rested on the desk, next to a half-eaten plate of reindeer sausage. She swigged down the last of the coffee, then pulled on her coat and boots. Thankfully, the boots had dried out some since the last time she’d checked. Doc and Sitka put on their outerwear as well.

“All right, let’s get those damn kids yoked for however much longer we’ve got. Wouldn’t want our brave Resistance fighters to get cold feet while they’re waiting for us.”

Geir chuckled as he held the door open.

“I always knew you were a romantic at heart.”

“Don’t push it, flyboy.”

A brisk walk along a gravel-strewn path led them to the camp’s makeshift chapel, which doubled as the cell’s chief assembly hall and briefing room. Overhead, the aurora borealis streaked the night sky with shimmering curtains of green and violet. The luminous bands of color rippled through the upper atmosphere, visible for hundreds of miles around. There had been some talk of holding the ceremony outdoors, beneath the spectacular cosmic light show, but the sub-zero reality of the Alaskan winter had killed that idea real fast.

A bone-chilling wind shoved them inside the chapel, then banged the door shut behind them.

Curious eyes greeted their arrival. Molly was surprised to find that pretty much the entire camp—some fifty-plus people—had turned out for the event. The roughhewn chapel had been decorated with garlands of strung-together pine cones and sea shells. Banners embroidered with a spiraling double helix—the emblem of the Resistance—hung from the rafters. Rows of battle-hardened men, women and children, some sporting fresh bandages from the day’s hostilities, lined both sides of the aisle. The altar at the far end of the room was strictly non-denominational; the last thing the struggling band of humans needed was to squabble about religious icons. Skynet was the Devil. On that everybody agreed.

The happy couple were already standing before the altar. Molly felt a twinge of embarrassment for keeping everyone waiting, even if she still thought that this was all a bunch of sentimental bullshit. Feeling more than a little self-conscious, she blended in with the audience. Smiling spectators made room for the late arrivals. Sitka gaped at the decorations. Doc was less impressed.

“They call this a wedding?” he muttered. “People used to dress up for these things. Rented tuxedos and poofy dresses. I went to this wedding once, back in ‘98, where the bride arrived in a horse-drawn carriage....”

Sitka elbowed him in the side.

“Mouth shut, old man. Not the time.”

The sight of so many people gathered in one place made Molly nervous. This was strategically unwise; what if Skynet launched an attack? She assumed that the sentries were still at their posts, and that the guard dogs were keeping watch as well. A quick glance around the room confirmed it.

Sighing, she tried to pretend she was happy to be here.

Comes with the job,
she reminded herself.
Geir wasn’t wrong there.

At least she wasn’t expected to preside over the ceremony. Ernie Wisetongue, a Native Alaskan elder who had once taught Indian Arts at a community college in Fairbanks, stood behind the couple. He winked at Molly before beginning his benediction.

“Brothers, sisters, fellow Homo sapiens.” His warm baritone enveloped the audience. A benign middle-aged presence, he had a broad face and short brown hair. Eschewing any priestly garb, he wore a neatly pressed dress shirt, slacks, and beaded moccasins. A Raven totem matching the one on Molly’s pendant was embroidered on his tie. “Thank you all for coming tonight, despite today’s tragic losses. It is a measure of our strength and sense of community that we can come together even in such trying times.” No doubt he had been forced to rewrite his sermon in light of the bloodshed earlier. “Which behooves us to ask: What distinguishes us from the machines? What makes humanity worth fighting for and preserving? The machines are stronger than us, they are more durable than us, they may even be smarter than us. Well, smarter than me, that’s for sure.” Laughter eased any tension elicited by the mention of the enemy and the rout at the pipeline. “So why will we prevail instead of the machines? Because we care. We feel. We
love.”

He gazed upon the bride and groom, who beamed rapturously at each other. Roger Muckerheide wore neatly-pressed khaki fatigues, complete with a red armband. A black patch covered the eye he had lost skirmishing with a T-600 on a previous fuel run. He was only seventeen, barely old enough to shave.