Metal Guru
A Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles fanfic
by Pjazz
2009
1
MEXICO
The evenings were the worst. Twilight to dusk becoming the blackness of night. That was when the memories stole back in, as if they could be banished by daylight.
Memories of what she had done. And what she hadn't done.
Why didn't I go with him?
Why didn't I try and stop him?
Sarah Connor lay back on the double-bed, alone, wearing just panties and a white singlet and stared up at the revolving ceiling fan. All it did really was circulate the humid night air. There was no cooling effect to speak of. It was hot and then some. She couldn't install air conditioning; it was rare in this Mexican town, where only rich white gringos could afford such luxuries. And she was trying very hard not to be a rich white gringo. Such people were noticed, talked about, and she didn't want to be noticed or talked about. Just left alone.
Alone with her memories.
She lifted her left leg, flexing the muscles and pointing her toes. It was deeply tanned like the rest of her. She sunbathed at least three hours every day. Not because she wanted to - Christ, no; cancer was an everpresent fear - but because it helped her blend in. Her hair was black now and shorter. She spoke only spanish, enduring the sun's rays so she became like everyone else, another senora amongst many others.
Somewhere outside in the far distance a klaxxon sounded, more mournful than strident. It meant the fishing fleet had returned. The town had a thriving harbour and boats left daily to return at dusk laden with fish. To the east was a large fish processing factory that attracted migrants from all over seeking work. Strangers were the norm not the exception here. It was why she'd chosen the place. The sprawling ugly factory, shingle beaches and fierce riptides meant tourism was non-existant. No visiting americanos who might know her from the newscasts.
Beside the bed lay her backpack, never far from her side. Ready should the moment come when someone did see past the tan and the dyejob and recognised Sarah Connor. It contained a Beretta handgun, ammo, the passports John had acquired, the diamonds and nearly twenty thousand dollars in cash, mostly tens and twenties. What she didn't have were photographs or souvenirs from the past. The gun, diamonds and money she might be able to explain away. But her past? Where would she even begin?
Sarah Connor nee Baum was a fugitive, one of the most wanted in the western world. As was Cameron Baum nee Phillips. Footage had leaked to the media showing Cameron breaking into the jail and shooting the place up. The Jailbreak Jailbait, the newspapers dubbed her with their propensity for sensationalism and a fast buck. Miraculously she'd killed no one; the only injuries caused by flying debris and the stampede of prisoners. John had instructed her that human life was sacred and must be preserved whenever possible. And she obeyed. He'd always had a way with her.
And look where it got him.
But there was no footage screened of Cameron once her face had disintegrated revealing the metal cyborg beneath the skin. It had to exist therefore the authorities were covering it up. But they know now, Sarah surmised. The police. The FBI. Probably the CIA and the NSA. She wondered how far up the chain of command it went. All the way to the top no doubt. Like the President didn't have enough on his plate: Iraq, the Credit Crunch, and now killer robots running amok. How did you spin that to the electorate? Answer, you didn't. You suppressed the hell out of it. Plausible deniability. What choice did they have?
What choice did I have?
Sarah squirmed restlessly on the bed, understanding that this would be another night when sleep would be hard to come by.
"This is all your fault!" she yelled, taking out her frustration on an innocuous seeming suitcase propped against the wall. "He did this for you."
Inside, packed foetus-like, was the Tin Miss herself. The mashed skin had healed, only the torn bullet-riddled clothing hinted at the previous violence. The powercell still worked and Sarah guessed the self-repair function was autonomic, not reliant on the missing chip. Even the left eye had grown back. But no one was home. She was just a mannequin, a doll, albeit a very heavy one to lug around. In time she'd find somewhere to bury her. Sarah couldn't quite bring herself to destroy the body, not through any lingering sentiment but because John might yet find a way back with Cameron's chip. She owed him that much.
On the bedside table were three cell phones, prepaid and totally anonymous. Use once and then discard. Untraceable. She'd already used one to call James Ellison shortly after she arrived, who'd informed her of the FBI's manhunt, one of the biggest in its history.
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"You're tying up two whole departments," Ellison said. "Quite a feat. I don't think Al Capone warranted that much attention. Don't suppose you'd consider handing yourself in?"
"What d'you think?"
"Thought not. I'm back on the payroll. No choice. They want me where they can keep an eye on me. Some here think I know more than I'm saying."
"And they'd be right."
"Why didn't you go with John, Sarah?"
There it was, out in the open. Like she didn't hear it enough in her head.
"I can't prevent Judgement Day if it's already happened."
"You're sure that's where they went?"
"Where else?"
"It was the girl, wasn't it. That's why he went. To save her. Is she still with you?"
"What's left of her."
"If they find you they find her. You know how dangerous that is."
"She'll be buried. Soon as the ground thaws out." A little misdirection; she still didn't entirely trust him.
"It's cold where you are?"
"Yeah. There's snow forecast."
"Wrap up warm."
"Noted. Where's Savannah?"
"Shipped out to her grandparents in Scotland. Oneway ticket. I assume they're like us?"
"Not everyone's like them."
"Thank the lord."
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2
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The office of the director of the CIA was an ecletic mix of the old and the new. An 18th century desk that once belonged to George Washington juxtaposed a state of the art highdef flatscreen which covered almost the whole of one wall.
The human occupants too were a mix of the old and new. Joyce Cabot was the first female director of the CIA in its history. At 41 she was also the youngest. A new broom appointed by the incoming president to try and rehabilitate the public perception of an agency deemed to have lost its way in the wake of 9/11, Iraq WMDs - or lack of - and Abu Ghraib.
If Cabot represented the new then Theodore 'Teddy' Paulson was very much the old. A career 'spook' he'd joined the agency in the Nixon era and steadily climbed the greasy pole until reaching his present position as Deputy Director. 'Teflon Teddy' they called him - behind his back naturally - because whenever the shit hit the fan Teddy always seemed to emerge spotless, his reputation unsullied by failure.
"I need you to take a look at this, Madam Director," Paulson told his superior. "It's the Sarah Connor jailbreak. This is footage that the media were - ah - encouraged not to broadcast. Ted and Rupert weren't happy, but they've agreed to toe the line. For now."
They watched the flatscreen, Cabot seated behind her historic desk while Paulson stood a few feet away, ramrod straight even at 65 years of age.
On screen the girl identified as Cameron Phillips strode through the Los Angeles prison, strafing anything that moved with an M-16 assault rifle. Return fire thudded into her body, tearing the denim jacket she wore to shreds.
"Presumably she's wearing body armour," Cabot surmised.
"That's the assumption," Paulson agreed. "They can do amazing things with kevlar these days. Stop anything short of a 35mm round."
Then the bullets struck her head, jerking it back and sending flesh flying in every direction. Cabot winced; she had a daughter about that age. But the ordnance seemed to have no effect on the girl who simply continued walking, calmly firing from the hip.
"What's that on her face? Some sort of metal mask?"
"We think she has a metal skull," Paulson replied in a carefully neutral tone of voice.
"A metal skull? Come on, Teddy - is that even possible?"
Paulson said nothing. He preferred to keep his own council on what was possible and what wasn't. How for instance did a teenage girl who looked like she weighed no more than a hundred pounds wield a heavy M-16 assault rifle - one handed no less? Those things weighed in excess of 40 pounds. The recoil alone ought to knock her off her feet.
The picture changed to show the prisoners emerging from their cells and crowding the corridors, pushing back the hopelessly outnumbered guards.
"How did she unlock the cells? I thought it was all electronic."
"It is. And she didn't. Someone outside hacked in and over-rode the system. We don't know who. Or how they managed it."
"Tell me about this girl."
Paulson consulted his notes. "Cameron Phillips, age approximately 17, though we don't have official documentation. We actually have very little on her, but we do know she's an associate of Sarah Connor. You have her history in front of you."
Cabot stared at the document on her desk. It was an inch thick.
"Crunch it for me."
"Sarah Connor is an anarchist nutjob who believes the world will end in nuclear annihilation, after which - ah - machines will rise up and take over the world."
"And only she can save us, right?"
"Right. Typical Messiah complex. Her and her son John, who the FBI believe is dead."
"Do we?"
"There's nothing confirmed. Certainly no body. And John Connor was alive as recently as a year ago. He and Cameron Phillips, who posed as his sister, attended a high school in Los Angeles."
"Troublemakers?"
"By all accounts they were model students. Both scored impressive grades in math and physics. The girl in particular is classified at near genius level. Their attendence was patchy but that's about it."
"How patchy?"
"He missed fourteen days; she twenty-one. One of the teachers we spoke to said the girl often had scars or bruises on her face when she returned. When asked how she obtained them she replied, 'protecting John.'"
"Protecting John from what?"
"Unknown. They left the school last summer and never returned."
"Do we know their whereabouts?"
"Possibly. The FBI haven't a clue. No change there."
Cabot smiled thinly; rivalry between government agencies was fierce.
"We managed to intercept a phone call between Connor and an FBI agent we're interested in, James Ellison. She was his case before he quit the bureau."
"The SWAT team massacre."
"Correct."
"Was Connor involved?"
"Apparently not. We've been keeping tabs on Ellison because of his suspected involvement with Catherine Weaver's disappearence. There's nothing definite, but my instinct is he's up to his eyeballs in this. I'll play the tape now."
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"Why didn't you go with John, Sarah?"
"I can't prevent Judgement Day if it's already happened."
"You're sure that's where they went?"
"Where else?"
"It was the girl, wasn't it. That's why he went. To save her. Is she still with you?"
"What's left of her."
"If they find you they find her. You know how dangerous that is."
"She'll be buried. Soon as the ground thaws out."
"It's cold where you are?"
"Yeah. There's snow forecast."
"Wrap up warm."
"Noted. Where's Savannah?"
"Shipped out to her grandparents in Scotland. Oneway ticket. I assume they're like us?"
"Not everyone's like them."
"Thank the lord."
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"It sounds as if the girl is dead and Connor is somewhere cold. Canada perhaps."
"Actually, no", Paulson corrected smoothly. "Intell suggests the call originated south of the border. Mexico. A town on the Pacific coast. It makes sense. Connor has past links with subversives there. Therefore she lied."
"So she doesn't trust Ellison. Interesting."
"Very. If she is lying about her whereabouts then she could be lying about the girl being dead."
"And Weaver is still missing. Anything suspicious about these grandparents?"
"A retired couple who live beside a Scottish loch. He plays golf while she grows orchids. As clean as a whistle."
"What d'you have in mind with this, Teddy?"
"I'd like to send two field agents into Mexico to sniff about. Under the radar."
She'd only been in the job a few weeks but Cabot knew under the radar meant without notifying the host government an op was taking place on their soil. Fine if it went well, a huge diplomatic incident if it didn't.
"Okay, I'll authorise it. But seek and observe. That's it. No firefights on foreign soil. I'll be the one to make the decision if or when we send an extraction team in."
"Duly noted." Paulson prepared to leave then turned round and said, "Oh, one other thing, Madam Director..."
"What?"
"At the LA school they installed metal detectors on all the entrances. Some state law to prevent knives and guns entering the premises."
Cabot nodded; such unfortunate but necessary measures were a sign of the times.
"Cameron Phillips, or Baum as she was then, repeatedly triggered the alarm. When asked to explain she said, I have a metal plate in my head."
Paulson smiled enigmatically, nodded once and departed.
Cabot sat for several minutes just staring into space. The old man was up to something. She had the niggling feeling she'd just been played. Manipulated by a master of the dark arts of espionage. There was much he hadn't told her. A great deal left unsaid. She would have to keep a close eye on Teddy Paulson. A very close eye indeed.
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3
Teddy Paulson returned to his office on the third floor. Only then did he take out his cellphone and hit fastdial. The person he was calling was located elsewhere in the building but he had no intention of leaving an electronic trail by using the internal phone system where every communication was logged.
"Yes?"
"It's in motion."
"She viewed the footage?"
"The PG version. Nothing too...graphic."
"It was enough?"
"Sufficient. She is not without curiosity. However, she insists on having her finger on the trigger."
"Ah, a problem..."
"It will be necessary to compartmentalise what she knows. And when."
"But she's your superior!"
"She's not one of us, Artie. The administration parachuted in a glorified spin-doctor."
"Don't underestimate her, Teddy."
"Far from it. But I have no intention of kow-towing to a jumped up PR person brought in to bat her eyelashes at a congressional committee and keep the media sweet for the White House's benefit. We should be above that. Or below it." Paulson allowed himself a soft chuckle.
"Who will you use in Mexico?"
"Tatum and Webster. They proved themselves proficient at undercover ops in Honduras. They're young, ambitious and loyal to me. A useful combination."
"If you're burned on this it's over, Teddy. You realise that? In the current political climate---"
"Please. Clinton thought he had me out the door. Look how wrong he was."
"There won't be another Lewinsky for you to plant. Not this time. Not with this president. He has scruples, God save us."
"Ah, dear Monica. Such a sweet accomodating girl." Paulson smiled at the memory. "It won't be necessary. Trust me. I've been running black ops since before these people were born."
"Is she really going to be worth all the effort, Teddy?"
"Oh yes. I am sure of it. When I get my hands on Cameron Phillips she is going to change the world."
-000-
The Terminator and Bourne films are some of my favs, so here I'm sorta combining the two genres - sci-fi and espionage.
There are several OCs in this fic. I know not everyone enjoys reading them, but if you have ambitions to write beyond fanfiction I think they're an essential skill to learn. I try to keep the descriptions brief and imbue them with some personality, not merely for exposition purposes.