Part Six – Dealing With Death

Back in the day, when I was young, free and single, I loved to dance. Getting down on the dance-floor of a discotheque, as they were called in those seemingly ancient times, was a great way to get away from it all. Now that I'm… well, older, still free, still single, other matters occupy my time. But back then, the stress of studying at college while holding down a job as a waitress was eased for a few short hours once a week. The song meant nothing, it was all about the the beat, the rhythm; the groove.

A guy I dated from college was always trying to get me to listen to his music. To my ears it was loud and angry, the opposite of how I wanted to be. He was active in the anti-war movement, Greenpeace, anti-whaling; you name it, he had a bumper sticker proclaiming his allegiance for or against it. I think his little blue VW Rabbit was held together by those stickers!

Somehow I remember all of that, yet I can't remember his name. He was really a sweet-natured boy, I know, but I can't recall his face. I wonder what he would think of me now; of all that I have done in the name of 'peace.' I have on my conscience the deaths of many, in order to keep my son safe, in the belief that he will save mankind in the future. Maybe we have saved the world in the here and now; but will those deaths amount to anything when the world doesn't know of their significance? I certainly will be remembered as a terrorist, not a freedom-fighter; an escapee from an asylum, not a prophet.

Nobody believes my story, until they come face to face with a terminator. Of course, by then it is usually too late.

I wake up in a darkened hospital room. As I blink myself awake I can see Cameron, sitting in what appears to be the only chair, illuminated by a light from behind me.

"Where's John?" I say, or try to. My daughter-in-law – Ha! What law? – places a cup of water at my lips, allowing my surprisingly parched throat to loosen enough for me to be coherent. "Is he safe?"

"He had to dispose of the stolen car. Since he returned he has been pacing the corridors, eating, drinking… anything but sit with me it would seem." Not two days married and she's already moaning about being ignored! "But he is safe, yes."

"So what happened back there?" I demand, relaxing slightly.

"You were shot several times. John and I terminated the Kaliba men, then I attended to your wounds with field bandages and plastic wrap to prevent shock through further blood loss, but I think the initial effects made you hallucinate. I carried you to the car then drove you here. John had ensured our tracks were erased by liberal use of thermite over all the bodies, including John Henry's, and around the significant computer parts. Combined with the C-4, the building and its contents were utterly destroyed. You got your wish Sarah, except in one regard."

"You," I say, sheepishly.

"Yes, me." There's a definite edge to her voice.

"I got that wrong," I confess. She takes time to mull on that, before replying.

"The timing was wrong," she offers.

"Not just the timing. I should have trusted John's instincts… One version of him sent you back; this one would do anything for you. I didn't listen to him, didn't trust him enough. I just got it wrong."

After another short silent spell, she changes the subject. "You were talking in your sleep."

"I was?" I'm slightly anxious. "Nothing embarrassing, I trust?" I think there's a hopeful smile on my face, but I can't be sure.

"That would depend on what you consider embarrassing."

"Yes… yes it would." I sink back into my pillows, then the softness of them alerts me to something else. "Where are we? Is it safe?"

"The same clinic we came to on Wednesday. They like American money, and don't ask too many questions. The staff are more than adequate, some exceptional. The hygiene levels are first class and the treatment success rate is as high as any found in North America. In addition, two of the junior medical staff are Resistance fighters from the future, sent back by our John to learn vital skills, should the campaign to defeat Skynet here be unsuccessful."

Hmm. She said "our John." So, she's sharing him with me, not taking him away. But the way I feel, I may not be around long enough to argue over him. I've long felt she would usurp me. I fought it to the bitter end, but in doing so he had to prove that she was worthy of him, and she had to show her mettle. She's not what I would have wanted for my son, but I guess it could be worse. I'm not sure exactly how... but it could be. He has said he was afraid of ending up alone, without hope or remorse. With her he has something, someone to ensure that he is always John Connor. And now he truly knows what being John Connor means.

"Okay, so we're sorta safe. So, what did I say?"

"You were talking about the events that have occurred since John and I returned from the future, including your opinions of myself and John. It has been most illuminating to compare your version of events with those that I witnessed, however you seem to veer between guarded approval and outright hostility towards me."

"Oh? Well, if you'd lived in my boots, you'd know full well why," I retort, but I don't have the strength for anger.

"Kyle Reese," she says delicately. It's not a question, she states it in a way that makes me feel she truly understands. Well, if she loves John as much as I loved Kyle, she must do.

"Yes... Listen, tell me about this," I ask, pointing at my bandaged midriff. "What's the prognosis? And has the quack sent a text yet?"

"No text message has been received on your cellphone; as to your wounds... well, the outlook is not positive. Despite my best efforts you lost a lot of blood. You received a transfusion and have been administered a significant amount of tranquilizers. The surgery was successful in removing the bullets, but not in repairing all the damage. The doctor is amazed that you are still alive. He appears to think that you have the constitution of an ox."

"Yeah, sounds about right..." I mumble, as I drift off again.

"Earlier you were talking about when you were younger: you mentioned a young man you were dating. Do you recall his name now?"

Cameron is fussing over me. I'm drifting in and out of consciousness, but she is a permanent fixture, ready with a cup of water or eager to move my pillows.

"I recall he liked this one song in particular: What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love And Understanding? He was so serious about it. "It's only a song! You can't even dance to it!" I'd say to him. "But it's not just a song," he'd shout back, "it's true!" To him, it reflected real life back then. But not my life. Until one day when a terminator appeared, destroying everything in its path. Like everyone else in that situation ever since, I had to wake up and smell the coffee. It changed me in ways I can't explain, because I don't really remember the Sarah I was before. She got lost somewhere along the way."

"Maybe she's still inside of you. Maybe she's just waiting to come out, when the time is right."

"I don't think the time will ever be right. And she had her day; like so many others, she had to make way for something tougher and stronger, something that wouldn't give up, ever. Right?" She nods in agreement, but somehow looks sad.

Before weariness overtakes me again, I ask her if it's so bad that I can't remember the guy's name.

"You have probably blocked it out because it belongs to a part of your life that you cannot revisit. I wish I could block off unpleasant memories, but that requires external intervention, something John is reluctant to do. So, I must live with my deeds, though I can learn from them. Perhaps it is a way of developing a conscience."

Once more I am left speechless by her, but then sleep claims me again.

It's as if I just have to blink and I'm in a different world – either a dream world I struggle to make sense of; or a cold, sterile room with a cold, sterile person. But I'm not sure which is which, and who is whom. It's still just me and Cameron.

"How do you handle all these new emotions then?" I find myself asking.

"With difficulty," she replies.

"Yeah. The other day, you'd been crying. John said he'd upset you... but he wouldn't elaborate."

"Yes, he upset me. He refuses to let me take care of necessary terminations. He thinks I am 'beyond that.' My crying seemed to prove his point, which only made it worse for me: I was temporarily unable to control myself. Once I had established how to, it was too late. He would not listen to me."

"I know the feeling! But he's not the finished article, is he? He's not Future-John yet, is he?"

"No, he lacks the many years of experience that Future-John had. But he has beaten Skynet. He has fulfilled his destiny," she says proudly.

"You are much more demonstrative, facially I mean. It's getting easier to read you."

"John says I should always use my facial expressions to show how I feel, so that people will react to me normally. But I am often confused, and looking confused is… worse than looking unresponsive," she says, chuckling, which is itself disorienting for me.

"So, can you control your emotions now?" I ask, hoping for more details.

"Mostly. But if you mean switch them on and off like my pain receptors, no. If I feel happy, I react automatically to that, so I may laugh inappropriately. But I am working on it. It would not be good if I became ineffective on a mission because I got upset, for instance. I am still learning to control these new feelings, but they seem a blessing and a curse. It would be better for John's safety if we were somewhere far from danger while I get to grips with them."

"Do you envisage any more missions? I mean, after last night, there won't be any, right?"

"'Never say never,' as the saying goes. Skynet was beaten once before, but returned. Weaver built something to cancel it out: it has worked, but one can never be sure. 'Eternal vigilance' is another appropriate phrase to live by. I shall be on watch for any signs of its return."

"Good girl!" I say, without immediately thinking the usual caveat about her not being a girl. I get a smile in return. "So, what will you do if we have succeeded?"

"Stay with John as long as he wants me."

"Settle down in an egg-blue clapperboard suburban house, with a barbecue and kids in the yard?" I quip.

She frowns and tilts her head. "Children? No, of course not; I am not capable of reproduction and I doubt our resources will stretch to a house in the suburbs after years of evading the authorities."

"Yeah, I know, just a nightm– ... er, dream I had. Forget I said it."

"You wish me to delete the file?"

"Preferably, but what the hell! Keep it: file it in your 'Crazy Sarah' folder, or whatever you have in there."

"I don't have such a folder," she replies, frowning again.

"Right, not so polite, eh?"

The frown disappears, replaced with an earnest look. "You are John's mother, the most important person in his life. I could no more disrespect you than I could him."

"Oh," I say. This... person is causing me so much conflict, I'm almost speechless. Almost.

"Well, that's nice, just don't think you're gonna be calling me 'Mom' anytime soon!"

"I did before, at school."

"Yeah, but that was just for show, right?"

"You're the only mother I've ever had," she says quietly.

"Oh," I say again. Crap! She's reducing me to mono-syllabic, repetitive answers. Don't, Sarah! Don't you dare cry! I shake my head, hoping to clear it. "Not a good role model for you: I'm lousy as a mother," I manage to get out before reaching for my drink and hastily swallowing a mouthful.

"You're wrong. You are the best mother John or I could have had."

I look at her, see her eyes watering and wonder once more how something so beautiful could have been created by something so evil. I find myself comforting her, this killer who looks like an angelic girl; rubbing her back and stroking her hair and saying "there, there" as if she was indeed my daughter. If you close your mind a tiny bit, it's easy to fool yourself.

I pull back from her, noticing that her mascara has run. After her recent episodes of blubbing, I'm surprised she hasn't discovered waterproof.

"You, er, oughtta fix yourself up," I say. She looks quizzically at me. "Panda eyes," I say, and point to them for good measure.

"Oh, thank you," she says, looking slightly embarrassed. She gets up and checks her reflection in the mirror on the far wall.

Just in time, I have become Sarah Connor again. But then exhausted, I fall once more into the arms of Morpheus.

I wake up as my son is saying something.

"I need information! I can't just sit here, doing nothing! I'm gonna find that idiot doctor..."

He departs the room, an angry young man in search of something to hit. I wonder how much abuse he sends Cameron's way? Probably none: he's not a complete asshole, is he?

I try to raise myself on my pillows, but the wounds in my stomach are too painful. Cameron is up in a flash, stopping me. She lifts me effortlessly, painlessly. I thank her. She offers me another glass of water; I accept it, sipping it, aware now of my raging thirst. I try to remember what I was going to ask her, before I drifted off, but I have another question.

"Don't you get angry sometimes? I mean, surely he must annoy you occasionally?"

"Yes, sometimes. When he risks himself pointlessly, like last night, I worry for him. It seems like I do that a lot. Too much, maybe."

"It's hard, not worrying about him. You have to close part of yourself off, but I've never really been able to do that. You can't either, when it comes to John?"

"No, not when it comes to him," she says, with a wry smile.

"So, how do you keep him in line?"

"I withdraw bedroom privileges," she says sharply.

Even though it is physically painful, I have to laugh. "That's so… Yeah!" I clutch myself, trying to constrain it to a giggle or chuckle. "Good for you..."

Cameron has another little chuckle. "You approve?" she inquires.

I am back in control now, serious again. "Withdrawing? Yes! Providing? Less so. In fact, not at all. But it's your life..."

Cameron seems unsure if she should reply, so I say what I need to say, while I have breath left in me.

"That thing you do, when you calm him down, and reassure him: I don't know what it is or how you do it, but keep doing it. And you make him happy, that's important too. Please continue – and keep him safe. That's all I want of you. The rest is between you two, not my business any more. Okay?"

Cameron nods, a slight smile given in return. She knows to keep her mouth shut, not to spoil the moment.

It seems to be a long night, as I drift in and out of consciousness. It could be daybreak by now, I'm not really sure. I am certain, however, that my son is here. John is perched on the edge of my bed, perhaps to hear me better; I know my voice is failing, despite the sips of water I take.

"Hey, Mom! How you doing?" he asks.

"Been better," I reply truthfully. He looks sad, which makes me happy for a second, because I know that he still feels something, but then I too am sad: how have we gotten to such a state that a mother is happy to see her child in pain? Silently I curse Skynet and its lackeys for the millionth time. The last time, maybe?

I put everything I've got into a winning smile, aiming to beat this air of gloom. "No matter how big and tough and scary you get, you'll still be my little boy," I say, reaching up to ruffle his cropped hair, which causes the IV drip in my hand to rattle its bag in the frame above my head. John cringes, then laughs.

"I thought I was meant to be this dark, mythical figure, all-knowing and remote," he counters.

"Alone?" I'm serious again. "You don't want to be alone."

"No. But I won't be."

"You'll have to be careful," I warn.

Surprisingly, he chuckles. "Are you suggesting I take precautions? With Cameron?" He gives me a knowing look.

"Er, maybe not," I reply, remembering how well my 'mom' talk went. Payback's a bitch, so they say. Guess I deserve that. But now he's all serious too.

"Yeah, listen: she's just like you in that way: careful is her middle name. And what you said before about me knowing what she is – having her with me means I'll never forget what we had to do to get here, what we might have to do if we've failed to stop Judgment Day."

I nod my head. He's learned his lessons well. I doubt there is much more I can teach him, which is as well because it feels like the clock is winding down on my life; we're likely into overtime. Maybe I can give the Connor team some encouragement before my end, rather than my usual ass-busting.

"You always seem to trust them, when I never could," I assert.

"Maybe because they trust me? I dunno. But yeah, I trust her; and I love her."

"She loves you."

"You sure about that?" he smirks.

"I don't know for sure how she works in that head of hers, or how or what she feels, but it's love."

"Yeah," he says simply.

"Look after her, John."

"Mom?" He is clearly puzzled by my instruction.

"Don't treat her bad just 'cause she'll take it and never leave. Don't be an asshole!"

"He won't. He is kind and thoughtful. You taught him well," says Cameron's disembodied voice, from somewhere out of my vision.

"For– Don't do that! You scare me half to death!" I scream; well, as much as am able to. Her face appears above me, contrition writ large upon it.

"I'm sorry, really. I–" she starts to apologize, but I interrupt.

"It's okay, just... don't do it again, alright?" I pat her hand reassuringly, then I'm out of it again.

I saw that Sarah Connor had lapsed into unconsciousness once more, and my scan confirmed this. Soon she would be deeply asleep and would likely start her somniloquy. If she were to follow the pattern of her previous slumbers, she would bring her story up to date. The sleep periods had been getting shorter, as had the intervals between them. It was if she was clinging on to life long enough to ensure her story was told. Did she know that I was recording it as I do everything I see and hear? Her reaction to my presence in the room mere moments before suggested otherwise, and yet humans often do things subconsciously.

As if on cue, she entered REM status, and soon thereafter continued her tale.

Eight minutes, forty-seven seconds later, Sarah Connor re-awakened. She saw me, and simply nodded, then glanced at her son, then back to me. I nodded in return. She had relinquished her command, she had passed on the baton. I, Cameron Phillips Connor, now had sole custody of John Connor. The protection of the savior of mankind was once more my burden alone. I smiled at her, because I was, and continue to be, happy to undertake this task. She had one last comment for her son, my husband.

"I love you, John."

"I love you too, Mom," he replied, holding her hand.

After a further two minutes, thirteen seconds, John told me: "She's gone." With a sweep of my right index finger on her neck I confirmed life extinct at 7:04AM local time, Saturday, July 24th 2010. John got up from the bed and stood by the window, looking out. The sun was about to rise. As the sky began to turn a lighter shade of blue, he spoke.

"It's a beautiful day, Cameron." He turned towards me, and his mouth moved slightly, as if he was forcing it to smile. But the smile retreated, reluctant to appear on his sad face.

Moving to his side, I held his hand, and smiled to show my love for him. I looked out of the window too. "Yes, it's a beautiful day," I said.

EPILOGUE

One hour, forty-eight minutes later, John and I were riding a municipal bus, returning to our safe house, where our 2004 Jeep Grand Cherokee had remained parked. My husband was clutching a cotton reusable shopping bag that I had recently obtained at the local supermercado, a branch of a national chain. The bag now contained the belongings of his recently-deceased mother, Sarah Connor.

He was staring intently out of the window, and his body was tense. I linked my right arm through his left and took hold of his hand. My thumb rested upon the gold band on his ring finger. It is not best-quality material, but John said that it is the symbolism that counts, not the price. "But if I had a million dollars, I'd spend it on you," he'd said when we bought our rings nine days previously. For some unknown reason that pleased me, however I know that if we did have such resources, they would have to be invested more wisely.

My enhanced hearing alerted me to a vibrating cellphone within the grocery bag. A high-pitched three-note ring tone announced that a text message had been received.

"Mom's cell," John said, pulling it out and opening it. He sighed, then looked at me. I adopted an expectant expression. He attempted a smile again, then snapped the cellphone shut.

"It's from the doctor we saw on Wednesday," I deduced. "What does it say?"

Once again John's mouth twitched, as if he was about to smile. "It doesn't matter now," he said. He squeezed my hand as if to reassure me, but then he developed a frown. "It took long enough to get here, though."

"Earlier the TV news channel was reporting a serious disruption in telephonic and internet traffic after a vital hub for Mexico's largest telecommunications provider was destroyed by suspected arsonists," I pointed out.

John sighed again. "Kids, huh? Didn't happen back in the day..." Finally that smile made its way to his face. Perhaps that is what is meant by 'putting on a brave face?' Though I didn't wish the smile to leave his face, I felt a kiss would be appropriate at this juncture. John clearly thought so too, and after a short while our lips parted and I rested my head against his shoulder. He was more relaxed now, and therefore so was I, but I was still waiting for him to embrace his grief.

I made that my priority task in the days that followed, once the basic requirements had been attended to. I arranged for Sarah Connor to be cremated forthwith; there would be no religious service, as per her request. We did plan to honor her in our own way though, John and I. We otherwise spent the days after her death quietly, preparing for our return to the United States.

THE END

(of VOLUME 1, but the story continues in VOLUME 2: THE HERO'S REQUIEM)

Acknowledgments: to Predaking50ae for the original microfic idea & weapon info; cp442 for a particular Cameronism & general encouragement; and Munter, for beta-reading, encouraging & believing.

Thank you for reading this; please leave a comment, then leave by the designated exits.