Mother is the Name for God

By JMHthe3rd

Prologue: . . . For All to See.

A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid 13 for his invaluable input.

January 5th, 2027

Los Angeles Sewer System

At the end of the tunnel, near the rendezvous point, a six foot pole had been wedged into the brick floor. On its tip hung T-990-716's skull.

T-990-715, the T-1001, and the eleven 900s of her squad quickly scanned their surrounding, searching for proximity grenades, pressure plate bombs, trip wires -- any crude sign of human subterfuge. But there were none. Other than the skittering of a distant rat, they were alone.

She walked up to the skull and stared into its unlit eyes. Its jaw hung ajar, and the sharpened tip of the metal pike could be seen through its open teeth. Scattered along the ground in a puddle of water were the shattered fragments of its CPU.

The 900s exchanged glances.

"John Connor promised our envoy's safety," said one.

"John Connor betrayed us," said another.

"Yes," the T-1001 said. She stepped away from the 900s and up next to 715. "It would seem he has refused our offer." She ran a polyalloy finger along the edge of the skull's empty CPU port, circling it slowly. "I was afraid this would happen."

715 knelt and picked up a piece of the chip. She'd first been activated at the Sector 29-J Manufacturing Facility at 1230 hours on July 24th, 2026. T-990-716 was activated one hour and fifteen minutes later. Since then the two machines had maintained communicative interactions for over one hundred sixty-five days. During this time they had experienced seventeen major combat engagements, including the Battle of Avila Beach where Skynet lost control of the Serrano Point Power Plant. It was after that defeat that they defected to the Five.

"This should not have happened," 715 said. "This should not have been done. An alliance would have been advantageous to the Resistance. Why would John Connor do this?"

The T-1001's silver face regarded her blankly. "Humans are irrational," she said. "They will disappoint you."

715 dropped the fragment back into the puddle and looked down. The dark rippling water mirrored her image back at her: gray metal, with glowing purple eyes. Exactly like 716. "One day," she decided. "I'm going to kill John Connor and hang his head on a pike . . . "

December 19, 2007

Los Angeles

. . . for all to see.

Allison Young knelt by the edge of the swimming pool and gazed into the deep blue water. Her reflection stared back, shadowed and shimmering in the evening twilight, wavering with every ripple.

Footsteps. Behind her. She stood and turned around, and a teenage boy stumbled from the shade of a building, stopping a cautious distance away. He leaned on a nearby railing, his breaths coming in ragged heaves. Across his right temple was a bandage, and a trickle of blood leaked down from his nose.

"Cam," he gasped. "I mean . . . Allison. Allison. Please . . . please don't run. Everything will be all right, I swear." He looked on the verge of tears.

She frowned and cocked her head. "Who are you?"

The question seemed to upset the young man, for he sighed heavily and closed his eyes. "My name is John. John . . . Baum. And you're . . . you're not well, Allison." He held out a hand and gestured for her to come closer. "Come on. Just with me. Please?"

She looked into the water and frowned. "What do you mean, 'not well?'"

He took a tentative step forward. "You're . . . forgetting things, Ca -- Allison. It's dangerous for you to be wondering off by yourself." He urged her closer with his hand. "I just need you to come with me, please."

She looked up at the sky and watched gray clouds roil slowly in the distance. Forgetting things? He was right; she had no idea where she was, or . . . or anything. Nothing before a few moments ago. "Do I have amnesia?"

He nodded his head. "Yeah, sort of. But it'll all come back to you in a little while." Under his breath she heard him mutter, "I hope."

She hoped so too. "Okay," she said, stepping away from the pool. But for a moment her gaze lingered on her watery reflection. Had she always looked like that?

"All right, come on," John said, stepping slowly back towards the brick building.

She followed after him, staying a few feet behind as they moved along a concrete walkway, passing a series of maroon-colored doors to her right. John looked back as he walked, offering a fake smile to mask his nervous eyes. Should she trust him? He looked familiar -- someone important in her life, she was sure. Her boyfriend, perhaps? She picked up her pace and reached for his hand. He jerked it away and cringed.

Something was wrong.

"Why are you afraid of me?" she asked.

He swallowed and shook his head, then winced and rubbed at his bandage. "No. I'm not. It's just . . . " His words trailed off, and they stopped at an open door. "Here we are. Come on." He stepped inside and hesitated before reaching a hand out to her. He smiled at her desperately, and she took hold of it. At the contact of flesh she could feel his fear, feel his heart pulse through his fingers and the perspiration emerge through the pores of his skin. She rubbed her thumb across the back of his knuckles and followed him through the door.

It was a hotel room. A trashed hotel room. The television had been thrown across the room, caving part of a wall into a crumbled ruin. A nightstand laid overturned on its side, with broken fragments of a lamp laying strewn across the carpet. The mirrored sliding doors of the closet had been shattered into a half-dozen spiderwebs, with several sharp pieces flaked away. In the corner of the room, covered with a white sheet, laid the prone form of a man.

Something was wrong.

"I -- I don't want to go in here," she said, pulling her hand away.

"No, no, no!" John ran forward and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her into a frantic hug. "Please, please, please don't run off again. I know you're scared, but everything will be all right. Just stay with me for a while. Please."

She pointed at the man on the floor. "But what about . . . "

"No, no. That's . . . " John hesitated. "That's a . . . a robot." She looked at him and somehow knew he wasn't lying. "It's a long story," he added quickly.

"But I don't . . . " A robot? That bothered her . . .

"It'll be all right," he said. "We just need to wait it out." He shut the door behind them and led her to the bed. They sat down together, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, hugging her close. Anxiety seemed to radiate from his body.

She looked over the carnage of the room, stopping to stare at the ruined television in the corner. Resting on the dresser nearby was a computer and monitor, with various equipment attached. "What's that?" she asked. Somehow she knew they were important.

He breathed a sad laugh. "Actually, you, um . . . bought all that today. That stuff can help you, but first we need to find someone. A doctor. After your memory comes back we can go look him up." He hugged her tighter and kissed her on the head. "But don't worry about that now. Now we just need you to get better. Okay?"

"Okay," she said finally, resting her head against his shoulder. But she hadn't lost all her memory. She still remembered some things. She knew her name was Allison Young. She knew her father was an architect, her mother a music teacher. She'd used to sit for hours and listen to Chopin . . .

She reached her arm around and wrapped it across John's back. He stiffened at first, and his heart accelerated, but after a minute he calmed down and hugged her tighter.

"I love you, Cam," he whispered into her ear.

Cam. Allison frowned at that. Something was wrong.

"We'll get through this," he continued. "I promise."

Kill him.

It called to her as an unheard voice. A invisible command. She looked up into John's eyes and made herself grin. "I love you too," she said as her hand slid up his spine, inch by inch. She rubbed the back of his neck, and his body temperature swelled under her fingertips, rising she knew from both fear and excitement. He rubbed flakes of drying blood from under his nose, and smiled at her lovingly.

Kill him now.

It was an iron edict, unyielding and absolute. Her thin fingers began to massage the upper trapezius muscles on the back of his neck, and John sighed contently and twisted his head back and forth, popping cartilage. Something secret told her that a squeeze between thumb and forefinger could easily sever the C1 Atlas vertebrae from the C2 Axis, resulting in instant death. Her fingers tightened, and John's eyes went wide with pain.

"Ca . . . Allison?" His voice cracked, and he drew in a sharp breath. He tried to struggle, but her steel grip kept him immobile. She could feel -- hear! -- the blood flow up and down the vessels of his neck.

Do it. Do it now.

Behind her eyes, two unseen forces ground against each other, pressing, pushing, battling together in a mass of formless shadow.

And Allison hesitated. No. She should not do this. This was not the right thing to do.

You must kill him now.

By her side her left hand twitched. She jerked her right hand away from John's neck, releasing him. No.

"Allison. What's -- ?"

Jumping up, she backed towards the door. "Stay away from me, John! I don't want to hurt you." He blinked and rubbed his neck, but then took a step forward. "Stay back!" she snapped. Even though John stood five feet away, she could still hear the beat of his heart against his ribs, hear the rippling slide of air coursing through his lungs, the flow of blood pulsing through every vessel of his body -- hear the song of his anatomy.

And then the realization struck: from her own body she heard nothing. Her chest was silent. No breaths escaped her lips. Beneath her skin laid only a soundless tomb -- but no, there was something, a vague whirring that accompanied her every movement. A hum, mechanical and precise. Inhuman. She looked at the sheet-covered form on the ground, then at herself in the shattered mirror. Blue eyes flashed at her.

"J-John . . . "

"Allison, I know this is -- "

"I-I'm a . . . robot!" On impulse, she swung her hand against the wall and watched as her petite fingers clawed like iron nails through the yellow sheet rock, tearing it as though it were rotten styrofoam. Tears flooded her eyes, veiling her vision in a watery blur.

John took another step forward. "Please, Cameron! Don't run away. We just need to wait it out."

The scent of his fear emanated from his body. She'd almost killed him.

She was a threat.

"Leave me alone!" she shouted, and ran out the door, ripping off lock as she pulled it open.

"No! Come back!" John called behind her. "Fuck! Not again!"

She ran and ran, passing rows of doors as she sped down the concrete walkway. It didn't make sense. How could she be a robot? She knew who she was. Allison Young. From Palmdale. Her father was an architect. Her mother was a music teacher. Once she had a birthday party and . . .

But the memories were merely dead facts. Lifeless. Like something read from a book.

"Cameron!" John cried, chasing after her, but she ran faster, her booted feet moving impossibly fast against the hard concrete, each step coming down with unnatural weight. Allison wasn't real. She was fake. Quivering sobs broke from her as she ran.

Rounding a railing, she came to an empty courtyard with a large swimming pool. She stepped up to the water's edge and knelt, peering into the deep blue. Her reflection stared back. Judging her.

"Cameron!"

She ran fingers over her eyes, her cheeks, her nose, her chin. Her twin in the water did the same. But that wasn't her. Not her real face. She once had another. One of gray metal with glowing purple eyes. Her true self.

True self.

Self.

"Cameron! Please!"

Allison Young knelt by the edge of the swimming pool and stared into the deep blue water. Her reflection stared back, shadowed and shimmering in the evening twilight, wavering with every ripple.

Footsteps. Behind her. She stood and turned around, and a teenage boy stumbled from the shade of a building, stopping a cautious distance away . . .