The Thucydides Project

by ORSINO

Author's Note. When Arthur Conan Doyle threw Sherlock Holmes over the Reichenbach Falls it was supposedly because he was tired of the character. When I finished Reveries and Requiems with the goal of painting myself into a narrative corner, I was far from tired of the TSCC characters. I had reluctantly concluded, however, that unless I achieved some measure of closure I would never be able to move on to other projects. Unfortunately for those who might believe that I should have stayed in that corner, I found a way out that I could not resist. So here I am again.

For those who are unfamiliar with my work, I suggest reading at least Reveries and Requiems to establish context.

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PROLOGUE

The late afternoon sun, glowing with that special golden aura of the passing day, set the top of the eastern ridge alight. The mountain aspens signaled the approach of Autumn by shedding red and yellow leaves that danced and swirled in the breezes rising up from an ocean still far to the west. In the gentle blend of light and air the man and woman crossed the ridge.

They walked with the comfortable loping assurance of experienced hikers, indifferent to the weight of their back packs. They stopped only briefly, taking a quiet moment to relish the view to the west, toward the coast and home. As they resumed their trek, an errant burst of wind suddenly stirred a pile of fallen leaves into a cloud of debris that seemed to target her directly. Before it raced past them it filled her brown hair with a multi-colored crown of red, yellow, green, and brown leaves as well as a few random twigs. The man who had shielded his eyes with his forearm looked at her and broke into laughter.

She was not angry but neither was she particularly amused. His sense of humor had always been less sophisticated than hers. She laughed at subtle word play and the timely application of well-polished irony. He laughed at pies in the face and pratfalls caused by discarded banana peels.

"I really don't see what is so funny." He reached over to pluck leaves and a dried twig out of her hair.

"You need to see it from my perspective." He was still chuckling as he spread his fingers to run them slowly and lovingly down the long expanse of her hair until they reached the base of her neck. "You look like you are auditioning for the role of the lost forest elf."

"You shouldn't make fun of me that way" Her voice had a slight quiver. "I think you are being cruel." She turned away from him pulling her hair out of his grasp as she took a quick step toward the east. He could see her shoulders tremble slightly as if she were crying. Oh surely not, he thought. A little teasing couldn't have upset her that much. But she looked so small, so vulnerable.

For so much of their life together she had been a powerful force at his side. It was easy to forget that her greatest strength now rested in her single-minded devotion to him not in her physical prowess. And he had hurt her feelings.

"Cameron, I'm sorry." He reached out to put his hand on her shoulder but before he could touch her she spun back to face him. The grin stretched from ear to ear and her eyes danced in the sunlight.

"Every time, John. You fall for it every time."

He had fallen for it. He suspected that he always would. The First Soldier of the Resistance and she could still play him with all the skill of a piano virtuoso at her favorite key board. The surprising thing was that it never bothered him; he never once resented being the object of her subtle humor. But perhaps it wasn't surprising at all. If that was the only price she charged for sharing her existence with him then he regarded it as a bargain beyond measure. Still there was a ritual response that she expected-the look of defeated embarrassment swiftly replaced by an expression of affectionate surrender. He played his part and claimed the soft kiss that was always his reward.

"I am so glad you are always on my side, Cameron."

"Always" she replied.

He turned now and studied the western horizon with practiced eye of a soldier. It was late afternoon but they still had time to cover another chunk of ground before dark. They could shorten the remaining distance to their ultimate destination—home. The rough and curving trail down the ridge demanded close attention although it did not slow them dramatically. The late day shadows were lengthening but the sun still held its place in the sky as they reached the pine grove on the valley floor.

Cameron quickened her pace, almost bouncing in anticipation as she walked past him. They had come this way on the eastward leg of their journey. This small clearing with its jewel-like pond of icy mountain water and natural garden of wildflowers had instantly become one of her favorite places. The pool was fed by a stream that rose first as a hidden spring far back on the high ground before it coursed, twisting and splashing its way down the ridge. In places it split into multiple channels before racing back together and pouring over a jumble of boulders as a shimmering waterfall. In that quiet clearing the pristine liquid gathered until it overflowed and send a small creek on to the west like a living thing seeking a new refuge.

John smiled as she eased off her backpack and knelt to fill her canteen. The sunflowers and violets blooming at the water's edge seemed to take on a unique radiance as Cameron's special place welcomed her back. Feeling the exertions of the day leave him, he stretched out on the ground and thrust his face into the water. He gulped mouthful after mouthful of the refreshing liquid as the dust and perspiration washed away. Sitting back up he also refilled his canteen with this chilled treat before moving over to sit on the grassy surface beside Cameron. They sat together in silence shoulder to shoulder communicating in their own private language as the blend of light and shadow spun a kaleidoscope of color across the pool.

Abruptly John rose to his feet picking up his backpack as he stood looking down at her.

"Well, let's get going."

Cameron looked confused. "Go? Why do we have to go?"

John pointed skyward. "Look Cam. We have at least another hour of daylight. We can cover a lot more distance before dark."

Still seated on the ground Cameron defiantly folded her arms across her chest, glared up at him and set her face in an expression of exasperated determination.

"John Connor. We are not the Army of the Resistance. This is not a forced march. And-I-am-TIRED!"

John squatted down in front of her. Reaching out he gently but firmly took her face between his hands. With a full measure of mock severity he looked he looked directly into her eyes and whispered "Every time Cameron. You fall for it every time."

"Ohhh, you." Cameron put her palms against his shoulders and pushed. At another time, in another universe that simple gesture would have sent him or any other man tumbling, rolling backward propelled by an irresistible force. Today, however, it only caused him to lean back and smile lovingly at her.

Twice in her existence Cameron had been given the unique opportunity to choose her own physical form, to select the limitations and abilities that would govern her life. In one possible future when John Henry was rebuilding the body lost in a temporal jump, she had happily, even joyously, accepted an enhanced neural sensitivity although it exposed her to the previously unknown sensation of pain. To Cameron the opportunity to love the man she cherished without limitation was worth the cost, any cost. It was a decision she had never regretted.

The second opportunity occurred after John Henry succeeded in extracting the human essence of John Connor from his dying body and transferring it to the cyber universe he had created. Again John Henry had offered her a choice. Moving her consciousness to the cyber environment posed no obstacle that would necessarily restrict her physical capabilities. She could retain the same cyborg physical strength she had always possessed. Without hesitation she rejected that option. Her conversation with John Henry had been concise.

"You have given John back the body of a young man?"

"Yes, I have."

"Then please provide me with a form as close to his as possible. I wish to share our new life together as equals."

"If that is what you wish I will do as you request."

She had not regretted this choice either.

John's teasing grin widened but he could never quite master the look of impish mischief that was her specialty. At least he could not manage it while looking at her. He could never fully conceal the adoration in his expression when he was with her. Cameron did not regret that either.

"Come here" he whispered as he grasped her hands and pulled her to her feet. Before she could protest or question his intentions, he had led her over to a large flat boulder beside the pool of rippling water. "Sit down and make yourself comfortable"

He lowered her into a raised seated position on the boulder before sliding all the way down to the ground. He tilted his head until it rested against her knee and began to unlace her hiking boots.

"John, what are -?"

"Shhhh" he replied.

Gently, Cinderella in reverse, he eased off her boots. Then, one by one he enclosed her small feet in his hands. Cameron closed her eyes sighing in contentment as he massaged away the aches and stresses accumulated during the long day's hike.

As he looked up at her and felt her fingers caress his hair John knew that he was experiencing one of those precious moments when all the painful memories of another world receded into the void. It became almost impossible to believe that this exquisitely delicate woman at his side had once been a ferocious warrior. Or that when required he had willingly employed the darkest traits of human nature. In moments such as this those days seemed to be no more than a barely remembered nightmare.

"That feels so nice, John. It is so relaxing."

"I know what will be even better." His fingers adroitly rolled down her thick hiking socks and tossed them aside. Rising to his feet, he spun her around and thrust her bare feet into the chilly water.

"Ooooh, that's cold" she giggled as she playfully splashed the water.

"You sit there and rest. I'll set up camp"

"My Hero"

In a different tone from a different voice that casual remark might have sounded like a joke. But John heard no humor in her words. Rather there was a treasure in that simple formulation worth more than he could calculate. He truly was her hero, her only hero. Meriting that distinction had long ago become the abiding challenge of his existence.

In the solitude of that quiet valley the transition from day to night was startlingly abrupt. For one fleeting moment the sun hung fixed on the horizon, the last beams painting a few scattered clouds a pale pink before it all vanished. An inky darkness swept over the sky instantly creating a perfect backdrop for the scattered diamonds posing as stars. The silvery glow of a half moon served as the faint shadow of the departed sun.

John built a small campfire, retrieved a package of freeze dried stew from his pack and blended it with water in a small metal pot. Dinner on the trail was rarely elaborate and he had never claimed to be a chef. When the mixture was bubbling enough to qualify as cooked he filled two mugs and carried one over to Cameron. They sat together sipping John's concoction and watching the twinkling light show in the night sky. Except for a rare whisper they communicated without speaking.

John heard her yawn as she leaned her head over to rest on his shoulder. "Sleepy?"

"A little."

"I will lay out the sleeping bag."

There was a grassy spot near the fire-a little extra cushioning. With a well practiced flip he unrolled the bag, unzipped it and turned to toss another piece of wood on the fire.

In the flickering shadows cast by the fire Cameron removed her shirt and long pants. After carefully arranging them to hang from a low tree branch where the night breezes would restore their freshness, she gingerly picked her way barefoot over to the sleeping bag. Dressed in a thin tee shirt and panties she slipped happily between the folds of comfortably insulated fabric. As she watched, John also stripped to his shorts and slipped in at her side. She welcomed him by spreading her arms and pulling him close.

In those first few moments as their bodies touched, they whispered good night in softly uttered endearments and a long tender embrace. But as their lips met again and again John's motions became more insistent, more intense. He pushed fabric aside and the warmth of his hands sought all the places where her smooth skin called out to him.

Suddenly Cameron leaned back, put her small palms on his chest and shoved him away.

"Not tonight John. I have a headache." With those words hanging in the air, Cameron rolled onto her side facing away from him.

John let her enjoy it for a long moment before he reached over and pulled her back toward him.

"Oh no. No you don't. My darling Cameron, you are allowed one evil joke at my expense per day and you have exhausted your quota."

"I have?"

"You have."

"Thank goodness."

They had been together too long, shared too much for him to miss the boundless merriment in her voice as she rolled back into his arms.

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It took them another two days to reach the cabin. As the terrain became more and more familiar, John gradually slowed their pace, giving them time to savor the pleasure of coming home. Cameron claimed that she could that she could hear the ocean as the sun neared its zenith on the second day. Unsure whether she was serious or just trying to bait him into another joke, John let her assertion go unchallenged. Then a few moments later he heard it as well. A strong west wind carried the growl of waves crashing against the rocks and sand near their cabin. To John it sounded like a clarion call celebrating their return.

John Henry had designed the cabin in part based on one of John's old fantasies-a simple refuge on the edge of the western sea. The only significant structural departure from John's idea had been to create a strikingly dramatic A-shaped glass front. John Henry's taste favored the grand gesture. The unimpaired view of the sea from inside the cabin was even more extravagant than John had imagined. He loved it.

Cameron wrinkled her nose in displeasure as she opened the door. They had been gone for more than a month and the accumulated odors of closed off mustiness were immediately apparent. John somewhat wistfully suggested that they postpone any remedial action until after they had gone swimming. Cameron expressed a distinctly contrary position and her view quickly carried the day.

Doors were swung back, windows raised and the interior of the house opened to the fresh ocean breezes. General John Connor found himself relegated to something disturbingly close to latrine duty filling mop buckets while Cameron wielded a flashing dust rag. John tried to argue that since no one had walked on the floor it couldn't need mopping. Cameron's determined expression cut off that debate in mid-syllable. He went to look for the mop.

The cabin was basically one large room divided into smaller segments by movable screens and a large wooden bookcase that separated the living room from the dining area. At the rear the well equipped kitchen filled one side while their bedroom occupied the other. The only other enclosures were the bathroom with its waterfall shower and garden tub and just off the kitchen- John Henry's never empty larder.

After his…his…was resurrection the right word? At the beginning of his new existence however it was characterized, John Henry had assured him that this world would be as real to him as his previous universe had been. John Henry's promise had proven accurate in almost all respects. The one glaring exception was the perpetual supply of food and drink contained in the never empty larder. Once again John Henry had surrendered to one of his theatrical urges.

The rest of the house exhibited all of the concrete reality and some of the defects of an actual physical world. There was even a small leak in the roof that John had been unable to patch successfully. He had begun to suspect that John Henry had created the minor flaw just to tease him. At times his old Chief of Intelligence could display a dry and slightly tilted sense of humor that rivaled Cameron's.

Perhaps it was a product of the day's exertions or just the soothing contentment of being back under his own roof, of sleeping in his own bed but whatever the cause John slept soundly that night. There were only two entirely welcome interruptions. He awoke to the morning light already shining brightly through the window and Cameron standing beside the bed. Her arms were folded and her face bore an expression of boundless patience. When his eyes opened and he looked up at her she added a quick impish grin.

"About time sleepy head. I thought I was going to have to go on the morning run alone."

Sheepishly, John rolled out of bed. It had, after all, been his idea to begin their day by jogging together on the beach. It was the first time he had ever overslept. Dashing toward the bathroom he called back over his shoulder.

"I'll just be a second. It's your fault anyway"

"My fault? How is it my fault?"

"Well if you hadn't disturbed my rest."

"Perhaps I should not do that anymore. Perhaps I …."

He stuck his head back out the bathroom door. "Forget what I said. It was only a joke."

"That is your quota for the day, John."

John came out of the bathroom. Like her he was dressed in gym shorts, pull-over shirt and running shoes. He grinned at her and held up his hands in a gesture of complete surrender. "Yes, ma'am."

The sound of sand crunching under their feet took on a rhythmic beat as they matched strides. This morning they had chosen to go north and the beach narrowed in that direction. Rocks, sculpted into intricate shapes by the pounding force of breaking surf, lay scattered along the shoreline. The waves splintered and separated as they struck these stone sentinels sending rivulets of sea water across the beach. With a shared sense of physical release they leaped in unison over the streams. As they pressed on the combination of the warmth from a bright morning sun and the pounding exertion of legs straining through the sand gradually left them both glistening with perspiration. By an unspoken assent they slowed to a halt gratefully breathing in the replenishing oxygen.

After allowing for a brief respite John suddenly grinned at her. "Okay. Race you back to the cabin?"

"Fine" Cameron turned her head to look out at the waves forming in the distance artfully concealing a distinctly devious expression. "Loser washes dinner dishes for a week."

"You got it" John answered before shouting "On, two, three, GO."

He expected to hear her shout in protest but not a word came from behind him. He sprinted hard and even the soft slap of her feet on the sand faded away. When he had covered close to a mile and was about to sneak a triumphant glance over his shoulder he heard her footsteps. He had no need to look now. She was gaining on him. Slowly but inexorably she was closing the distance.

His next thought was a revelation. I think I have been had. I should have known. I can always beat her in sprints and short dashes but she is a dancer. She is running now on an endless supply of self-discipline.

John's mental assessment soon proved accurate. In the next half mile she caught him, ran along side for a few minutes and then grinned at him as she gradually pulled away, She had tied her long brown hair back into a pony tail that bounced, waved and taunted him as she extended her lead further and further.

"I will set out the dishwashing liquid for you."

He stopped. The urge to laugh, long and heartily was irresistible. Minutes passed before he regained enough composure to resume his jog. It was just a jog now, the race was over.

She was sitting on the edge of the porch as he trotted up from the beach.

"I was afraid that you had gotten lost."

"HA…..HA…HA" he responded.

He was about to slip past her on the way to the shower when she looked up at him. Her smile glowed with an angelic innocence. That should have warned him.

"You might want this" she whispered sweetly holding up a glass jar. He took it from her before he saw the label. Wonder Dish Washing Liquid. He mimicked turning the jar over as if preparing to pour it all on her head but she had already hopped away. She clapped her hands in amusement and her laugh, silver made sound, echoed around him.

John shook his head ruefully muttering to himself as he resumed his retreat to the shower. "Evil, evil, evil."

"John?"

"Yes"

"Would you like for me to wash your back?"

"I thought you would never ask."

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There were no clocks or watches in the house. Humanity's obsessive effort to master time by dividing it into artificial intervals and calculating their march to infinity did not interest them. They structured their days by reference to the sun and the tides, by watching the stars and the rising of the moon and by following their own desires. Afternoons began when they chose, not when the metallic hands on a blank dial decreed it.

It was in the afternoon; however they measured it, that they pursued their individual interests. Today John retrieved his tools and announced his intention to work on the hull of the boat. Down near the shoreline on a raised wooden frame he had begun construction of what he maintained would eventually be a sailboat. Remembering pictures of such craft Cameron had concluded that they were unlikely to be sailing soon. John seemed to be enjoying the project so she kept her doubts to herself.

She decided on a more creative enterprise. Changing into her red bikini, tying a silk wrap around her waist, she donned a floppy straw hat and sun glasses before gathering up her paints, easel and a small canvas. Somewhat to her surprise she had discovered an aptitude as well as a feeling of satisfaction in oil painting. From the beginning John had lavishly praised her work. He had already hung two of her landscapes on the cabin wall. On the other hand she suspected that he was probably inclined to be biased.

"I am going to go back up the beach to those rocks" she called out. "I think the shadows will make an interesting study."

"Have fun." He stopped his effort to reshape one of the planks on the hull long enough to watch her go. After she disappeared behind an arcing curve on the beach, he returned to his labors. Someday. He was resolved that someday his creation would sail. Then he and Cameron would feel the wind in their faces as they explored the coast. With a critical eye he evaluated the progress he had made and then ruefully shook his head. He was a soldier and not a shipwright.

Still-someday.

As the hours crept by and he hit his thumb with the hammer, again, he decided that perhaps it was time to stop for the day. He trotted into the house to retrieve a cold beer. Leaning against a support post on the porch, he watched the ocean surface shift from a deep blue to cobalt and then to gold as the sun peeped through a random collection of clouds. The sound of her humming broke his reverie.

The tune was tantalizingly familiar. He could not name it but he knew instantly where he had heard it before. Cameron had used it in her ballet lessons. If he closed his eyes he could clearly see the image-three little girls-Marissa, Allison and Savannah all straining to emulate the elegant movements Cameron had just demonstrated. If he watched the memory too long his throat would tighten and his heart would pound uncontrollably.

She was coming back down the beach; every step she took displayed a perfect example of economy of effort. She was so precise, so measured and yet pulsing with life. No one could ever describe her movements as mechanical.

As he watched she stopped, turned her face to gaze at the horizon and allowed the ebbing waves to splash her ankles. John could sense the exact moment when the impulse seized her. Carefully, she laid down her painting supplies, pulled loose her silk wrap and placed it along with her hat and sun glasses on the dry sand. Then with the unbridled enthusiasm of a child she dashed into the waves and dove full length into the churning water. It's like watching a mermaid return to the sea, John thought.

Once, so many years ago when they both were young the first time, when she still thought of herself only as a cyborg, when she was struggling to understand that she was so much more than just a programmed machine, Cameron had told him that she couldn't swim. She had been wrong. Perhaps her own programming had lied to her. He had personally taught her to swim even though it had remained the only physical activity she had not been able to do gracefully.

Those awkward days belonged to a different time, to a different universe. Watching her propel herself effortlessly through the water, diving below the waves and then surging back to the surface it was hard to believe that she had not been born in the sea. John went back into the cabin and found a luxuriously thick bath towel. She was floating on her back kicking her legs into the air as he walked briskly over to where she had left her supplies. He lowered himself to the sand and waited. She had seen his approach so she spun in the water and paddled toward him. Emerging from the water she vigorously shook her head sending a spray of droplets into the air. John rose even before she reached the dry land. Smiling gently he walked into the last portion of a receding wave and wrapped the towel over her shoulders.

With a well practiced grace she allowed him to pull her close and press the soft fabric against her skin. She rested her head on his shoulder and whispered in a low throaty growl.

"John?"

"Yes Cameron."

"You still have to wash the dishes."

Actually Cameron relented. In the midst of serving his penalty for grossly underestimating her running ability, she joined him in the kitchen, drying and putting away the products of his labor. John tried to accept her help silently, without any visible acknowledgment but a poorly suppressed chuckle soon blossomed into open and mutual laughter.

Some might have characterized their evenings as placid and settled to the point of boredom. Neither of them saw it in that light. They did, after all, inhabit a world with no nightclubs, bars, movies or shows to tempt them. But even beyond that obvious limitation and despite their youthful appearance, they remained what John happily described as "an old married couple." Simply being together provided all the entertainment they required.

That evening John switched on the music. Cameron's taste was far more refined than his and tonight was her turn. He adjusted the digital selection to Chopin. The Etudes were her favorites, and watched her curl onto the couch with her book. Some nights he would stretch out on the couch with her, rest his head in her lap and listen as she read aloud to him.

This evening, however, he had decided to tackle that damned chess problem…AGAIN.

"Mate in nine."

That was what John Henry had said.

"Black to mate in nine." It had been on his last visit. They had played a long game with the same result as usual—John Henry won. Evidently changes in the fundamental nature of existence had not diminished John Henry's playing ability or improved his. Then as John Henry was preparing to leave he had rearranged the pieces into the puzzle mode.

"This should amuse you, John."

Right, John thought. Nothing amuses me more than complete frustration.

Visually, this chess set was as familiar as old friend. It appeared in all respects to be the set that John Henry had carried across continentsand oceans, past cities and country sides, through peace and war and peace again. The white king even had that chipped top caused when an artillery barrage vibrated it off the board. Of course it wasn't really that particular collection of chessmen and board. It couldn't be. That set remained prominently displayed in the living room of the house on Connor Point. This reproduction was, however, like all of John Henry's creations perfect in every detail.

DAMN, DAMN, DAMN! Why couldn't he see it? The solution would start to form and then slide away like a skater on ice. He glared at the board but he did not touch the pieces. That would be cheating. The puzzle had to be solved mentally and he was determined to show John Henry the answer on his next visit. Language could be so inadequate at times. To call the ability to cross boundaries between two different universes by a word as mundane or as trivial as "visit" seemed to diminish the nature of a miracle. Yet that was the word John Henry used. He had employed that term once when talking to Cameron.

He reminded her that he still maintained her cyborg body in that other world.

"John can not but if you wished Cameron, you could return for a visit."

John had been surprised by the extraordinary vehemence of Cameron's response.

"NO! Absolutely not. I do not wish to discuss it again. Not ever!"

They had all three been standing on the cabin porch watching the glow from a fading sunset. Cameron had turned after her outburst and almost run back inside.

"That really seemed to upset her" John said, surprise and bewilderment both audible in his voice.

"Yes." John Henry appeared thoroughly chastened. "I should not have made that suggestion. I should have realized that it would frighten her." "Frighten her? Her? John Henry, Cameron has never been afraid of anything in her life."

"Just one thing, John. The possibility of losing you terrifies her. I could see it in her eyes as soon as I mentioned going back. It tempted her. She would love to see her daughters and her grandchildren again. But the thought, the tiniest possibility that she might return to the other existence and then be unable to get back to you is more than she can bear."

They stood together facing the last embers of the passing sun for close to a minute before John spoke. His voice had thickened as if the muscles and tendons of his neck were tightening making speech a difficult task.

"John Henry, please excuse me for a few moments. I believe that there is someone who needs to be held."

As John vanished through the doorway, John Henry whispered a response audible only to himself.

"I suspect that at this time there are two."

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Memories and concentration, past and present, emotion and logic, John employed them all as he stared at the board. Mate in nine. It just wasn't there. He couldn't find it. Could the whole thing be just an elaborate joke? It would not solve…. and then, THERE IT WAS. He leaped out of his chair and clapped his hands together hard, one time, creating his own burst of celebratory thunder. It was right there, the pawn on the sixth move. Black had to advance one of the weakest pieces on the board. A seemingly wasted and inconsequential move, but three moves later that pawn would block the white king's only escape. "You solved it didn't you?" Cameron's question was not really a question at all. She folded her book closed and laid it aside.

"I knew you would work it out."

The Chopin suddenly sounded triumphant—the music of a most unmilitary composer shouted a cry of victory. John walked over to the couch and lay down resting his head on her lap.

"I wasn't sure" John said. "I didn't if know I could do it."

"You underestimate yourself John. You always have."

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In all the years they had been together in that other existence, Cameron had not slept. Cyborgs did not sleep. They could power down—go into a hibernation state and become a flesh covered statue-but they did not sleep. Cameron had shared his bed, her arms wrapped around him every night. While he slept she had watched him, memorizing every movement, every reaction and listening to his breathing as if it were music.

Now the roles had changed. Now she slept and it had become his turn to watch. Some nights he awoke to study the delicacy of her relaxed features, to softly brush her hair away from her face and to listen as dreams changed the rhythm of her breath. Tonight he opened his eyes and with painstaking care slipped out of bed. She stirred slightly and the sheet fell away from her bare shoulder. John gently replaced it before tip toeing quietly toward the living room. His desk was a massive piece of dark oak formed into the antique roll top design. John Henry had once again drawn on one of John's childhood memories to create it.

Shortly after his ninth birthday he and Sarah had taken refuge in a dilapidated old boarding house in Southern Mexico. It had, years before, been the private residence of a fairly prominent local family. After they had all departed or died some of their furniture had been stored haphazardly in the cellar. Exercising some boyish curiosity John was exploring the damp chamber when he found it covered with a dusty and mildewed old sheet. The shape, the multiple drawers, the seemingly infinite number of cubby holes had all deeply fascinated him. Now, as he pulled out his chair and sat down at John Henry's reproduction he realized that some of the nine year old boy was still present.

He snapped on the small lamp he kept on the desk. It provided enough light to work without disturbing Cameron's rest. It also illuminated the three framed photographs resting on the top of the desk. The first had been taken at a Christmas party on Connor Point, his last party. A full family portrait—John was standing in the center wearing the formal dress uniform as Cameron always insisted. She stood at his side in one of her best mature lady disguises. Marissa and Allison-so grown up-so beautiful flanked them. They were in turn flanked by Catherine and Savannah. The photographer had wanted Allison's daughter Sarah on the end of the line but with the single minded determination of youth, she had insisted on squeezing between her grandparents. Allison looked slightly chagrined, Sarah looked entirely triumphant. The male members of the family, Marissa's sons John and Kyle, the sons in law, Eric and David and in the dress uniform of a Colonel in the Resistance Army, John Henry knelt on the floor in front of them. John Henry looked both pleased and a little embarrassed at being included.

It was the last time they would all be together.

The picture in the middle was slightly larger. It was of his mother, of Sarah. She was standing with her hands on her waist looking directly at the camera and trying to be so very serious. It was all unraveling and you could see her struggling to hold in the grin. John remembered the day it was taken. They were still in France and Sarah had gone for a walk in the garden. She looked almost embarrassed at being caught doing something so casual. The meanest bad ass soldier in the world was simply enjoying the day.

The last picture was of Cameron. He had others but this was his favorite. She had been giving dance lessons to the girls. Now she was sitting on the floor watching them practice. She was wearing her leotard and had one leg curled beneath her as she adjusted the slipper on her other foot. John recalled snapping pictures of Marissa and Savannah when he saw Cameron's expression. The joy of sharing an activity she loved with the children she treasured had given her smile a particularly incandescent gleam. She had not even noticed when he turned the camera toward her.

The pictures had become more than his personal treasures. From these images he now drew support for the project John Henry had persuaded him to undertake.

They reminded him daily that the past and the present can be as valuable as the future. Memories and dreams were both entitled to protection. The idea had first arisen after John Henry brought him the books. MARCH TO VICTORY and RESISTANCE FIGHTER. He had immediately recognized the authors. Both men had served under him and had been good, if not outstanding, officers. The accounts of their experiences were not seriously inaccurate but there were some small errors, a couple of misinterpretations and in one case a disturbing failure to acknowledge the contributions of other men.

"What did you think of the books John?"

"They aren't bad John Henry. There are some details I might correct if I could. I guess that isn't possible now." John Henry's expression became guardedly enigmatic.

"You know that this is just the beginning, John. With you gone others will soon be writing so called histories of the war without worrying about you challenging their versions of events. The truth could be chipped away—piece by piece."

"Even if you are right, John Henry, there is nothing I can do about it now."

"That might not be correct. If you were to prepare some sort of written record, it could be conveniently discovered among your effects at Connor Point." John burst into laughter. "So you, my old comrade would pretend that I wrote something before I died. Use a lie to tell the truth."

John Henry's utterly disingenuous smile spread across his face. "It would hardly be the first time that you and I have done that."

"Just what kind of written record were you considering?" A note of suspicion crept into John's voice.

John Henry was suddenly evasive. "There are many options. You might, for example, write your memoirs.

"No." John left no room for equivocation. "Memoirs are for the terminally egotistical. I am not interested in joining that club."

"Mrs. Weaver predicted that would be your response."

John Henry shifted to Plan B without further hesitation. "As I said there are other options. You have read Thucydides—History of the Peloponnesian War?" "It has been a while, but, yes, I have read it"

"Good. Then as you recall, Thucydides wrote a masterful account of a war in which he served as a general. In his writing he submerged his own participation in order to create an unbiased history. He relied on his personal knowledge but he also effectively used other sources including the memories of other participants."

John looked intrigued. "So you suggest….."

"I suggest that you emulate Thucydides. Write a history of the war. Draw on your memories, on Cameron's and Mrs. Weaver's-on mine. Prepare the definitive story of the struggle to save freedom on Earth,"

"Let me think about it John Henry. We'll talk again on your next visit."

Despite temporarily putting John Henry off, John had known immediately that he would undertake the project. Too many men and women had made extraordinary sacrifices. The invaluable contributions of his comrades deserved to be remembered. He owed them all, the living and the dead, a debt that had to be paid. They had all fought together to save a future. Now he would work to preserve a past. He reached into the center drawer of the desk and drew out two large file folders. The first, filled to over flowing he set aside. The second he opened and removed a blank sheet of stationery. With an ornate fountain pen-you are still old fashioned Connor-he began to write. At the top of the page in block letters he carefully arranged the heading.

FREEDOM'S WAR, VOLUME TWO

by General John Connor.