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Pivoting smartly, Connor headed for the exit. His mind was racing. As he closed the door behind him, Wright shouted after him, the sound echoing off the walls.

“You let me out of here, Connor.

“Connor...!”

The sound of the heavy metal barrier clanking shut behind his captor left Wright feeling more alone than he had at any time since the return of his memories. One of those recollections reminded him of—some-thing. Of another door closing, long, long ago.

No, he corrected himself. Not so very long ago. The door had shut on him just before he had awakened into this nightmare. He remembered things being done to him, though he could not recall what. Had they even been explained before they had begun?

None of that mattered except peripherally. It didn’t matter what Connor or anyone else said. He knew who he was. Marcus Wright, bad boy extraordinaire and anti-social foe of genteel society. A lot of good that had done him, he mused bitterly. A life of running and fighting, drinking and drugging and whoring. A life consisting of a series of mistakes and bad decisions, culminating in one that had seen him sentenced to death.

He frowned slightly. What was wrong with that picture? Well, for one thing, he ought to be dead. One way he knew that he was not deceased was because he hurt too much, too bad, and too persistently. Furthermore, he didn’t feel dead. Physically, he felt perfectly normal.

What was wrong with that picture?

He looked down at himself. At his torso, with its skin peeled back and the chest cavity gaping like a display case in the gadget department of a custom auto parts store. Surrounding his heart were enough blinking telltales and miniaturized parts and elegant wiring to fill a hundred tech magazines. Someone—or several some-ones—had done terrible wonderful things to his insides. The intricate modifications were as sophisticated as they were alien.

This isn’t me, his bewildered brain told him.

This is you, his indefatigable eyes told him.

He looked away; to the far wall, at the ceiling, down toward the bottom of the pit far beneath his feet—anywhere but at himself. He could not stand the sight of what he had become.

Could not stand it because he could not understand it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Since its establishment, the Resistance base had always been a hive of activity, and tonight it was alive with more activity than ever. Pilots were suiting up and going over flight plans, ground troops had begun to assemble preparatory to moving out, backup forces were making sure everything was in place to shift supplies and reinforcements wherever they might be required, medical teams went over details for handling the expected rush of wounded, and communications specialists checked and rechecked their gear.

Coordination on the battlefield would be crucial. This was to be the biggest Resistance-wide assault on Skynet anyone could remember. Everyone was eager to fulfill their assignment and do their part. They had been surviving through hit and run tactics for years now.

It was time to strike back.

As Williams and Kate accompanied Connor to the next checkpoint, the memories of his private, personal confrontation with the prisoner continued to trouble his thoughts. He glanced back at the pilot.

“Where did you find that thing?”

Williams moved up alongside him. “You diverted Mirhadi and me to provide cover for some civilians. He was one of them.”

“No,” he corrected her sharply. “He was with them. He isn’t one of them.”

“He sure acted like he was one of them,” she shot back.

A thin smile creased Connor’s face.

“Of course he did. Skynet’s whole exercise is useless if its creature isn’t accepted as human.”

She persisted. “If he’s a project designed to kill you, why would he let himself get blown up by a mine ten feet inside the base perimeter? What good would that do him? What good did that do him? You’ve got him all trussed up nice and harmless, in an old missile silo that’s secured against