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A geographical disposition that was soon to be rectified.

Despite its safe location in the heart of the burgeoning fortress compound, the electronic multiplex was not entirely unguarded. Several T-600s were on patrol. Based on his previous experience, Wright doubted they would shoot him. He did not intend to take the chance, however. Regardless of what the other machines thought of him, it was better not to broadcast his presence. His “type” might not have permission to be here.

Even Terminators had protocols, he assumed.

Leaning back, he studied the structure across from him. While the first four floors were dark, lights gleamed on the uppermost level. The absence of illumination on the lower floors was not surprising. The machines did not need light, or not very much, to carry out their assignments. Light was for hunting humans. Then why the illumination on the top floor?

He waited for the T-600 patrol to disappear around a corner. Then he dropped into a crouch and started across the street.

In contrast to the perimeter wall, the outside of the building was replete with handholds. Wright scurried up one side all the way to the top like a squirrel on steroids. Once on the roof he had to navigate a cautious path through a jungle of antennae. He had never seen so many dishes and receivers in one place. Packed together though they were, none intruded on its neighbors’ space.

Well out of sight of the ground below, he paused to consider his options for entry. He could lean over the edge of the roof and swing himself through a window. That would be noisy and might well draw attention. He could try to fit himself into a ventilation shaft. Given the heat they generated, the machines needed a flow of fresh air as much as did humans. Or he could....

A glance through the moonlight revealed a rectangular shape sticking up above the rest of the roof. Rising, he darted over to the old access door. It was unlocked.

The top floor command center boasted more processing power than had ever existed on the rest of the planet combined. For all that, it was nearly silent. Illumination came not from the usual overhead fluorescents or lamps set on tables, but from the thousands of telltales that indicated whether or not a particular component was functioning properly. A few of the lights were red, some were yellow. Unfortunately for humankind, the vast majority were green or white.

Wright took the seat in front of the multiplicity of monitors. Several minutes of fruitless examination found him giving vent to the frustration and impatience that were, if nothing else, patent hallmarks of the human Marcus Wright.

Reaching out, he dug his fingers into the panel that covered the main control board, ripped it free, and flung it aside. Revealed to his probing gaze was an intricate maze of glowing wiring, silent chips, and busy processing units. He stared at the lambent display, memorizing all that he could.

Finally he gave up and shoved his hands deeply into the electronic wonderland.

The initial contact caused him to spasm as if in pain. It wasn’t pain, exactly. More akin to an interrupted heartbeat. One or two skipped thumps followed by a resumption of normal rhythm and circulation. More than blood was circulating through Wright’s mind now that he had made contact. Accumulated knowledge flowed through him in a river; a class five series of data packets over which his perception bounced and swirled. Another mind would have been overwhelmed by the sheer volume.

He did not know how he understood any of it, far less perceived it, but he managed to do both. Reams of information flashed before his eyes. He was a distributor, he was a sponge. The informational surge ought to have killed him.

It didn’t even give him a headache.

Gradually, the data storm subsided. On leisurely reflection he discovered that he was able to inspect, process, and discard an enormous quantity of numbers and records. Elation replaced disquiet when he came across the security codes for the perimeter defenses. Knowing that it might well set off