Free Terminator Salvation: The Official Movie Novelization by Alan Dean Foster Page B

broadcasts on motley assortments of cobbled-together radios and amateur receivers. No dearly lamented sports play-by-play, no important political speech, no jocular social commentary or international reportage was ever listened to with the rapt attention that the still-living paid to those sporadic transmissions. Knobs were turned, wires pressed together, components coddled, speakers constantly cleaned as the often intermittent, sometimes scratchy, but always mesmerizing voice of John Connor resounded through crumbling buildings, desert canyons, dense forests, and shattered lives.
    “If you can’t outrun them,” declared the by now familiar voice as it spoke from its unidentified location, “you have one or two options.”
    Somewhere in Utah, a group of bedraggled citizens huddled closer around a campfire, listening intently.
    “The T-600s are large and pack a lot of firepower, but they’re a primitive design.” Connor’s voice hissed from the remnants of a radio.
    ***
    In a cave in New Mexico, the senior male present stretched skyward a hand holding a makeshift antennae, fighting for every iota of improvement in the sound his family’s scavenged equipment was receiving.
    “The small of the back and the shoulder joints are vulnerable to light weapons fire. As a last resort, ventilation requirements leave the motor cortex partially exposed at the back of the neck. A knife to this area will slow them down. But not for long.”
    Sitting in front of the broadcast unit in the outpost, Connor halted. Many times he had delivered the irregular evening address. Many times he had fought to find the right things to say. He was not a comfortable speaker, not a natural orator. He did not intuitively know how to reassure people, how to comfort them, how to offer hope. Practice alone had made him better at it.
    Practice, and necessity. Still, there were times when he just came to a dead end; out of words, out of thoughts, out of encouragement.
    It was at such times that a comforting hand on his shoulder was of more help than volumes of instruction on public speaking. Seeing Kate smiling down at him enabled him to resume transmitting.
    “Each and every one of you....” he continued.
    Huddled around a fire near the ruins of the observatory, two determined children and one very mystified adult found themselves captivated by the broadcast.
    “...above all, stay alive ,” the voice on the radio emphasized. “You have no idea how important you are—how important you will become, each and every one of you.”
    ***
    Connor paused to look up at his wife. A more personal note had begun to creep into his voice and he deliberately forced it down.
    “Humans have a strength that cannot be measured by mechanical means, by the machines that struggle to understand us. Join us. Get to a safe area to avoid detection. Look for our symbol. Make yourself known. We will find you,” he murmured into the pickup. Swallowing and regaining full control of his emotions, he rushed to conclude the broadcast.
    “I promise—we will win. But you, me, everyone, we all need to keep fighting. My name is John Connor. If you’re listening to this, you are the Resistance.”
    Static returned, but this time the listeners did not mind. The broadcast had proved that there was more out there than devastation. More than silent, inhuman, hunting mechanisms. There were people. People who were fighting back, instead of living like the rodents and roaches they had so long disparaged. There was—hope.
    Reese turned to meet Wright’s contemplative gaze.
    “John Connor.” His expression and voice overflowing with unrestrained admiration, he peered over at the radio. Star was watching him intently. “I don’t know how—but we gotta find this guy.”
    Off to the side the technician was checking to make sure the evening’s transmission was not being traced. Connor slumped back in the chair, rubbing at his eyes.
    “Was it good?”
    Kate Connor squeezed his shoulder