Ficlet: Dancers (TSCC, John and Cameron, G)
Dancers. G, vague spoilers for the Terminator series but nothing specific. This must be my way of saying I'm home. Vacation was amazing ! But I spent the last two days watching nothing but TSCC and so here are John and Cameron. In the future. Somewhere. This is me, rambling.
Harper sometimes thinks that people send the best tapes down here, because Connor is here, and they must think they're doing him some kind of honor by sending uncracked copies of The Incredible Shrinking Woman and When Harry Met Sally wrapped up in dirty laundry for safekeeping.
Once or twice a month they power down the lights; not all of them, the sparse tunnel bulbs and the lamps in the med bay stay on, glowing faintly against the rot of the dark. But the overhead strings in the canteen and the dorms go out, and never mind them- not a soul misses it, these precious evenings, two or three hours at most, when the generators get hooked up to an old Toshiba television set with a VCR set into the base. There are only a dozen tapes, more if you count the ones that show up in sorted luggage and the ones they trade through shipping containers passed back and forth between camps. Harper sometimes thinks that people send the best tapes down here, because Connor is here, and they must think they're doing him some kind of honor by sending uncracked copies of The Incredible Shrinking Woman and When Harry Met Sally wrapped up in dirty laundry for safekeeping.
Connor watches with them, sometimes, from a folding chair at the edges of the crowd; he once said that way, if he has to get up, if he's called away for a message or a report, he won't ruin the fun. Down in front, he called it, though Harper had no idea what he meant. Movie theaters haven't existed for twenty-seven years, and Harper is twenty-two.
The kids sit on the floor, cradled in their parents' laps or propped up on their elbows, staring into the blue light of the tiny, tinny-sounding set. Everybody stares. The favorite this month is My Fair Lady, a strange old movie with period costumes and elaborate hats, and music. Tonight is the second time they've watched it and nobody's complained. It's the music that people love the most, the beautiful old melodies in three-part-harmony. Days and weeks after the lights have come back on and the set's been carefully packed away, they'll be singing those funny old songs as they do the laundry, stir the soup, strip the guns and clean them and braid their children's hair. Harper likes the sound. There's something sad about it, unbearably sad and beautiful like the sky is when nobody's around. It aches and trembles and suddenly his throat is dry from it.
Harper gets up, excusing himself to the people around him whose view he's blocking, and stumbles out into the tunnel, coughing shallowly around the knot in his throat. There's a water station around the turn, in the canteen. He'll have to fumble around in the dark, not like it's the first time.
But there's a light.
There's a battery-powered lamp about ten feet in from the doorway, sitting on the floor. It casts a net of light about knee-high, in which a handful of shadows are moving. It takes Harper a second to realize that they are actually ankles, the ankles of two people as they walk across the floor- slowly, oddly, and now backwards, and then forward and back again. It takes Harper another second to recognize that they are dancing. Harper doesn't know how. He can still hear the music from down the hall, faintly, and he imagines they can, too; the brass band has started up again and a woman's voice is leading it, clear and high and strong. Harper holds his breath.
"You should be counting," says a woman's voice. It is unmodulated, no trace of laughter, no flirtation in the shaping of the words. But it is soft. "It assists rhythmic movement. One two three, one two three."
"I can count," comes the reply. A man's voice, not young, with an edge of amusement. "I just can't dance."
"Dancing is counting."
"Tell that to Isadora Duncan."
"Isadora Duncan," the first voice repeats. "Born Angela Isadora Duncan in San Francisco, California in 1877. Died in 1927. An automobile accident involving a very long scarf." There is a pause, in which the man might chuckle. There is the sound of feet softly scraping the ground. "I would find it difficult to tell her anything."
"How can you remember all that and count at the same time ?"
"I can do a lot of things at once," she says.
Harper knows them now, in the iridescent softness of the plastic lantern. The man is Connor, a profile he'd know anywhere. His was the first face he saw after his father died, a hand heavy and solid on his shoulder, bright bird's eyes in a sad, serious oval. He'd leaned down- you alright, son ? Harper hadn't been. And Connor had spared a second for him, John Connor with a gun in his hand, a radio squalling on his hip, blood congealing on the line of his scalp, seven men behind him with their eyes down and their weapons still hot to the touch; Connor pausing in the tunnel, still bleeding, asking if Harper needed anything, dropping his old man's tags into his hand and patting his shoulder. Then moving along. Almost ten years ago, now. A little more weathered, eyes a little more gray. For some reason the knot in Harper's throat tightens again, rolling like a marble through his lungs. He watches Connor step to the music, slightly off-beat, his hand loosely clasping hers. The robot.
She looks the same as she did the day they joined. Harper remembers her, her cool palm pressed against his forehead. He'd been so afraid. No fever. No abnormalities in breathing or heartbeat. Her judgement had passed him and his father into the ranks, cleared them through quarantine when the flu had arrived with their party. Nobody seems to like her very much, except for Connor.
He can barely see them, though his eyes adjusted minutes ago. But their shapes are there, moving slowly and evenly. In the other room, a new song starts up. "You're slowing down," says Cameron, to Connor. There is something strange in her voice. If she was human, Harper would know what it was- worry. Maybe fear. But she isn't, and it's not. Quite. "This is a more rapid tempo. Increase your pace."
"No, Cameron." He sighs. "No, I think I'll sit this one out." He breathes shallowly; in the dark stillness of the room, against the tinny sound of distant music, Harper hears the strain and hates himself a little for it. For noticing. They stop in the middle of the floor, the dancers, but don't pull apart.
"Dancing is good for the heart," says Cameron, awkwardly, into the silence. "And the lungs."
Harper sometimes thinks that people send the best tapes down here, because Connor is here, and they must think they're doing him some kind of honor by sending uncracked copies of The Incredible Shrinking Woman and When Harry Met Sally wrapped up in dirty laundry for safekeeping.
Once or twice a month they power down the lights; not all of them, the sparse tunnel bulbs and the lamps in the med bay stay on, glowing faintly against the rot of the dark. But the overhead strings in the canteen and the dorms go out, and never mind them- not a soul misses it, these precious evenings, two or three hours at most, when the generators get hooked up to an old Toshiba television set with a VCR set into the base. There are only a dozen tapes, more if you count the ones that show up in sorted luggage and the ones they trade through shipping containers passed back and forth between camps. Harper sometimes thinks that people send the best tapes down here, because Connor is here, and they must think they're doing him some kind of honor by sending uncracked copies of The Incredible Shrinking Woman and When Harry Met Sally wrapped up in dirty laundry for safekeeping.
Connor watches with them, sometimes, from a folding chair at the edges of the crowd; he once said that way, if he has to get up, if he's called away for a message or a report, he won't ruin the fun. Down in front, he called it, though Harper had no idea what he meant. Movie theaters haven't existed for twenty-seven years, and Harper is twenty-two.
The kids sit on the floor, cradled in their parents' laps or propped up on their elbows, staring into the blue light of the tiny, tinny-sounding set. Everybody stares. The favorite this month is My Fair Lady, a strange old movie with period costumes and elaborate hats, and music. Tonight is the second time they've watched it and nobody's complained. It's the music that people love the most, the beautiful old melodies in three-part-harmony. Days and weeks after the lights have come back on and the set's been carefully packed away, they'll be singing those funny old songs as they do the laundry, stir the soup, strip the guns and clean them and braid their children's hair. Harper likes the sound. There's something sad about it, unbearably sad and beautiful like the sky is when nobody's around. It aches and trembles and suddenly his throat is dry from it.
Harper gets up, excusing himself to the people around him whose view he's blocking, and stumbles out into the tunnel, coughing shallowly around the knot in his throat. There's a water station around the turn, in the canteen. He'll have to fumble around in the dark, not like it's the first time.
But there's a light.
There's a battery-powered lamp about ten feet in from the doorway, sitting on the floor. It casts a net of light about knee-high, in which a handful of shadows are moving. It takes Harper a second to realize that they are actually ankles, the ankles of two people as they walk across the floor- slowly, oddly, and now backwards, and then forward and back again. It takes Harper another second to recognize that they are dancing. Harper doesn't know how. He can still hear the music from down the hall, faintly, and he imagines they can, too; the brass band has started up again and a woman's voice is leading it, clear and high and strong. Harper holds his breath.
"You should be counting," says a woman's voice. It is unmodulated, no trace of laughter, no flirtation in the shaping of the words. But it is soft. "It assists rhythmic movement. One two three, one two three."
"I can count," comes the reply. A man's voice, not young, with an edge of amusement. "I just can't dance."
"Dancing is counting."
"Tell that to Isadora Duncan."
"Isadora Duncan," the first voice repeats. "Born Angela Isadora Duncan in San Francisco, California in 1877. Died in 1927. An automobile accident involving a very long scarf." There is a pause, in which the man might chuckle. There is the sound of feet softly scraping the ground. "I would find it difficult to tell her anything."
"How can you remember all that and count at the same time ?"
"I can do a lot of things at once," she says.
Harper knows them now, in the iridescent softness of the plastic lantern. The man is Connor, a profile he'd know anywhere. His was the first face he saw after his father died, a hand heavy and solid on his shoulder, bright bird's eyes in a sad, serious oval. He'd leaned down- you alright, son ? Harper hadn't been. And Connor had spared a second for him, John Connor with a gun in his hand, a radio squalling on his hip, blood congealing on the line of his scalp, seven men behind him with their eyes down and their weapons still hot to the touch; Connor pausing in the tunnel, still bleeding, asking if Harper needed anything, dropping his old man's tags into his hand and patting his shoulder. Then moving along. Almost ten years ago, now. A little more weathered, eyes a little more gray. For some reason the knot in Harper's throat tightens again, rolling like a marble through his lungs. He watches Connor step to the music, slightly off-beat, his hand loosely clasping hers. The robot.
She looks the same as she did the day they joined. Harper remembers her, her cool palm pressed against his forehead. He'd been so afraid. No fever. No abnormalities in breathing or heartbeat. Her judgement had passed him and his father into the ranks, cleared them through quarantine when the flu had arrived with their party. Nobody seems to like her very much, except for Connor.
He can barely see them, though his eyes adjusted minutes ago. But their shapes are there, moving slowly and evenly. In the other room, a new song starts up. "You're slowing down," says Cameron, to Connor. There is something strange in her voice. If she was human, Harper would know what it was- worry. Maybe fear. But she isn't, and it's not. Quite. "This is a more rapid tempo. Increase your pace."
"No, Cameron." He sighs. "No, I think I'll sit this one out." He breathes shallowly; in the dark stillness of the room, against the tinny sound of distant music, Harper hears the strain and hates himself a little for it. For noticing. They stop in the middle of the floor, the dancers, but don't pull apart.
"Dancing is good for the heart," says Cameron, awkwardly, into the silence. "And the lungs."