Kate fired the plasma rifle. The bolt splashed against the T-X’s chest, staggering her but not stopping the magnet. The pull intensified. John grabbed a steel support beam, his knuckles white, his body horizontal in the air like a flag in a hurricane.

The battlefield was a scrapyard in Bakersfield. John Connor, his face streaked with oil and exhaustion, ducked behind the shredded husk of a semi-truck. Across the lot, the T-X—the sleek, chrome-plated Terminatrix—rose from the rubble. Her endoskeleton was partially exposed, revealing the complex hydraulics beneath her living tissue.

“It’s over, John,” she said, her voice a perfect, cold mimicry of human calm. “You cannot run from a force of nature.”

With the last of his strength, he let go of the beam. The T-X’s magnet yanked him forward at thirty miles an hour—directly toward her. As he flew through the air, he pressed the activation switch on the grenade and held it against his chest.

He slammed into the T-X, wrapping his legs around her waist. Her eyes flickered with surprise.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, greasy object: a prototype —an EMP bomb the size of a baseball.