Pescadero means "Fisher." That was what Sarah thought when she saw the sign, when she got taken out, when she was locked with idiot care in a bumbling outdoorsman's icebox of a hospital. Jesus Christ told his disciples they would be fishers of men and maybe someday John Connor will do the same, rally the minnows of humanity and redeem mankind but it doesn't seem likely, not likely, no, today is August twenty-nine, nineteen ninety, and every day goes tick tick tick and the walls are still walls. Can't be swum over.
If you're not crazy when they put you in here, it'd be a failure of service on their part not to make sure you're crazy by the time you finally get out.
Sarah nestles with guns and snaps at her son; she hopes that gestation is all the nurturing he ever needed. She bore this life and will defend it with her own; his conception was as tangled in calculation as that of Skynet but if she contemplates the paradoxes she won't have it in her to fight. Every successful blow against the enemy might mean the day John never could have been born at all.
On her wanted poster, she is called a terrorist. There was nothing Sarah ever worked harder for than to inspire terror in those who thought it wasn't needed, and all she ever got called then was schizophrenic. The world skitters on, on, till it's August twenty-nine, nineteen ninety seven, and she walks the same paved riverbed down which her son once raced for his life. Three billion fish-souls drowning on the cement might wash up at any moment, but the skies stay clear and no archangelic horns blow; the L.A. River, though deadly dry, somehow still runs on.