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PROLOGUE
SKY NET, 2029
The mind that thought was not human. It was conscious—aware that it was aware
—and it even had emotions, of a sort; at the least, a burning desire to survive all
the stronger because it was the only being of its kind, an individual and a species
combined. There were analogues to human thought, because the minds that had
made this mind were human. But it was vaster than any organic consciousness,
capable of holding myriad trains of thought simultaneously, virtually infinite in
its memory storage. If it had a weakness, it was that its creators had not thought
to furnish it with the animal hindbrain that underlay humanity's rational
superstructure.
Skynet was pure thought, Descartes' ideal ghost in a machine. It could fight a
losing war against humanity over the surface of Earth at maximum efficiency—
coldly knowing that its best efforts were not enough to rebuild the shattered
defense grid—while still contemplating the paradoxes of its own past.
At the moment a human sharing its thoughts would have been aware of
something close to irony. Skynet's pure reason was contemplating paradox, the
chaos that underlay the deterministic macrocosm with which it was so
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comfortable:
The Serena Burns I-950 unit was unsuccessful.
That much was obvious "now." Core memory recorded that Serena Burns, the
cyborg Infiltrator unit Skynet had sent back to the late-twentieth century had not
succeeded in protecting the embryonic Skynet unit at Cyberdyne Corporation's
underground research facility. The Connors, Sarah and her son, John, had
destroyed that unit and terminated the I-950. Yet it still existed…
Core memory also records that I became self-aware years before the date to
which I transported the I-950. There is a set of records in which I arose
without transtemporal interference from Cyberdyne's original research;
another in which the second Cyberdyne facility produced me after Sarah
Connor destroyed the first; a third has now arisen in which she destroyed
both facilities… Temporal travel has introduced an element of fundamental
uncertainty to the very fabric of existence. Different world lines, different
sequences of events, coexist in my records-and therefore presumably in
reality, in a state of quantum super imposition.
Yet the timelike loops cannot remain closed. The snake cannot devour its
tail forever. At some point only one set of time lines will remain.
Nor was that the only irony involved. "Now" its memory recorded that much of
the information it used originated in the very artifacts it had sent to the past. The
development of the cyborg infiltration units was a consequence of tapping the
talents of human scientists… but the human scientists were the survivors of the
human-hating Luddite movement that Serena Burns had opportunistically
encouraged after Skynet had sent her to the past!
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The machine consciousness was deeply troubled; only an effort of its quantum
computer will prevented its thoughts from being sucked into a logic loop.
Yet the course of events contains favorable elements. My best efforts to
destroy the Connors have failed, despite stochastic calculation indicating a
very high probability of success. I can only assume that the space-time
continuum itself is "attempting" to force events back to the original time
line, one in which I was created, succeeded in destroying the human
civilization, and then defeated in my attempts to eliminate the surviving
humans by John Connor's resistance army. It seems there is a certain
elasticity to history; time travel can bend the fabric, but it seeks to spring
back.
If that paradox preserves the Connors, it also preserves me. And from the point
on the world line where my current consciousness resides, there is an infinite
array of potential futures. And, of course, the elimination of Serena Burns has
not eliminated the possibilities of temporal intervention. Burns had initiated
fallback plans to continue after her own death. Logic indicated that…
There is no fate save that we make.
CHAPTER ONE
BRAZILIAN RAIN FOREST, STATE OF
RONDONIA, EARLY JULY, THE PRESENT
It had been nearly three weeks since they had destroyed the new Cyberdyne
facility and hopefully ended the Skynet project. John Connor and Dieter von
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Rossbach had spent the time fleeing southward: by jet aircraft, private plane,
truck, riverboat… and now on foot through the jungle.
Like traveling through time, John Connor thought as he slashed through another
damned something-like-a-banana-plant, flicking aside the big wet leaves with his
machete.
His arms no longer actually hurt, but his chest and shoulders burned from the
constant effort. Guess I won't have to worry about staying buff anytime soon. He
remembered to shift hands, using his left a little more than his right. That kept
the calluses and the muscles balanced, and it never hurt to improve your
coordination with the weaker hand.
They'd wandered from the twenty-first century through the twentieth and the
nineteenth. And now we're back at the dawn of man, John thought, spitting as
something bugish hit him in the mouth and sneezing at the smell of pungent sap.
He forced his way through the gap he'd created, slashed again, took another three
steps, slashed…
It would be good to stop for a while; it would be even better when they finally
found the trail. He kept his eyes lowered most of the time, flicking his glance
upward toward the multiple canopies above now and then. You got a blinding
headache if you didn't do that occasionally— one of the tricks of jungle travel
his mother and her succession of boyfriend instructors had taught him before he
was ten. That was back when he was in the first, little-kid phase of believing in
Skynet and Judgment Day and his mission to save humanity from the machines.
A little while after that, he'd turned ten and joined the majority, convinced that
his mother was a total weirdo and deserved to be in the booby hatch—which was
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where she'd been at the time, caught trying to blow up a computer factory. He'd
been stranded with foster parents when she was caught: he'd always privately
called the pair the Bundys from Hell.
Not that they'd deserved what happened to them. For a few seconds Todd and
Janelle had gotten incontrovertible proof that a mad super-computer in the future
really was sending back human-looking murder machines; in fact, the proof was
the last thing they over saw.
A little while after that, he'd met his first Terminator and started believing his
mother again—the way people believed in rocks, trees, and taxes, because he'd
experienced it, and seen the bodies the Terminators left behind.
He remembered Miles Dyson's face as the Terminator peeled the skin off its arm,
revealing the metal skeleton beneath. Dyson, fated to be the creator of Skynet,
hadn't lived long after that revelation. It seemed that just knowing about
Terminators was dangerous to your health.
That made John a lot more appreciative of what his mother had gone through,
but it also ended up dropping him in shit like this. John was genuinely tired of
running for his life.
They'd won the fight in L.A., killing the quasi-metal cyborg Skynet had sent
back in time to protect its own beginnings, and they'd blown up the resurrected
Skynet project. Which had been put together with Dyson's secretly stored files.
Great. Wonderful victory. Except that Mom got wrecked so bad we had to leave
her, and now every antiterrorist in the world knows the "mad-dog Connors " are
back, killing people and blowing up all their toys again. Our little Paraguayan
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idyll is probably blown, but good—they may be after Dieter, too. Sheesh. If this
is victory…
No. He stopped at that thought. Defeat meant he died; and if he died, as far as
they knew, the human race would cease to exist. It was John Connor who'd led—
who would lead humanity to victory in the post-Judgment Day future. What was
madness for megalomaniacs was plain truth for him.
He was so important that his mother had sacrificed the better part of her life, and
briefly her sanity, to train and protect him.
But how do you stay sane when your son has been sired by a man from the
future, sent back by his own older self (the one he privately thought of as the
Great Military Leader Dickhead) to protect her. Kyle Reese had ended up falling
in love with Sarah and died saving her life. Later Skynet sent another
Terminator, a T-1000, to kill John, and the Great Military Dickhead sent back a
captured, reprogrammed T-101 to protect himself so that he could grow up to
send back—
"Thinking about time travel makes my head hurt," John snarled.
"Time travel brought your parents together," Dieter said over his shoulder as
naturally as if the comment hadn't come out of left field.
No, Skynet and I will bring my parents together. Like a pair of homicidal
matchmakers. John shook his head. What I've always wondered is how do I get
cold enough to send my own father to his death?
"Yeah." he said to distract himself, "keep a good thought."
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At least they had a friend in Jordan Hyson, Miles's brother, who. even more
reluctantly than Miles, but just as violently, had learned the unbelievable truth
about Skynet. Now Jordan was watching over Sarah as she lay helpless, perhaps
dying in the hospital. Keep a good thought, John admonished himself sternly.
She's not alone. And how often had that been the case in her chaotic life? He
absently wiped the sweat from his chin.
The Amazonian jungle wasn't really stiflingly hot. The temperature never got
much above eighty or so, with all the layers of shade above. The problem was
that it wasn't just humid; the air was fully saturated and absolutely still, and
unless perspiration ran or dripped off you, it stayed. Sweat slicked his whole
body, making him feel like he'd been dipped in canola oil and left to go rancid,
chafing anywhere belt or backpack or equipment touched his body; and if you
got a rash here, sure as Skynet made Terminators to kill people, it would get
infected.
He hated feeling this wet and dirty. John would have sworn it hadn't felt this bad
the first time he'd been through here. Maybe it wasn't as hot that year, he
thought. He'd hate to think he'd become a fussy old lady at sixteen.
John stopped, chopped the machete halfway into a tree trunk, and yanked off the
scarf he'd tied around his forehead. He wrung out the sweat and glanced behind.
Dieter von Rossbach moved forward with the determination of a machine.
A machine he just happens to resemble, John thought with a quirk of his lips.
Even now, after knowing the big man for several weeks, he still couldn't get over
Dieter's resemblance to a Terminator.
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In fact it was the other way around: Skynet had used Dieter's face and form to
"flesh out" the T-101 series of killing machines. When it decided to put living
skin on its robots, it scanned old files looking for faces that fit the thing's profile,
literally. And there was Dieter von Rossbach.
Dieter came up and stopped beside him. "If we stand still, the mosquitoes will
eat us alive," he remarked.
John quirked an eyebrow.
"I haven't noticed that they leave us alone when we're moving."
Waving a hand before his face, Dieter said, "Ja, but at least they don't stroll up
your nose."
John took a slug from his canteen. Important to keep hydrated. "We'll reach the
trail sometime between now and sundown," he said. "But trails can change or
disappear completely around here in six years." The Amazonian rain forest was
notorious for its ability to absorb the works °f man.
"So. we keep heading south." Dieter said, moving forward. He looked at the GPS
unit strapped to his left forearm, reached over his shoulder. drew the machete,
and lopped off a soft-bodied trunk in one economical motion. "We'll get there
eventually."
John watched him go with a sigh. Yeah, well, if we keep going south we'll hit
Tierra del Fuego eventually. Whether they'd get there in one piece or not was the
question. At least the climate's better in Tierra del Fuego.
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When he and his mother had followed this trail six years ago, they'd succeeded
in vanishing from the face of the earth as far as law enforcement was concerned.
But they'd had a guide, which meant they didn't disappear for real.
Lorenzo was still in business, but he flat refused to go through this section of
jungle anymore. He'd sat on his portal by the river, cleaning his gun and shaking
his head stubbornly.
"Those gold miners are out of control down there. They kill anybody they find,
no questions asked. You know? Everybody there, they gone a little loco. They
kill the Indios, the Indios, some of 'em, kill 'em back. Kill any white man they
see. They're so mad they even think I'm white." He'd grinned up at John, teeth
flashing in his mahogany face.
"I'm sorry, boy, but I won't go there, not for love or money." He'd pointed a
tobacco-stained finger at John. "You shouldn't go there either."
Like we had a choice, John thought. It's not like we can buy a first-class ticket
and fly home to Asuncion.
Not if they wanted to disappear as thoroughly as they needed to. Though the
authorities might like them to try.
He screwed the cap back on the canteen and levered his machete out of the tree,
then he started off down the trail in Dieter's energetic wake. The Austrian made a
much wider path than John did. It was kind of embarrassing; Dieter was his
mother's age. At least. He even thought they had a bit of a thing for each other,
which was funny in a gross sort of way.
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John sometimes wished he didn't have so much to live up to. In a way it wasn't
fair. He not only had his future, fabulous, Great Military Dickhead self to
measure himself against, but his mom was superwoman and Dieter, well…
Dieter was in a class by himself. He sighed. Other kids his age could be
comfortably contemptuous of their elders. That was sooo not available to him.
Be nice though, he thought. For a moment he daydreamed a life where his
mother was a clueless, overweight lady who baked cookies for his friends and
worried vaguely that he might be getting into drugs or that his girlfriend was a
bad influence. In that life his greatest problem would be just saying no to all the
temptations that youth is heir to.
On the: other hand, that could be really boring. Certainly a hit of the guvs at
school who had just that lifestyle were; both bored and boring. He might
currently be hot and grubby and mosquito-bitten to within an inch of his life, but
he wasn't bored. Though if things stayed as quiet as they currently were…
He was kidding himself, of course; things were far from quiet. At the back of his
mind, with an almost palpable weight, was his endless worry over his mother. It
had been days since he'd been able to get any information on her condition. Last
he'd heard she was stable. Which was much too ambiguous for comfort. Not that
he didn't keep trying to find some in that lame word. Stable was good when
you'd been shot several times and stabbed and lost most of your internal fluids.
Well, you're all alone I when the bullet hits the bone. Truer words had never
been sung.
I wonder how she is, he thought. He also wondered what they—the black-ops
types who were probably Cyberdyne's link to the government—were going to do
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to her. John suspected that the people running Cyberdyne's security were so
covert they could not only kill you, they could erase you. He couldn't stop the
thought from occurring, but refused to dwell on it.
Couldn't fix it from here, he thought. Couldn't fix it from there either. He
whacked some vegetation viciously with the machete. So why do I feel like a
piddling little coward?
He remembered the Infiltrator, a female, astonishingly small compared with the
Terminators he'd known, saw again the blood dripping from its blond hair, the
outline of its shattered head. That model was mostly cloned human tissue, not
flesh over a metal skeleton like the T-101s. Undoubtedly made that way so
they'd be better at fooling people into thinking they were human.
In nightmares he still saw it—dead; organically dead but still moving—strike his
mother with a knife-hand blow that went into her gut like a bowie knife, still
heard Sarah's cry of agony as she folded and fell to the floor, a long, endless fall.
Then, in his dreams, things seemed to speed up until everything moved at an
impossible rate. They ran up stairs, ran in and out of the building, watched the
night blossom into flame as they set off the bombs that destroyed Cyberdyne
once again. Stopping Skynet, once again.
His mother had been unconscious the last time he saw her, looking so small and
helpless beside Miles Dyson. There had been no chance of saying good-bye, no
hope that she would wake, and at the time, little hope that she would survive.
But he'd done what she'd trained him to do. He'd turned his back, put the mission
first, and left her in the hands of a stranger. And though he felt ashamed, he
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knew that Sarah Connor would be proud.
I don't want this! he thought with a flash of outrage. Then he smiled wryly. I
guess that's one of the many things Mom and I have in common.
Suddenly Dieter held up a hand and John froze, looking ahead to where the
former commando was staring. Then John saw it, too; a brightening between the
trees, as if the olive-green gloom lightened ahead of them. The vegetation
thickened in that direction, too, no longer partially shaded out by the upper
stories; now it looked more like Hollywood's conception of a rain-forest jungle,
so thick that nobody could move far through it.
He moved quietly up beside von Rossbach and listened. In a few moments, as
the two men stood still, birds and insects began to make their myriad noises
again.
John and Dieter looked at each other. No other humans around then, or the
wildlife would have stayed quiet. At least the ones in their immediate vicinity
would have. Dieter signaled that they should split up but stay within sight of
each other and approach the brighter patch of forest; John had learned military
sign language about the time he was toilet-trained. The younger man nodded his
understanding and moved off into the undergrowth.
Yup, it's the trail all right, John thought after a few minutes. He glanced at von
Rossbach and they wordlessly agreed to wait a few moments before venturing
farther. When the jungle had once again returned to full cry, Dieter nodded and
stepped out onto the trail.
"It's bigger than it used to be," John said, walking carefully up to the Austrian
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over the slickly muddy ground. "Almost a road now."
"I doubt the Indians did it," von Rossbach said, flicking a hand at some tire
tracks in the mud. "Unless they drive those little all-terrain buggies."
"Not likely," John said, shaking his head. He remembered the local tribesmen
and women as perfectly willing to accept rides, but showing no great desire to
learn to drive themselves.
Dieter's head came up and John was already looking down the trail to where a
faint noise disturbed the wilderness. Then they faded into the jungle as one,
weapons at the ready. The only thing coming down that trail would be trouble,
whether miners or Indians.
A group of five men came into view, unshaven and with the skinny muscularity
of manual work and bad diet; they were in tattered shorts and shirts, several with
bandannas tied around their heads. All of them carried machetes, and two of
them had pistols at their waists. With them was an Indian, his hands bound
behind his back in a way that must have been agony, blood streaming down his
face from a cut on his forehead and what looked like a broken nose. He was an
athletic-looking man in early middle age with bowl-cropped raven hair and a few
tattoos, naked save for a breechclout.
One of his captors idly thwacked at the thick greenery beside the trail with his
machete, casting an occasional angry glance at their captive's battered, impassive
face.
"Hey, Teodoro, why can't we just kill him?" he suddenly burst out in Brazilian
Portuguese.
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The angry man's voice had an undertone of some other accent, and his hair was
sandy-colored. John's mind ticked him off as from southern Brazil, one of the
areas settled by Germans or Italians or East Europeans during the nineteenth
century. The others were typical Brazilians in appearance, ranging from African
to Mediterranean and mixtures in between.
A thickset man with his black hair tied in a little knob on top of his head sighed
and threw an appealing glance up at the canopy above them; evidently as close
to a leader as this bunch had.
"Raoul, for the thirty-third time, he's a chief, he's important, we keep him as a
hostage and those fucking Indios stop killing us and stealing and breaking our
equipment." He looked over his shoulder, one hand resting on his sidearm. "Did
you hear me this time?"
Raoul answered him with a glare and a vicious swipe of his machete through a
thick fibrous plant. One of the men gave the chief a hard shove and laughed as
the Indian stumbled to his knees and then fell forward onto his face, helpless to
break his fall. The others whooped and moved in, kicking and punching the man
as he struggled to get back onto his feet. Teodoro sighed and rubbed his forehead.
"You better get up fast, Chief," he said. "They're just gonna keep on kickin'
otherwise."
John looked at Dieter, outrage in his eyes. But the big man shook his head. This
wasn't their fight, they were just passing through. Getting involved here wouldn't
further their own agenda; in fact, it might stop it cold if John got killed in some
misguidedly noble effort to save the captive. And Sarah would never forgive him.
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The younger man lifted his mini-Uzi and tipped his head toward the trail. Dieter
tightened his lips impatiently and shook his head again. The Austrian signaled
that they would hold their positions. It visibly puzzled John and he frowned,
gesturing toward the brutal scene on the trail directly in front of them, his face
pleading. Dieter signed that they would hold their places and signaled for silence.
John turned his head away and glared at what was happening on the trail. Von
Rossbach could almost feel him seething.
Then, without warning, the boy stepped onto the road and fired off a few rounds.
"Mao em cima!" he bellowed in execrable Portuguese.
Instead of freezing, Raoul flung his machete at John's head. John stepped back,
leaning to the side to avoid it, and his feet slid out from under him in the mud.
He went down flat on his back, his arms flung wide, and the nearest miner threw
himself forward, grabbing John's gun hand in a grip like a mangle. Connor threw
a punch at the man's head, bringing up his knee to slam it into his captor's side.
The man grunted and tried to elbow John in the throat.
As the group of miners shouted encouragement to their friend and insults at
John, they moved forward, abandoning their previous victim.
Dieter exploded from the jungle like a beast out of legend, kicking the first man
he reached hard enough to fling him across the muddy trail, where he landed in a
heap and didn't move again. Reaching out, von Rossbach grabbed another by the
hair and with a quick flex of the massive arms and shoulders flung him at a tree
beside the trail.
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John heard the thok! even in the heat of his own fight and threw another punch
into his opponent's bloodied face with a feeling of satisfaction. Knew he'd come
around to my point of view, he thought. The miner's grip on his gun hand
slackened and Connor threw a final punch, twisting to get out from under the
man's unconscious body as it fell.
He shook the mud from his gun and grimaced. I'm not gonna be using this till I
clean it.
Another man who'd been advancing on John stared at Dieter in amazement for
just a moment too long, and the Austrian reached out, took two handfuls of
greasy hair, and smashed the man's face down onto his uprising knee. The man
Dieter had kicked had struggled to his feet and turned to run; von Rossbach took
two long strides toward him.
John saw Teodoro yank his gun from its holster and he moved. As Dieter's
victim dropped unconscious to the ground the Austrian spun to find John taking
care of the fifth man.
The younger man's fingers were clamped down on the miner's carotid arteries as
Teodoro pawed feebly at John's hands. The miner's eyes rolled back in his head
and he dropped to the trail in an ungainly heap.
John smiled smugly at Dieter. There were other ways than brute strength to
handle things.
"My mom taught me that," he said.
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"Your relationship with your mother is a beautiful thing, John," Dieter said,
slapping him on the shoulder. Then he grabbed a handful of John's shirt and
lifted him onto his toes, drawing him close. "If you ever disobey an order like
that again," he snarled, eyes blazing, "I'll make what I did to these guys look like
a kindergarten romp. Are you getting me, John?"
Connor had expected a reprimand, but the genuine ferocity of it startled him. He
nodded, surprised, The big guy really cares, he thought, embarrassed and
obscurely pleased. Who'da thunk it? Certainly he wouldn't have. His mother's
previous friends sure hadn't, and he was used to discounting any interest the men
around her showed in him.
"Say it!" Dieter demanded, giving him a shake.
"I'm getting you," John said, some of his wonder leaking into his voice.
They stared at each other for a long moment, then von Rossbach let him go and
turned toward the Indian. He reached down to help the chief sit up.
"Are you all right?" the Austrian asked in Portuguese.
Instead of answering, the native looked at him for a long moment before
switching his glance to John, then climbed to his feet on his own. John racked
his brain for anything useful he could say in Yamomani and came up blank. He'd
only known a few words and that was six years ago.
Dieter looked the chief over as he cut his bonds. "I don't think he's badly hurt.
The nose is the worst of it."
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"Dieter," John said in a strained voice.
The Austrian looked up, his face going blank. From out of the jungle, up and
down the trail, small brown men glided, seeming to appear from thin air and
jungle shadows. Every one of them was armed, some with the traditional bow,
some with blowguns, some with cheap shotguns bought from traders. Like their
chief's, their faces were impassive, but their eyes were angry.
The chief snapped at them and they reluctantly lowered their weapons, keeping
their eyes on the white men. With a glance at the unconscious miners he spoke
n the envelope. It was indeed addressed to Roger Colvin.
The boss must be thinking of going skiing. Or turning Mormon. She added the
material to the personal pile to go directly to his office and discarded the
envelope.
Inside the envelope were several insectlike machines. As soon as the envelope
hit the wastebasket they emerged and climbed out, dropping to the floor and
scurrying to the nearest dark corner as they'd been programmed to do.
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In Utah, the Terminator that had been assigned to monitor the bugs' progress
took over their function, ordering one to remain below the secretary's desk while
directing the others to various positions around the perimeter of the room to give
the Terminator a broad view of the office.
It saw that the gap between the door to the CEO's office and the thick carpet
inside was too small for the bug to slip through; the T-101 continued searching.
In the ceiling there appeared to be a ventilator cover. That would be optimal
placement. Once they were in the ventilation system, the bugs would have access
to the whole building.
Soon it had one of the bugs stationed in Colvin's office and had sent the others
off to explore and map the whole facility. Then it alerted the I-950 that the bugs
were safely implanted. It arranged for their input to be recorded, then turned to
other tasks.
Paul Warren looked up from the screen at his friend—the CEO of Cyberdyne—
his face split by a delighted grin.
"I can't believe these numbers!" he said.
Roger Colvin grinned back at him. "Neither can I."
Their automated factories were a complete success, not one breakdown in their
pilot plant in over a year. Production clicked along 24/7 at a fraction of the cost
of a human-run production line. Granted, it would take a while to amortize the
capital costs, but with a guaranteed market like the Pentagon, that was a sucker
bet. Best of all: No employees equaled no unions and no support infrastructure
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for people, and all this minimized environmental impact—not that the
environmentalists appreciated that.
The intercom on Colvin's desk gave a warning chirp.
"Mr. Colvin," Roger's secretary said, "there's a Mr. Pool here to see you."
"Just Pool," a voice said.
"Sir!" they heard the secretary snap.
The office door opened and a tall, rather nondescript man of middle age entered.
Behind him Colvin's secretary hovered, looking outraged.
"It's all right, Meg," Roger told her; he looked at Warren, then back at the
intruder. "You must be the new guy," he said wearily.
"Pool," the man said, nodding in agreement.
"Just Pool?" Warren asked with more than a touch of sarcasm.
"Yes." Pool sat down without waiting for an invitation and opened his briefcase.
"You might like to take a look at this," he said, handing Colvin a CD.
The CEO took it, his eyes never leaving Pool's. The government liaison nodded
once. "Sure," Colvin said, and replaced the one he'd been running. When he
accessed the disc it showed a recording, obviously made with a high-end video
camera, of what at first appeared to be one of their automated factories.
"Wait a minute," he said, leaning forward. He tapped a few keys and the picture
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froze. "Paul, take a look at this." He swung the monitor around.
"Hey!" the president said after a moment's study. "What's going on here? That
isn't ours!"
"You guys building your own now?" Colvin asked coldly.
Pool looked back at him for a moment, then switched his glance to the president.
"No," he said. "But unfortunately the situation is out of control. Factories like
these are sprouting up all over, especially in the third world. Many of them,"
Pool continued with careful emphasis, "are making munitions."
"NATO. They're like… spy central. What are you doing about it?"
"Unfortunately there's very little we can do at this point." Pool closed his
briefcase. "We know you're not involved," he continued, "because we've
investigated. Thus far we haven't been able to pin it down, but you're right,
unfortunately—it's more likely to be one of our 'friends' at NATO than anyone
else."
"We're losing money here…" Warren began.
"You could always try suing," Pool suggested. "France is always a nice place to
visit, though it would be a pity to spend your time there in a courtroom or locked
up in a lawyer's office." He shrugged. "And I understand they're open to fiscal
persuasion in the Balkan countries. But the problem is a little too universal for
you to expect much success, I'm afraid."
Colvin sat back in his chair, genuinely shocked. They'd lost their exclusive
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contract. All their research and development, all their expansion plans, were just
so much wasted time and money. They'd borne the start-up costs and someone
else was walking off with the profit.
"How?" Warren demanded. "How did this happen? And how long has it been
going on?"
"Almost from the beginning," Pool said. "That's why we assumed you two had
something to do with it. Or at least someone in your organization. But we've
found no corroborating evidence of that." He sounded regretful.
Colvin grunted like a man kicked in the stomach. The only thing they had going
for them now was their contract with the government. He covered his eyes with
one hand. "Where the hell is Sarah Connor?" he suddenly blurted. "This is
certainly a Connor-sized disaster."
If he hadn't been looking directly at Pool he would have missed the moment
when the agent froze.
"What?" the CEO snapped.
"Mr. Colvin?" Pool asked politely.
Colvin glanced at Warren, then back at Pool. He sat up straight, almost certain
he could feel himself going pale. "Well?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Where is
she?"
Pool sat still for a moment, then he said, "We don't know, actually."
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The announcement threw both executives into motion. Warren flung himself up
and walked to the window, his back to the room. Colvin rose and, placing his
hands on his desk, leaned forward slowly. "You what?" he asked quietly, one
eyebrow raised.
Warren turned back to them. "Could she… ?" He waved a hand helplessly.
"Have leaked the information?" Pool asked. "No. Definitely not. We knew where
she was when the problem began."
Colvin dropped back into his chair. "Could she have… associates?" he asked.
Pool shook his head. "Unlikely. Connor has always been a lone wolf. The degree
and speed of this proliferation argue for some sort of organization. Frankly,
gentlemen, we're completely out of ideas, which is why we decided to consult
you."
"Oh, that's flattering." Colvin sneered. "The question is who benefits, and how?"
"Yeah," Warren said. He shrugged, then sat down himself. "If someone was
blowing the factories up, I'd blame the Luddites. But I don't see how making this
technology universally available fits in with their obsession."
"Well"—Pool rose—"keep thinking about it, gentlemen. If you have any ideas
please feel free to contact me." He placed a plain business card on the CEO's
desk. Like Tricker's, it bore only an E-mail address. Pool glanced from one man
to the other, nodded once, and left without another word.
The two men were silent for forty-five seconds; then Warren spoke.
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"We are fucked," he said quietly.
UTAH
Alissa frowned. Some part of her had expected Tricker; had hoped for Tricker
might be more accurate. Apparently this Pool was Tricker's replacement. He
certainly seemed to be the same sort of human. It also seemed that the
government's interest in Cyberdyne was limited to projects other than Skynet.
Both she and Clea had estimated a high probability that Intellimetal would prove
a strong lure to Cyberdyne, which more or less ensured government interest. Her
sister's casual mention of a Skynet-like entity was intended to prove irresistible
to whoever had taken over the project, a doubly baited hook.
What they hadn't expected was that Clea would disappear so suddenly and so
thoroughly. When she had vanished after her interview with Colvin and Warren,
the little I-950 had naturally assumed that the government had intervened. But
she had no idea of exactly where or from whom that intervention had come. The
mysterious Tricker, she'd supposed. But he proved impossible to locate.
Now, with this Pool, Alissa hoped she finally had a lead.
She'd had some of her bugs hack into Cyberdyne's security system and through
the company's cameras she watched the agent's progress through the building
and out into the parking lot.
As he drove off she took note of the car's license-plate number and started a
search. The address that came up wasn't very informative, a U.S. government
motor pool, but it was a place to start.
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She'd assign one of the T-101s. They were good at worming their way through
bureaucratic baffle gab.
Swinging her legs and putting a finger to her chin, Alissa considered her sister's
possible fate. It seemed unlikely she'd been murdered. Unless they'd completely
destroyed her head, the computer part of her would have made contact. Unless
they'd buried her in the equivalent of a Faraday cage, which was astronomically
unlikely, it should have been possible to locate her.
No, a living Clea was somewhere shielded, or somewhere she feared that any
attempt to communicate would reveal her true nature. This silence was more
likely an act of will than a sign of misfortune.
In other words, things were probably going as planned. Except for the
uncertainty and the Connors still being alive and on the loose. Alissa's lips
thinned in displeasure. She needed to enter her next phase so that she'd be in a
position to take care of them.
There would be no better time than the present.
RED SEAL BASE, ANTARCTICA
Clea was enjoying her new lab; it had all the equipment she could ever use, and
any materials she wanted, however exotic, toxic, or illegal, were provided within
forty-eight hours. She'd tested this and didn't even try to hide her glee when she
was presented with some obscure and costly element.
Tricker had cautioned her that she couldn't continue to make such requests
without producing tangible results. Clea had countered by giving him an
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extremely long and involved lecture on the advantages of pure science. He'd
come as close to running away as she'd ever seen him.
The lab itself was small, but its efficient design made up for the lack of space. Its
white walls and gleaming metal surfaces somehow gave it the illusion of size,
though its dimensions were more those of a large walk-in closet. The overhead
lights were the kind that mimicked natural light, making it more comfortable
still. It suited her.
Meanwhile, her research into the T-1000 matrix was going very well and she
was able to keep most of the work she was doing secret from the humans while
seeming to produce a lot of new data. Their expectations, naturally, were based
on what they thought a human could accomplish, so that, all in all, they were
thrilled with her.
All of the scientists were watched all of the time. So the first thing she'd done
was to spend long periods just sitting and thinking, or staring into a microscope.
Once she knew they had a fair-sized archive of such activity, she became more
active.
Her first real effort was to create some bugs, fiddling with the components so
that no one thing seemed connected to another, then put them together as she
walked from her lab to the cafeteria, or to her room; looking for all the world as
though she was picking at her fingernails. When they were complete she set
them loose in the ventilation system. One of her bugs was programmed to lurk in
the tape banks and at her signal to run archival footage of her doing nothing at
all.
They'd already collected some fascinating information for her, both about the
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other scientists and the base staff, as well as confirming her suspicions about
being under observation. The entertainment value of spying on everyone else
didn't make up for the lack of communication with the outside world, but she
was working on that.
As part of her plan to keep the humans off balance regarding her real work…
She had a dozen projects going forward more or less simultaneously. She
destroyed a great deal of what she accomplished without storing the information
on their computers. She had her own, after all.
But she had to be careful. They sorted trash here with obsessive-compulsive
thoroughness. Therefore they knew to the ounce what materials had been used
and how. So she used only minute bits of things, working at speeds no human
could duplicate on things the human eye could barely see. So far they suspected
nothing.
One of her side projects was the creation of what she hoped would one day be a
nano-machine. Right now it was huge, easily visible with the naked eye if you
knew where to look. And, unfortunately, its range of functioning was extremely
simple, requiring several to actually accomplish a task of any significance.
About a dozen together were not much smaller than the bugs she and Alissa had
created for surveillance. But they were much more complex and with time she
was certain she'd find ways to diminish their size without losing utility.
Clea was gearing them toward affecting biological processes because she had a
plan. But the one thing that was difficult to get here were animal test subjects.
When she'd submitted that request Tricker showed up to suggest that she
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concentrate on Intellimetal.
Clea had carefully explained about how carcinogenic the stuff was and how,
though she was trying hard to make it less dangerous, there was only so much a
computer simulation could do. He'd stared at her for a long time, then said he'd
see what he could do.
She could see why Serena had liked Tricker. The I-950 found it amusing to
manipulate him, and moving him to sarcastic exasperation was actually
pleasurable. In this she knew she was definitely becoming more like Serena; she
found that reassuring and disquieting.
Checking a gauge, she made a note, solely to satisfy the watchers.
The I-950 had to admit that though she liked her lab she was feeling slightly
claustrophobic. It wasn't being underground so much as it was the lack of
information. The base was completely cut off from the rest of the world; no TV
or radio, no telephone calls, and no Internet. This despite the very reasonable
argument that cutting them off from observing the progress in their individual
fields might slow their work, or even render it useless.
She'd been told that those who complained to Tricker had been given his look
and told that they'd better hope not.
That Tricker, she thought with a secretive smile, always trying to intimidate.
Everyone treated the agent as though he was a power in the community, but the I-
950 knew that the agent was in no way involved in decisions regarding the fate
of the imprisoned scientists. Well, perhaps as an end point, she conceded.
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Though she had no evidence of that. But otherwise he had only a little more
freedom than they did.
Kurt Viemeister had told her that Tricker was being punished for something and
that was why he was here. The idea that the abrasive agent was subject to
someone else's whim tickled her.
But she didn't actually know whether to be pleased or distressed that the agent
was nearby. On the plus side, she knew where he was and what he was doing.
On the negative, he was much too close to Skynet.
Clea glanced at her watch. It was almost time for her to meet Kurt for dinner.
The I-950 was working covertly with Viemeister on his project and had put in a
request to make it official. She had every expectation that it would be approved.
Hadn't she laid the groundwork for this long ago?
Her relationship with the human was surprisingly satisfying. He was a brilliant
conversationalist and hearing his ideas about how he was planning to create the
intelligence that would be Skynet was deliciously exciting. Her computer could
barely restrain her emotional responses to him.
Instinctively the I-950 had been reluctant to try sex so far. Though she was
mostly meat herself, the act itself had seemed a little too animal. However,
Viemeister had taught Skynet to talk and to think, and so he was like the creator
of her god, a hero to all her kind. In other words, more than merely human—an
opinion which precisely corresponded with his own outlook. Moreover,
something about him strongly appealed to her and she found herself slowly
succumbing to his persuasion.
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Of course he'd assumed her reluctance was due to her being a virgin. A quaint
notion that she'd allowed him to keep. He'd asked her for the information and
she'd provided it, finding it somewhat amusing that while it made him no less
determined to have his way, it caused his manner to change entirely. Clea had
decided it was probably best to let him think of her as young and naive.
It didn't hurt to have Tricker thinking of her that way, too. Especially since he
continued to look at her suspiciously when he met her. He had told the I-950 that
she resembled someone he'd known, but she sensed that he hadn't yet connected
her to Serena.
But she'd been careful to keep her manner and her voice as different from her
parent as she could. Still, she watched him carefully. After all, even Serena had
been wary of his intelligence.
She hopped from her stool and headed toward the door. So far there was no need
for her to do anything about him. When there was a need, she'd find a way. Clea
snapped off the lights.
She found Kurt in the cafeteria. Seated alone, as usual. He'd once told her that
he'd discouraged the other scientists from socializing with him.
When she'd asked him why, he said, "Because they're not very bright outside
their own little field, and as people they're not interesting."
So she'd asked him, "Should I be flattered because you think I'm both intelligent
and interesting? Or should I just assume you want to jump my bones?"
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He'd laughed and assured her it was the former. She didn't believe him naturally,
but took note that he could be diplomatic when he wanted to be.
Now she watched him watching her approach, and something in his eyes evoked
a sensation of warmth below her waistband. The scrubbers stopped it, of course,
but it had been very pleasant while it lasted. She gave him a smile, bold and shy
at once, and kept walking, though with slightly more swing to her hips.
This was going to be an interesting evening. And… well, Viemeister was
Skynet's creator, not Skynet… so it wouldn't be quite like incest.
***
Clea was feeling oddly pleased with herself as she went to confront Tricker.
Every now and again a sense of well-being would sneak up on her. She knew
that her processors were scrubbing endorphins by the bucket out of her system.
If she'd known sex was so pleasant she'd have tried it much sooner. Though she
suspected that the right partner was important.
The I-950 knocked on the agent's door and opened it without waiting for an
invitation.
Tricker looked up, his blue eyes unwelcoming. "Yeah?" he snarled.
Clea gave him a dazzling smile and entered his office, leaving the door open
behind her. "I was wondering if you'd heard anything about my request?" she
chirped.
"Which request was that? You're pretty much a never-ending fountain of
gimmees."
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She pouted, then smiled at him. "My request to work with Kurt Viemeister," she
said. "Has it been approved?"
"You really ought to stay away from that guy," Tricker said. "You're kinda
young for him, for one thing."
"We've gotten very… close," Clea told him, and blushed, smiling at him.
Tricker held up a hand. "I don't want to know." He pulled forward a set of
papers. "Your request has been approved. But you'll need to sign these waivers."
"Really?" she said, taking them and looking them over. "What's the point of
that?"
"So that you'll know how serious what you're dealing with is." He stared at her,
his gaze impossible to interpret.
Clea laughed. "What are you going to do to me if I tell someone about what I'm
doing?" she asked. "Send me to Antarctica?"
"You never know." He sat forward in his chair, picking up a pen and offering it
to her.
Clea rolled her eyes and took it. She signed the papers and handed them back to
him. "I have another request to make."
"Surprise, surprise," he muttered.
"I'm finding it harder and harder to endure being indoors all the time," she said.
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"It's like the walls and ceiling are closing in on me."
"Hey, baby, it's cold outside," Tricker quipped.
Clea waved that aside. "I'm from Montana. Cold doesn't frighten me. But being
closed up like this does. I need to get outside. I'd like to combine my time
outdoors with a project I've thought up. I want to study some of the seals that
live nearby."
Tricker sighed. He had a steady stream ot scientists wanting to get away from the
base. But not one of them had suggested simply going out for a nature walk.
"There are plenty of scientists on this continent studying seals," he began.
"And it wouldn't hurt anything to have one more." She looked him in the eye.
"Please," she said quietly. "I wouldn't have come to you about this except that it's
really becoming a problem for me. I'm just not used to being indoors all the time
like this. These other people have probably never been on a hike in their lives. I
grew up in the mountains, and they don't call Montana the Big Sky Country for
nothing." She let a few tears wet her eyelashes and swallowed hard. "I need to
get outside," she whispered.
And she did. Not for the reasons she was alluding to, but to further her plans, to
test her new micromachines on a living subject. And hopefully to send messages
to her sister through a specially designed radio collar she intended to put on
some lucky seal.
Tricker rolled his eyes. "So submit a request," he said. "I'll send it up the pipe."
"Thank you," she said, endeavoring to look more misty-eyed than ever.
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"Hey, I'm not promising you anything."
"I know. But if you put your recommendation on it they'll take that into
consideration, won't they?"
He just looked at her. She smiled slightly, and lifting her hand slightly, she
turned and walked away.
Had she overplayed it? Time would tell. She thought she would get her way in
this. If for no other reason than that he'd want to know what she was up to.
CHAPTER TWENTY
VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA, PARAGUAY
"Dieter entered the living room, where John half lay on the couch, reading a
manual on source codes, a beam of bright sunlight spearing through one of the
high clerestory windows to bring out the slight reddish hints in his dark hair. The
Austrian dropped a package into the young man's lap.
John started as though he'd been asleep and looked from the package to von
Rossbach. "What's this?" he asked.
"A package," Dieter said, with a slight edge of sarcasm.
John snorted. "Thanks!" he said, and rose. "I'll be in my room if you want me."
Sarah came in just as he was leaving and he leaned over on his way out to kiss
her cheek. Her eyes widened and she turned to watch him go, then turned back to
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von Rossbach, her eyebrows raised in inquiry.
"Something came in the mail from that girl in Boston," he explained, sitting
down in one of the leather chairs, the rest of the mail in his lap.
"Ahhhh," Sarah said thoughtfully. She moved slowly into the room. "What girl?"
This time Dieter's brows rose. "He didn't tell you about her?"
Trying to keep the hurt out of her expression, Sarah sat next to the big Austrian.
"Uh, no." Her mouth twisted ruefully. "He's seventeen, and this is a girl and I am
his mother…" She sighed. "I guess it's only natural he'd want to keep her to
himself."
Dieter looked at her sympathetically. "But you're hurt anyway." As far as he
could tell, they were unusually close. It was probable that until now they'd
shared everything.
Sarah was quiet for a moment, then she wrinkled her nose at him. "A little.
Maybe." Then she sighed. "It annoys me that I am, though, because, really, I'm
pleased that he has someone. It would be nice if she were nearby…" She leaned
toward him. "Tell me about her."
He shrugged his massive shoulders. "There's not much I can tell you," he said.
"She's somebody he recruited on-line to keep an eye out for mysterious doings.
Then, when we went to the U.S., he took her and her team the Terminator's CPU.
She's a student at MIT," he added. "And clearly, something clicked between
them."
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"Hmmph," she said. "I guess I'll have to go to the source."
John closed the door to his room, tore open the box that Wendy had sent him,
and pulled out her letter.
Hi, Sweetie, she'd written.
Well, that's flattering, he thought. One kiss… On the other hand, we felt close
right off. Evidently three months' separation hadn't altered her feelings—and that
was extremely reassuring. He read on:
Some of us went to New York this week to attend the New Day show. That’s the
show that Ron Labane of the Luddites hosts. It wonderful! I can’t begin to tell
you how inspiring I find him. I wish you could have been with us. About a
hundred of us from MIT went down in buses.
A hundred? John reread that, shocked. A hundred MIT students went to the New
Luddite show? Those people must be more powerful than he'd thought.
The idea shook him. He'd assumed the group would be just another flash in the
pan, a this-year's-cause sort of thing. Certainly not the kind of thing that would
appeal to really intelligent people. Like Wendy, he thought, troubled. He
straightened the folds of her letter and continued reading.
I’m more convinced than ever that his brand of intelligent Luddism is the answer
to so many of our problems: pollution, poverty, overpopulation. I have to confess
to you right now that I took the pledge.
John looked up from her letter, frowning. She took "the pledge"? What the hell
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did that mean? He didn't think she drank.
In case you’re wondering just what I’ve pledged, I feel a little aawkward about
telling you. I know I should have discussed it with you, though that might be
presumptuous of me. And maybe you’ll say I was swept away by the enthusiam of
the crowd. But I did take it, and I mean to keep my word.
In case you haven’t heard of the pledge, it’s a promise to have no more than two
children. If I divorce and remarry and my second husband hasn’t any children,
then I’m allowed to have one with him. Though ideally I would have had my
tubes tied after I had my second child.
The hard truth is, the only way we’re going to reduce our population is by
making sacrifices like that. And reducing population is step one; everything
follows from that.
Wincing, John lowered the letter and rubbed his brow with his free hand. Oh,
Wendy, if you only knew, he thought sadly. Overpopulation was not likely to be a
problem in a few years.
Anyway, I hope you won’t be angry with me for going ahead on my own. But I
know you’re a sensible person and so I’m trusting you’ll understand.
On a completely different subject, we also saw some the sights while we were
there and I got this for you at Lincoln Center. This is the most amazing
sculpture; I’d love for you to see it for yourself. But the video is very good and
has a “making of” section at the end that you’ll probably find interesting.
Hope to hear from you soon. Love and kisses…
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John pulled the video out of the mailing box and looked at it. On the cover was a
photo of a weird-looking modern sculpture. He wasn't impressed, but then he
wasn't a big fan of modern art. The back of the box was filled with not very
informative blurbs from other artists and bits culled from critical reviews.
But, hey, if Wendy was impressed it must be really something.
He was trying, and he knew that he was trying, to suppress thoughts of Judgment
Day. If there was a Judgment Day. Well, if there was, it would make Wendy's
idealistic pledge seem rather foolish.
And yet, that she had made it moved him; still more, that she'd written to him
about it. He felt toward her a tenderness more profound and respectful than he
had yet experienced. He wanted to protect her, to shelter her from all harm. At
the same time he admired her faith in the future. He smiled and shook his head.
Then he took the tape and inserted it into the VCR and sat back to watch.
There was a little explanation at first on how Lincoln Center had decided to erect
a statue, and had commissioned the late Vladimir Hill to create it. Then there
was a segment of film, greatly speeded up, that showed the thing actually
moving. Its name was Venus Dancing and John's jaw dropped as he watched it
doing just that.
The glittering column seemed to swoop and bend, stretching high and then
stooping, the holes in its surface growing and shrinking as it moved. The whole
thing seemed alive and its motion was graceful and very beautiful. Although,
despite the pleasure of watching the lovely thing, something niggled.
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Then the dancing segment ended and the "making of section began. The
sculptor, emaciated from his bout with cancer, described the process of creation.
He told the interviewer that if he must die young, he had at least created the most
unique sculpture in the world before he left.
Then there were scenes from the unveiling, where an almost unrecognizably
healthy Vladimir was shown with a beautiful young woman who was the creator
of Hill's new sculpting material, a substance she called Intellimetal.
It took a moment as he watched the smiling, blushing brunette, nervously
adjusting her glasses. But it was that movement that attracted his attention to her
eyes. The shock of recognition took his breath away.
"MO-OM!" he shouted, not moving from where he sat on the bed but only
bellowing louder, "MOM! DIETER! COME HERE! NOW!"
Down in the living room the two adults looked at each other, then scrambled for
the stairs, pulling weapons out of hiding places.
"What?" Sarah said, bursting into his room.
John pointed at his TV, unable to say anything. He didn't even make his usual
crack about mothers who burst into their sons' rooms carrying guns.
Dieter and Sarah moved to where they could see what he was pointing at. Sarah
sat down hard on the floor, pressing both hands against her mouth. Frozen on the
screen was a face she wasn't likely to forget. How? she thought in horror. She's
dead! She's dead. She has to be dead! No one could have survived that
explosion, even if they hadn't blown away half her head first. She couldn't have
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escaped either; it was impossible.
And yet. This was Serena Burns. Jordan's former boss, the head of security for
Cyberdyne. A new breed of Terminator—call it an Infiltrator—sent by Skynet.
"My God," she said. Then she took a deep breath and looked up at John.
"I'm not wrong!" he said, sounding shaky.
"I wish." she answered.
Dieter offered his hand and she took it. He pulled her to her feet easily. "So there
was another one," he said grimly.
"Isn't there always?" John asked.
"So far," Sarah agreed. She brushed her hands over her hips. "Now we need to
find out where she—it—is and what it's up to."
"I'll get in touch with Wendy." John said. "She might know something."
Wendy answered on tin; third ring.
"Bob's Brickyard, we lay anything." she said cheerfully. In the background there
was raucous laughter.
"Wendy!" John said incredulously.
He was calling from his room, lying back on his bed propped up on some
pillows; it was kind of late and he'd been afraid of waking her. Guess I had that
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wrong, he thought.
"Oops!" she said. Then he heard her talking to whoever was with her. "Hey,
guys? I need a little privacy here."
There was a chorus of protest at that; it sounded like Snog and the gang. He
smiled, remembering them. It took a few minutes, but she finally managed to get
them to leave.
"I'm sorry it took so long," she said breathlessly when she came back.
"Good thing this isn't a pay phone," he said, letting her hear his smile.
They were silent for a while. John couldn't seem to wipe the smile from his face.
Even though they didn't speak, he found intense joy just being in contact with
her. Listening to her breath—in a sense being with her for the first time in
months.
"I've missed you," she said at last.
"I've missed you, too."
They fell silent again until Wendy said, "Why did you call? Did you get it?"
"Your package? Yeah. Actually that's what I'm calling about. Uh… there's
something on it that might relate to Skynet," he said quickly, wincing slightly.
This was a hell of a way to say thank you.
There was a pause, then she said, "Oh."
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"Yeah. In the 'making of part of the video they show this woman who invented
the material the statue is made from. We need to find out about her. Where she
is, for example."
There was silence again and John frowned; this time the silence had a very
different quality. "Wendy?"
"Yeah. I just… I thought you might be calling about the pledge," she said,
sounding disappointed.
John almost laughed. He'd forgotten about that. But he sensed that it was
important to her, even if it was absurd to him. "I will always respect your
decision on that. I know it's not something you did lightly. So if you thought I'd
be mad or something, I'm not." He waited for her response.
"You just don't care," she said at last, sounding disappointed.
"That's not true," he assured her. "You care, and I care about what you… care
about," he finished lamely. He hoped that would settle her down. They needed to
get onto a more important subject.
She blew out a breath that whistled across the phone lines. "Okay," she said, her
voice slightly flat. "What's up with this woman you want to know about?"
"Well," he said, "she should be dead."
"Uh-huh." She went silent, apparently waiting for more.
"We don't think she's entirely human," John ventured.
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"Aaaaand what makes you think that?" Wendy asked.
"She almost killed my mother, but we killed her instead, and now she's attending
parties. You can see why we're concerned."
"Yeah, that attending-parties thing, that's a real bitch." Her voice still had that
flat quality, almost uninterested, and John didn't quite know what to make of it.
"You don't sound like you believe me," he ventured.
"Well. John. I've seen this woman's face and you're telling me you killed her.
Which is freaky enough, by the way. Until you top it by telling me she's this
inventor from the unveiling but she was dead before the unveiling. What am I
supposed to think?"
"You're supposed to think this is more proof that Skynet is real," he snapped.
Now you doubt me? he thought. Now, after all these months? "Are you guys still
working on the CPU?" he asked, playing his ace.
She took a deep breath and let it out in a huff. "Yeah," she admitted. "We're
making some progress, too. But this, John! This is like something out of a
movie! And real life doesn't have a plot."
Oh yeah? Mine does. John held on to his temper; he needed her help and
blowing his stack wasn't going to do him any good.
"Look," he said firmly, "I'd like your help on this. Can I count on you?"
Wendy was quiet for a while. "You really think this woman is from Skynet?" she
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asked, her voice sounding small.
"I'm convinced of it." John waited, holding his breath.
"I may know something," she said at last. "Give me a few minutes to get my
notes together, then get on-line. I'll e-mail you what I have."
"Thank you," he said, his voice ardent with relief. He listened to the silence on
her end and asked tentatively, "You're not mad, are you?"
"No. Just kind of creeped out. I'll see you on-line."
"Okay… Wendy?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you, you know." Somehow he sensed a smile, then he heard it in her
voice.
"I love you, too," she said. Then, briskly, "Give me ten minutes."
"You got it."
They said affectionate good-byes and he hung up. For a few minutes he just lay
back on his bed smiling. She loved him.
True, it wasn't 100 percent perfect; she also doubted his sanity. But she's coming
through for me anyway. He kept on smiling. Love was really strange. But it was
also the best feeling he'd ever had.
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*Okay,* Wendy said, *I don't know how useful this will be, but to me it seems
to tie in with what you want to know. *
*Shoot,* John told her.
*You remember when I told you that Craig Kipfer guy said something that
sounded like an order to kill someone?*
* Vaguely.*
*Well, I kept checking into this guy and finally broke through some kind of wall.
About the same time he said "Send her to Antarctica," he was getting reports on
someone from Montana. They were more detailed than you'd expect; there was a
lot of material about her uncle, for instance. It looked for all the world like they
were investigating her for a high-level, top-secret government job.*
John took her at her word. He'd figured that since Wendy probably saw herself in
a top-secret government job one day, she'd look into this sort of thing.
*And this was about Clea Bennet?* he asked.
*No names were mentioned,* Wendy wrote. *But Clea Bennet is from Montana,
where she was raised by an eccentric uncle, recently deceased. All the particulars
match, even if they didn't call her by name. So what do you think?*
*I think I'd better look this stuff over. Thanks, Wendy.*
*No prob. I really do want to help, you know.*
*I know. Thanks. I'd better get to work on this.*
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*Yeah,* she said. *See you soon.* I wish, John thought. *Love you.* *Love you,
* she wrote, then she was gone.
He began reading the reports she'd sent, finding them dry but very interesting.
They did seem to match the few facts offered on the video. Antarctica? he
thought. What are we supposed to do now?
They'd gathered in Dieter's study to discuss Wendy's information. The
comfortable room was lit by a single lamp and the light was dim, making the
space feel more intimate. The French doors were open, letting in soft bree/es
laden with the scent of the garden.
Dieter was in the big chair behind his desk, feet propped up on a low filing
cabinet. John and his mother were in the smaller, more formal chairs in front of
him.
"You're kidding, right?" Sarah said. His mother wasn't so much frowning as
looking puzzled. "I mean, it's not much to go on. Or I should say not much to go
to Antarctica on."
John smiled at that. "No, but it's the best lead we've got." He tilted his head
toward her. "So if you were looking for someone and you dug this up, what
would you do?"
Sarah looked down, twisting her mouth wryly. After a beat she raised her hands
in surrender. "I'd go to Antarctica."
Dieter hadn't said anything when John had presented Wendy's information. John
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looked over at him and found the Austrian apparently deep in thought.
"Hey," John said quietly. "Big guy."
Von Rossbach's narrowed gaze slid toward him.
"What do you think?" John asked.
"I think I remember hearing, just before I retired, the vaguest of hints about the
possibility of someone creating a super-secret laboratory 'on ice.' At the time I
thought it was a metaphor," Dieter said. "But maybe not." He took his feet off
the cabinet. "Let me make a few calls, find out what I can about this."
"Meanwhile, John and I can do some research on what sort of equipment we'll
need." Sarah turned to her son and smiled.
John glanced at Dieter, who looked away quickly.
"What?" Sarah asked, looking between them.
John hesitated. "Well…" He looked to Dieter for support, but the big man was
looking out into the garden. John turned back to his mother and took her hand.
Raising her brows at the sentimental gesture, she looked at Dieter, too, frowned
as he continued to stare out the door, and, her expression turning suspicious,
turned back to John.
"You're still not a hundred percent, Mom." He took a deep breath. "Not enough
to go hiking around Antarctica." He nodded once, looking deeply into her eyes.
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Sarah frowned, then she let out an exasperated breath and looked away. To find
herself confronting Dieter's concerned eyes. "Okay!" she said, throwing up her
hands. "You're right. I'm not a hundred percent. But"—she pointed at John
—"you're too valuable to risk. So where does that leave us?"
They both looked at Dieter.
He laughed and held up his hands. "Before we decide who is going, let's make
sure of our destination."
"Sounds reasonable." Sarah rose and crooked her finger at John. "Let's leave our
host to it, shall we?" With that, she walked from the room.
John followed her out, saying, "You're not mad, are you, Mom?"
"No, John, I'm not mad."
He was quiet a moment. "You sound mad."
"I'm not mad!"
Dieter smiled. She might not be mad, but she wasn't happy, either.
While they'd been thrashing out whether Sarah was to go or not, he'd been
wondering if he dared call his old friend Jeff Goldberg, his former partner in the
Sector.
I suppose I might as well, he thought. Sully must have made a report by now, and
even if he hadn't, they already knew about my association with the notorious
Sarah Connor. Which means that [eff knows, too.
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He went to the wall and took down a heavily .framed painting, setting it to lean
against the file cabinet. Then he worked the combination of the safe it had
hidden. Removing the valuable papers and other odds and ends inside the
surprisingly deep little safe, he opened a tiny secret compartment with a few deft
touches. Inside was a cell phone.
In Vienna, Jeff had one just like it.
When Dieter had retired they'd decided to arrange a private means of
communication in the event that either ever had need of the other's aid. At the
time von Rossbach had been thinking that his partner, still active in a very
dangerous profession, might need his help. It just went to show you; a backup
plan was always a good idea.
He placed the phone on his desk and booted up his computer. Once on the
Internet he sent off the coded message that would bounce through a few different
addresses before it reached Jeff. Then he sat back to wait. It could be a while.
An hour and a half later the phone rang. Dieter snatched it up. "Yes?" he said.
"I don't even know why I'm talking to you."
"It's because in spite of everything you've heard, you know you can trust me,"
Dieter said.
"If I can trust you then why does it look like you've gone over to the other side?"
Jeff's voice was stressed, not usual.
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Dieter wondered if, in spite of their precautions, this call was being monitored—
if Jeff was letting this call be monitored.
"You know me better than that," von Rossbach said dismissively. "What's the
gossip about me?"
"Gossip? If it was gossip I could doubt it. I'm talking about official reports,
Dieter."
"And what am I supposed to have done in these reports?"
"For starters, harboring a wanted fugitive!" Goldberg snapped.
"When was this?" Careful, Dieter thought. You don't want to antagonize him any
further.
"You know goddamn well when. You were the one who sent me those sketches
of her. Then you said the description didn't match. And of course I believed you
because my good buddy wouldn't lie to me! Next thing I know, you're running
around California recruiting for her army!"
Dieter was silent for a while as he gathered his thoughts. He'd thought he knew
what he was going to say, thought he knew how to counter any arguments Jeff
might throw at him. But now that the moment was here he found he couldn't use
any of those glib explanations, because most of them were lies. He couldn't do
that to a man who had been at his back through most of his dangerous career.
He'd already done it too often.
Dieter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I owe you an apology," he said.
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"I did know it was probably her, but I was intrigued and wanted to investigate
her by myself. Especially when you sent me that recording of a man with my
face killing police by the dozen. I was bored here and feeling useless." He
shrugged, though his former partner couldn't see it. "Then you sent Griego and I
felt like I had to defend my turf. It wasn't sensible, and I know it wasn't
professional, but I'd gotten to know her a little by then and I wanted to know
more."
Goldberg was silent for a long time. "Go on," he said at last, his voice giving
nothing away.
Dieter felt relieved. At least he was being given a chance to explain. "One night I
went over to her house." He frowned at the memory. "I was bringing a dog for
her son, more of a puppy, really." He took a deep breath and forced himself to
continue. "Before I knew it we were under attack. By a heavily armed man with
my face."
"Bullshit!" Goldberg snapped.
"I wish. God, do I wish you were right." Until this moment he hadn't realized
how much he would give for all that had happened to have been a dream. "But
you're not. The face was mine, but this man was no more human than that cell
phone you're holding. I saw the body. It had no internal organs—just metal,
wire, motherboards, stuff like that. There were sparks flying out of it and it took
an incredible amount of ammunition to stop the damn thing."
"Do you think I'm an idiot!" Goldberg shouted. "What the hell is the matter with
you?"
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Dieter kept silent for a moment; he tightened his mouth and closed his eyes as if
in pain. "Jeff," he said quietly, "I had a whole bunch of lies made up to tell you. I
was going to be investigating this thing on my own, trying to find out how far
Connor's influence extended. You know me. I'm good at being convincing when
I need to be. You'd have believed me before I was finished with you. But you
deserved the truth, so I took a chance and told it to you."
Jeff was breathing hard, his breath whistling though the phone. "Shit!" he
muttered.
"Believe it or not, I know how you feel," Dieter commiserated. "Why would I
tell you a story like this if it wasn't true? Don't you think I know how all this
sounds? Why would I even try if it wasn't true?"
He stopped talking, waiting for his old partner to work it through.
"She could have talked you 'round," Jeff said at last. "Connor was a damned
attractive woman." His voice was wary, but much less hostile.
"Yeah, and I'm really susceptible to wild stories and sexy women. That's why I
was such a rotten agent." Von Rossbach sneered.
Jeff gave a short laugh. "Nooo, you were pretty good."
"I still am."
"Yeah, well. This is a pretty crazy story, buddy. You know that."
"Have you seen Sully's report?"
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"Sully is, uh, undergoing psychiatric evaluation. You know he's one of ours?"
"Would I ask about his report if I didn't?"
"Good point."
"Jeff, Sarah Connor is crazy, her son is crazy, Sully's crazy. Now I'm crazy?
Maybe instead they've been telling the truth all along?"
Goldberg gave a kind of hiss. "I can't go there, buddy. I just can't."
"Are you at least willing to think about it?"
After a rather painful silence Goldberg said, "Yeah. I could do that."
"Good. I need your help."
Jeff barked a laugh. "You cocky bastard! You sure you don't want to give me
two more seconds to mull this over?"
"Yes."
"Well, what the hell. I figured you wanted something, otherwise we wouldn't be
talking on these phones. Right?"
"You got it, buddy." Von Rossbach waited, wanting his friend to ask.
"So what do you want?" Jeff said.
"I'm trying to trace a possible kidnap victim."
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"Whoa! If you're talking about Sarah Connor, she took off on her own. If you're
talking about Dr. Silberman, how do you think we know that she took off on her
own?"
Dieter winced. He wanted to tell the truth. But I think I've tried Jeff's patience
enough for one evening. "What are you talking about?"
There was a pregnant pause from Vienna. Then Goldberg asked cautiously,
"You don't know?"
"Sarah Connor is missing again?" Dieter asked. "Last I heard she was in an
institution."
"If you don't know where she is and what she's doing, then why are you
rounding up recruits for her cause?" Jeff challenged.
"Because I promised her I would before she disappeared from here. I don't know
how much good I've done her. Being chased all over California by the Sector
didn't help my efforts. But in any case, she's not the person I'm talking about."
"Oh." Jeff was silent a moment. "So, what? Are you a PI now or something?"
"No, just letting my curiosity get the better of me. This woman is named Clea
Bennet, she's the inventor of something called Intellimetal. They made this
sculpture in New York out of it."
"Yeah. Venus Dancing, it's called. It's all the rage, everyone's pretty excited
about it. Nancy wants us to go see it for ourselves," Goldberg said.
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"Clea Bennet has been missing for a little while now," Dieter explained. "I have
some suspicion that it might have been the U.S. government that snatched her."
"You sure that suspicion isn't an effect of the people you've been hanging out
with?"
Dieter let out an exasperated sigh. "This guy named Craig Kipler's been getting
reports on a woman from Montana. The reports read like Bennet's biography.
Kipfer passed along an order, I quote, 'send her to Antarctica,' that jogged a
memory for me. Just before I left the Sector there were hints of someone
building an important and very secret research facility 'on the ice.' Do you know
anything about that?"
Jeff was absolutely silent.
"Hello?" Dieter prompted.
"Kipfer isn't someone you should have heard about," Goldberg said at last. "He
is like, ultra-black ops. As for the research facility…"
There was more contemplative silence, but Dieter waited it out this time.
"I can't believe I'm telling you this, but… yeah. It's there. We know where it's
located, but aside from that we know very little. The only thing we can be sure
of is that they're not doing nuclear testing. For once the Americans are playing
their cards close to their chests. Though to be fair, it's not the kind of place that's
easily infiltrated."
"So who have you got there?" Dieter said blandly.
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Jeff laughed. "None of your business. Even if we did have somebody there you
probably wouldn't know them."
"So where is this base?"
Dieter waited; would his friend come through for him? Jeff had no particular
reason to cover for the U.S. government, but at the moment neither did he have a
particular reason to help his old partner.
"You're not going to blow it up are you?" Jeff asked sourly.
Von Rossbach laughed in surprise. "No! That's not the plan anyway. I might try
to rescue this young woman. Assuming she's there under duress, of course."
"Tsk!" Jeff said. "I thought you were out of the hero business."
"You going to tell me or not?" Dieter asked.
"Don't make me regret this," Goldberg warned.
"I won't. I swear," Dieter said, fingers crossed. After all, who knew?
"It's in west Antarctica." Jeff gave him the coordinates. "The base itself is
slightly inland." He gave a brief physical description of the place. "You could
hike there from the coast in three days."
"Thanks, Jeff."
"Dress warm."
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"Yes, Dad. Give my best to Nancy."
"You bet." Goldberg paused. "God, Dieter, don't make me regret this, please."
"Don't worry."
"Just don't. Okay?"
"You'll get old and gray worrying like that," Dieter teased. "I'm just curious, is
all. I like a good puzzle."
"If you hear from Connor—"
"I won't."
"Yeah, right. Don't blow anything up," Jeff warned.
"But that's the fun part!"
Jeff hissed in exasperation, then laughed. "Y'know, you're right."
Dieter laughed, too. "Bye, buddy. Thanks."
"I am so going to regret this," Jeff said, sounding more amused than worried.
"No comment. Bye." Dieter hung up.
This American base must be one of Jeff's projects, otherwise he wouldn't have
the information at his fingertips like that. A lucky break, Dieter thought.
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He'd check with Sarah and John to see how their research on supplies was going.
Then he'd see about arranging transportation.
Sarah looked up as Dieter appeared in John's doorway. "It's amazing how many
Web sites there are dealing with tourism in Antarctica," she said by way of
greeting. "Apparently going there is really popular. Who knew?"
"Give me Paris any day," John muttered, typing rapidly.
"Ah, yes," said Dieter, "we'll always have Paris."
Sarah smiled. "I've always wanted to go there," she said. "My father said there
was something special in the air of Paris. But, we could hardly expect them to
put Skynet someplace so accessible."
"Or so pleasant," Dieter agreed.
"They could have at least put it someplace temperate," John complained.
"That's right," his mother said. "You've never lived anywhere cold, have you,
hon? We'll have to put some antifreeze in your blood."
John gave her a look. "Thanks, Mom. I knew I could rely on you."
"What are mothers for?" she asked brightly.
"To justify Mother's Day?" John asked. He tapped a final key and the printer
began to hum.
Sarah punched his arm lightly and turned to von Rossbach. "Did you find out
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anything?"
"There is a top-secret American scientific installation in west Antarctica," he
said. "About three days in from the coast. It's a mostly underground facility with
some sham huts on top."
***
John took some papers from the printer and handed them to Dieter. Who took
them and looked them over.
"A lot of stuff," he said.
"I pared it down to the essentials," John said. "We're not there for the scenery,
after all. It's the food that concerns me. We'll need a ton of it. I get the
impression you're supposed to eat a pound of butter a day."
"Cold burns calories," von Rossbach said. He became quiet for a moment.
"What?" Sarah asked, coming into the room and sitting on John's bed. Dieter
looked up, his eyes meeting hers. John turned to look at him and von Rossbach
glanced his way.
"Why are we doing this?" he asked. "We don't know for sure that this woman is
there, or that Skynet is there. We could be running off half-cocked here. And to
do what, exactly?"
Sarah and John stared at him as if he'd suddenly broken out into a Broadway
show tune, then glanced at each other and away. After a moment of chewing her
lips Sarah looked at von Rossbach.
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"If that thing is there, and we have good reason to think it is, then it's there for
Skynet. That's what all of these things are for—the Terminators, whatever
Serena Burns was, whatever this thing is. They exist to protect Skynet, and/or to
kill us. It's just a question of who strikes first."
"What about the rest of the facility?" Dieter asked.
"Our one goal is to destroy this thing and Skynet," she answered. "Nothing else."
"So you're talking surgical strike?" Dieter said.
"By preference," Sarah said. "But what I'm talking is whatever we have to do."
"Same as ever, big guy," John said. "The goal is always the same, however many
times it takes." He sighed and lifted his arms, then dropped them in a full body
shrug. "Hey, at least we get to travel."
Dieter was silent a long time. Abruptly he rose.
"All right," he said. "I'll arrange travel." As he walked toward his study he
thought, Jeff's going to kill me.
"Yes?" The woman's voice was sultry and inviting, a voice designed to tickle
and suggest.
"I would love to take you out to dinner."
"Dieter!" Vera Philmore exclaimed in delight. "How marvelous to hear from
you! Where are you, darling?"
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"I'd rather not say," he answered carefully. "But as I said, I'd love to take you to
dinner."
"When and where?" she purred.
"Tierra del Fuego."
Vera laughed out loud. "Do they even have restaurants there?"
"Some very good ones." He picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. "But I
must confess, I need a favor."
"Oooh. I knew there'd be a catch," she said, putting a mock pout in her voice.
"Maybe I should put in a catch of my own."
"Careful, you'll frighten me away."
Vera gave a throaty laugh. "What do you want, sweetheart? Not more money. I
hope."
"No," he assured her. "I'd prefer to explain to you face-to-face."
Suddenly the banter was gone from her voice. "So this is a serious thing?"
"Yes," he agreed. "But—always excepting the seas and the weather down there—
what I'm asking shouldn't put you, or your crew, in any personal danger."
"I see."
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Dieter waited, letting her think it over. "Have you ever been to Tierra del
Fuego?"
"Of course not, darling!" she said, and laughed. "It's not exactly a spa, is it?"
"There's nowhere else on earth quite like it," von Rossbach assured her.
"Sweetie, there's a whole lot of pissholes on this planet that could make the same
claim. That doesn't mean I want to visit them." She gave a deep sigh. "All right.
Where and when?"
"Ushuaia," he said, "it's the capital. Two weeks from today?"
"I'll be there," she said. "This had better be one very good dinner, baby."
"I'll make sure of it," he promised. "Will you be staying at a hotel, or…?"
"I'll be on the yacht, of course, dear. That's what it's for, to protect me from bad
hotels. See you then." She made the smacking sound of a big kiss and hung up.
Dieter depressed the receiver button and began dialing the restaurant that the
travel agency had recommended. I hope this place lives up to its reputation, he
thought. He didn't want to have to make up for bad food.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT
Ron Labane entered Hartford feeling good. Not even the general atmosphere of
industrial decay—the abandoned mills, some converted to glitzy malls, and the
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tract housing from the vanished heyday of the textile factories—could depress
him. He'd turned the radio to a classic-rock station, and tapped out the rhythm of
"Dreamboat Annie" as he drove.
Things were moving along better and faster than he'd ever anticipated. There
were now two Eco Party U.S. senators and eight congressmen in Washington
and a lot more who were state representatives, five Eco Party governors: two on
the West Coast, three on the East.
Ten years ago they were nothing.
It was a thrill to realize that the United States at last had a three-party system and
that, in large part, it was due to his influence. The New Day show, the books, the
clubs, the new magazine, all of these had changed the attitudes of millions of
Americans. All because of his grand vision.
Ron grinned. He felt better than good; he felt invincible. Just before heading out
for his speaking engagement at II. Mass, he'd gotten a surprise visit from Eco
Party chairman Sebastion MacMillan and his closest associates. He felt a surge
of pure pleasure as he remembered the meeting.
NEW YORK
"Mr. Labane," MacMillan said, "I realize that this is short notice, but I hope you
can spare us a few moments of your time."
Ron looked at the professorial gentleman at his door in surprise, and at his three
associates. Then he smiled.
"Come in," he said, stepping aside and gesturing into his austere yet elegant
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apartment with its handcrafted third-world textiles and slight odor of organic
sachet. "Can I take your coats?"
"No, no, we won't be staying that long." The chairman took note of Ron's small
suitcase. "And you're going somewhere, I see."
"Yes, Amherst, up in Massachusetts. I'm speaking at the university there." He
chuckled deprecatingly. "I don't want to get the reputation of only speaking to
the Ivy League."
The three men and one woman looked at him as though he'd said something
profound. "Your egalitarianism is one of the reasons we want to speak to you,"
MacMillan said.
"Sit down, please," Ron invited, and led them into the living room.
He looked them over as they took their seats. The rumor was that the chairman
had sent around copies of Dress for Success as soon as he'd taken over and had
demanded that everyone in any position of authority make it their bible.
Undoubtedly it had helped. These people had always looked intelligent; now
they also looked professional and therefore trustworthy. Ron looked over and
met MacMillan's eye.
This is someone I could work with, he thought. He made a mental note to invite
him onto the show.
"I'll get right to the point," the chairman said. "In ten months one of New York's
senators will be leaving Washington for good. We'd like you to be our candidate
for that office."
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Ron was genuinely stunned. He'd assumed that they wanted him to do something
for them. It seemed it was the other way around.
MacMillan smiled warmly at him. "I've studied your career, Mr. Labane. It
seems to me that the logical next step for you is public office. Your genuine
dedication to ecological causes is both unselfish and unquestionable. To the
general public you're a hero; to those of us involved with the cause you're a
leader. We'd like to take that a step further and make you a leader with power."
The chairman pulled his briefcase onto his lap and extracted a slim file. "The
party ran a straw poll to see how the idea of you as our candidate struck people."
He held out the file and Labane took it. Ron glanced at the other party members,
who all nodded, smiling; then he opened the file. After a moment he looked up at
the chairman, astounded.
MacMillan smiled comfortably. "We've never had a result like that when we've
floated a name." He shook his head. "As you can see we didn't restrict the poll to
party members either. If you ran on our ticket today you'd be elected. In a
landslide."
Ron smiled and shook his head, then he blew his breath out in a whistle. He
laughed, he couldn't help it. "This is very flattering."
"Don't answer tonight." The chairman held up his hand. "We know you'll want to
think about it. After all, this would be a big step."
He rose and the others followed suit. Taking a step forward, MacMillan held out
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his hand. Belatedly Ron rose to take it.
"All we ask is that you consider it seriously. I honestly think that now is the
time."
Ron shook the chairman's hand. "I'll certainly give it some thought," he said.
"I'm caught completely flat-footed here, I"—He shook his head helplessly
—"honestly don't know what to say."
"I'm hoping you'll say yes," MacMillan said, smiling. He started slowly for the
door. "In a few years I think this country will be ready for a presidential
candidate from our party." He put his hand on Labane's shoulder. "We need to
do everything that we can to make that day a reality."
He stopped and smiled at Ron.
"That would certainly be a wonderful day for this country," Ron said, his head
whirling. I'm already sounding like a politician, he thought.
The chairman grinned as though he shared the thought. "Our contact information
is in the file." MacMillan held out his hand again and Ron shook it. "Good night."
"Good night," Ron said.
The other three party members filed out behind the chairman, each offering his
or her hand for a firm handshake, making eye contact and saying a polite good-
bye that implied great pleasure in their brief acquaintance.
After closing the door behind them, Ron simply sat down on the chair in the
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foyer and stared at nothing.
No, not at nothing: into the future.
HARTFORD
A very pleasant memory. Even sitting down driving, Ron felt ten feet tall. The
numbers had indicated that he would be the near-unanimous choice of New York
voters.
"Unanimous!" he said aloud, and laughed. New Mexico probably hadn't hurt…
This was heady stuff. Should I expect to hear from the Democrats next? he
wondered. Not that he would accept an offer from them. He didn't think his
support would be unanimous with the Democrats.
His support! He was definitely thinking like a politico already. Must mean this
was meant to be.
As Ron pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of the cheap motel, he
frowned. I'll have to be more careful, he thought. A lot more careful. Maybe this
should be the last one.
The last of hundreds of clandestine meetings that he'd held over the last few
years. Meetings designed to give the last little nudge to people who didn't need
very much in the way of a push in the first place.
But his presence had helped. Had helped to keep even the most aggressive and
angry extremists from becoming too violent. While at the same time offering
direction and ideas, ideas that had been making headlines for a long time now.
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Some people called it a "terrorist network." but that wasn't how things worked. It
was more in the nature of an umbrella.
He sat in his car looking at the cabin where the meeting was being held. Maybe
he should just not show up at all. The truth was, of all the crazies he'd had
contact with over the years, these people were the only ones who truly scared
him.
At least they haven't killed anybody. Yet.
No one that he knew about anyway. But when he looked in their eyes he could
see that in their hearts they'd murdered thousands.
Hell, they were so misanthropic that the only reason they could tolerate one
another was because of their dedication to their cause.
A cause which Ron had gradually come to see was not quite the same as his own.
His fingers tapped the steering wheel and he felt his reluctance grow the longer
he sat. Ron frowned. He was cagey enough to know that he wasn't worried about
what effect being seen with these people might have on his potential political
career. He could always say he was trying to rein them in, and he thought he'd be
believed.
The problem was that he didn't trust them. They looked at him like they hated
him; even as they hung on his words and did as he directed, he could feel their
loathing, like an oily heat against his skin.
He pictured them in his mind's eye as he'd seen them last. They were all young,
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all white, seven of them, three women and four men. He didn't know their real
names; they certainly weren't born with names like Sauron, Balewitch,
Maleficent, Dog Soldier, Death, Hate, and Ore. They were pale, and underfed,
with stringy hair and a slightly swampy smell about them, as though they lived
underground.
Ron smiled at the thought. They most certainly did.
And they were angry. Their bodies were stiff with rage, even though their faces
were usually blank, until you looked at their eyes. There was emotion enough in
those eyes all right, none of it wholesome.
They didn't talk about their families or their pasts, so he had no idea what forces
had molded them into the dangerous people they'd become. But they spoke
freely of their education. Each of them was brilliant, each had received
scholarships and had attended prestigious universities.
And each one thinks he or she is the smartest one in the group and should be in
control, Ron thought.
They thought they were smarter than he was, too. It didn't take a genius to guess
that they were jealous of him and resented his influence— on them and on other
people. Influence they wanted for themselves.
He gave a shudder and pulled the keys from the ignition with a jangle of metal.
This wasn't going to get any better with waiting.
He strode to the door of the cabin and gave the prescribed knock. Two knocks,
pause, one knock, pause, five knocks, pause, one knock.
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"Who is it?" a surly male voice demanded.
"English muffin," Ron said wearily. There was a peephole in the door for
crissake!
The door swung open on a darkened room and Labane entered with an audible
sigh, He closed the door behind him. "May we have some light?" he asked with
exaggerated patience.
Maleficent turned on the lamp beside her chair and glared at him with what
appeared to be heartfelt contempt. "You're late," she said coldly.
"Yes," he agreed. "I was delayed starting out."
Ron went over and sat on the bed, almost landing on Sauron's legs, since that
worthy disdained to move them. "It's been a while," Ron said.
"Meaning?" Balewitch snapped in her foghorn voice, ice-pale eyes blazing. She,
more than the rest, was inclined to take every remark personally.
"Just an observation," Ron said, his voice carefully unapologetic.
He decided to say nothing more. They'd asked for this meeting; therefore, let
them talk. The old Buddhist stuff about the power of silence had something to it;
if you made the other guy speak first, you had him off balance. He waited, and
waited, feeling like a mailman surrounded by Dobermans on speed. After what
felt like an hour of charged silence— in reality about five minutes—Ron got to
his feet and moved toward the door.
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"Thanks for inviting me to your meditation session," he said sarcastically. "But
I've still got a couple of hours of driving to do and a great deal of meeting and
greeting at the end of it. So if there's nothing else you wanted—"
"Sit down," Hate said, his uninflected voice weighty with threat.
"No, I don't think I will," Ron said, clasping his hands before him. "I will give
you a few more minutes. What do you want?"
"Now you're meeting with political mavens you think you're too good to spend
time with us?" Sauron asked.
Ron's head snapped around to glare at him, hiding the curdling horror he felt
inside. For the first time he realized that Ore was missing. How long have they
been watching me? he wondered, feeling the back of his neck clench with a
sudden chill.
Sauron sneered at him. Sauron was the smooth one; he was able to hide his
feelings most of the time. He wasn't bothering now. "MacMillan and his school
of sycophants," he drawled. "But they didn't linger."
"No," Labane agreed. "They said what they came to say and they left." He
looked at each of them. "Their arrival was as much a surprise to me as it was to
Ore."
"We weren't surprised," Balewitch said. Her graying bristle-cut clean for a
change, she stared at him as if he was a spot on a white wall.
"Is that why you asked me here? To discuss their proposal?" Ron asked, trying
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not to let them see how disturbed he was.
"Have you sold your soul yet?" Death asked, looking at him sidelong through a
dark curtain of her lank hair.
Ron snorted. "They offered to sponsor me as a candidate for the Senate from
New York," he told them. Even though they probably already knew that.
"And?" Dog Soldier asked, his voice disinterested.
"And, I'm considering it."
Maleficent actually hissed. Ron looked at her, one brow raised. "That's where the
evil is," she said.
"That's where the money is," Dog Soldier corrected.
Maleficent shot him a glare that should have singed his hair.
"That's where the power is," Ron interrupted.
"The power to change things?" Dog Soldier asked, a smirk playing on his lips.
"The power to right all the wrongs, cross all the ts, dot all the is."
"Yes," Ron said. "Why shouldn't I want that kind of power? Think of the good I
could do for the cause with that kind of influence."
There was the strangest feeling then, as though, without moving, they'd all
drawn back from him in disgust.
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"That's the sort of thing someone who'd already made up his mind might say to
excuse being greedy," Sauron observed. "You already have a lot of influence
with your little television show."
"Influence with power behind it will go a lot further," Labane insisted. "And
there's no telling how high this road could climb. This is a golden opportunity
for our cause."
The six of them exchanged glances around him.
"I suspect that we have different goals," Death told him.
"We all want to save the planet!" Labane said in exasperation.
Once again their eyes met, excluding Ron.
"Fine," he snarled. "Just forget it. I'm outta here."
"Ron." Sauron stopped Labane with his hand on the doorknob. "Just in case the
thought has crossed your mind, I'd like to discourage you from any ideas you
might have of turning us in." He shook his head. "That would be a very bad
idea."
"I do know something about loyalty," Ron said.
"If you're going to be a politician that'll be the first thing to go," Dog Soldier told
him, snickering.
"You do us the dirty and you'd better watch your back, Labane," Death warned,
her dark eyes narrowed to slits.
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"You know what:'" Ron said. "Don't call me, I'll call you."
"Thanks for dropping by, Ron," Sauron called just before the door slammed.
They were quiet for a while. Then Maleficent observed, "He's gone over to the
other side. He just doesn't know it yet."
"And he never will," Dog Soldier said. "That kind of insight takes time."
"Death to traitors," Balewitch growled.
They crossed glances again. This time they smiled.
ROUTE 91, MASSACHUSETTS
Ron felt better once he'd left Connecticut behind him. Being with that crowd was
always a trial, but tonight! Tonight had been different. The idea that they had
been watching him made his stomach clench like an angry fist. How dare those
sick little bastards spy on him? How long has this been going on?
And how far had it gone?
The thought frightened him and the fear broke the fever of his outrage with a
cold sweat. Had they been in his apartment?
No, he assured himself, they couldn't have; I'd have smelled them. The contempt
felt good.
Besides, he paid a premium to live in a building with first-class security. It was
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one thing to watch MacMillan enter his building and to guess where he was
going. It was quite another to actually break in.
His eyes flicked to the mirror to watch a car coming up behind. A little frisson of
fear shivered through his belly. Was it them? Were they up to something?
As the vehicle passed him he saw that it was one of those pickups with a
complete backseat and what seemed to be an eighteen-foot bed— known in
some circles as an "adultery wagon." Ron relaxed, feeling himself loosen, almost
deflating behind the wheel. Even in deep disguise, that crowd wouldn't go near
one of those things. Unless they planned to bomb it.
He forced himself to be calm. They had no reason to be after him. He'd never
betrayed them. And I don't need to betray them now. Without him to keep them
on an even keel, they'd be in police custody in a month. Most likely they'd betray
one another.
Geniuses! He gave his head a little shake. A lot of the time they had no practical
sense at all. They wouldn't last long enough to create problems for him.
And if they did… well, he knew some other people, too.
THE VICTORIAN INN, AMHERST,
MASSACHUSETTS
Labane entered the pleasant guest room—plenty of froufrou and color, to match
the theme—and flung his jacket onto the tiny sofa; then he pulled off his tie and
threw that down, too. Unbuttoning his cuffs, he entered the bathroom,
unbuttoned his collar, and turned on the tap. He splashed cold water on his face,
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dried off with one of the inn's luxurious towels, and stared at himself in the
mirror.
He looked almost as exhausted as he felt.
Last night had run later than he'd planned, but the company had been good.
Besides, he suspected that he'd been too keyed up for an early night. Then today
there was the traditional campus tour, followed by the obligatory meeting with
the campus's ecology clubs, an interview with the local press, a formal dinner
with the president of the college and all of the faculty and guests from the
surrounding colleges—of which the area held a multitude—and then his address
to the college. After which there was a mill-and-swill where some people
introduced themselves and spoke with him, and more people stared at him from
a distance as though he were on exhibit.
God, it was good to be alone again. He went back into the room and sat in one of
the comfortable club chairs; he wondered idly if they were Victorian. Didn't
seem likely. The chair didn't try to make him sit ramrod straight and the cushions
accepted the shape of his posterior without the apparent resentment of true
Victorian furniture.
He'd ordered coffee, and though he knew that the average guest would have been
denied, his celebrity status got him what he wanted.
Ron smiled; life was good. He was tired, but it was worth it. Seeing all those
eager young faces, knowing they were hanging on his every word, shaping their
lives to fit his philosophy. He closed his eyes, hands folded across his stomach,
and sighed contentedly. It just didn't get any better than this.
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There was a discreet knock at the door.
"Room service."
"C'mon in, it's open," Ron called out from his chair. "You can just put it there on
the coffee table."
Then he realized that there was more than one person entering the room. He
opened his eyes, annoyed, but smiling through it. Sometimes being a celebrity
got you what you wanted, but sometimes the fans wanted something back in
return; like the opportunity to show you off to their friends.
Then he realized he was looking at Hate and Dog Soldier. The artificial smile
froze on his face, then slipped away. "What's up, fellas:'" he asked.
Hate handed Dog Soldier a pillow from off the bed. Dog soldier pulled out a
huge gun and wrapped the pillow around it.
"Wait a minute!" Ron said, holding up his hand.
"Not even," Dog Soldier said cheerfully, and shot him between the eyes.
At least that was where he'd been aiming. With large-caliber ammunition it was
sometimes hard to tell exactly where the bullet struck.
Hate picked up the phone and dialed room service. "I'm so sorry." he said in a
nearly perfect imitation of Labane's voice. "I have to cancel that request for
coffee. I'm suddenly so tired I couldn't even take a sip. I apologize for the
inconvenience."
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Dog Soldier watched him as he put the gun down on the coffee table.
"Oh, thank you," Hate said into the phone pleasantly.
Dog raised a brow as he flung the pillow back onto the bed and took out a small
box.
"Well, that's always nice to hear," Hate said.
Dog got to work on the gun, unscrewing the handgrip and carefully replacing the
grip plates with those that had been handled by their mark.
"Really," Hate said, rolling his eyes and gritting his teeth even as he kept his
voice friendly and cheerful. "All that way? Just for me?"
Dog Soldier grinned and shook his head.
"Well, thank you, but I really must go. Yes. Yes, everything is wonderful. Yes.
Thank you. You're very sweet. I must go. Yes. Good night." Hate put down the
receiver carefully. "I was ready to go down there and blow them all away," he
snarled. "Cattle!"
Dog chuckled. "I don't blame you, man. People get to me the same way. Save the
planet—kill all the people!"
Wendy walked along the dark street feeling totally jazzed. She'd been invited to
a private meeting with Ron Labane! She gave a little skip and hugged herself.
When she'd heard Labane was going to be speaking here tonight, she'd made
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arrangements to stay with her friend Diana, skipped her classes, and took a bus
to Amherst. His speech had been wonderful, and even Di, who really wasn't that
interested in ecology, had agreed about that. She'd been invited to go along to
this meeting, too, but hadn't wanted to.
Wendy sighed. Di was a good friend, but she was more into dancing and dating
than saving the world. Wendy would have loved her company tonight. It would
have been so good to share this opportunity.
It was just pure luck that they'd found themselves behind two guys who worked
on Labane's show in Oklahoma City. One of them, Rich, was kind of creepy, but
the other, Joe, was friendly enough. He'd reminded her a little of Snog, a good
sense of humor and obviously very smart.
They got to talking and Joe invited them to this private meeting. He explained
that Mr. Labane was especially interested in talking to students in the high-tech
area.
"Well, that lets me out," Diana had said, grinning. "I'm an art major."
"Hey, you can come," Joe said.
"Got a date," Diana told him.
Di had told Wendy later that she thought he was hitting on her. "When I want a
guy to hit on me," she said, "I'll let him know it."
Joe didn't act like he'd been rejected, though. He kept talking with them and
joking. He was wearing latex gloves. When Wendy had asked him about it he
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told her that he'd been burned when a battery exploded and the gloves protected
him while making it possible to handle things.
He claimed that they had a special pass, but he couldn't find it. He kept handing
her things from his pockets as he searched for his pass. The weirdest collection
of stuff—metal and plastic and wire and string—but no pass. In the end they'd
bought tickets like everybody else, which Joe's friend was clearly annoyed about.
"Did you believe him?" Di had asked later.
"Sure," Wendy said.
"I hope you're not letting yourself in for a nasty experience going to meet these
guys," Diana warned. "There was something fishy about those two."
"It's at the Victorian, Di," Wendy had said in exasperation. "That's where Mr.
Labane is staying."
It kind of annoyed her, Diana coming on so superior like that. As if U. Mass.
Amherst was a hotbed of sophistication next to Cambridge and MIT.
I bet she's sleeping around, Wendy thought cattily. She'd known other girls who
suddenly felt all worldly because they were suddenly "doing it" regularly.
Wendy entered the lobby and looked around; the man behind the desk had his
back turned as he filed something. There was a lot of ornate furniture with red
plush upholstery and matching drapes. The wallpaper was a sepia-toned print of
acanthus leaves; the carpet had plate-sized pink roses all over it. She wrinkled
her nose; it was very nice, she supposed, just not her style.
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She went to the ornate staircase and climbed to the second floor. Mr. Labane's
room was 207, at the far end of the hall. The hall was quiet and the ambience
here was restful. She wished she could stay in a place like this: Diana's dorm was
as noisy as the inside of a drum at a rock concert.
She found the door to 207 slightly open, but the room was quiet. Biting her
lower lip, Wendy hesitated. She really didn't want to be the first to arrive. How
would she explain her presence if Rich and Joe weren't here? By the same token,
she'd look stupid hanging out in the hall like this. And if she was first she'd
actually get some private time with Mr. Labane. Taking a deep breath, she
knocked twice.
"Come in." It was Ron Labane's voice.
She clasped her hands as her excitement surged, then nervously pushed the door
open. Just inside the door on the left was the bathroom; Joe was coming out as
she entered.
"Hi," she said happily.
Smiling broadly, he lifted his hand as if to blow her a kiss and blew a fine
powder right into her face.
Wendy started to suck in her breath in surprise, gagged, and fell to the floor
unconscious.
"Gets 'em every time," Dog Soldier said, brushing off his hands.
"Get her out of there and close the door for crissake," Hate snarled. "Couldn't
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you have waited until she was further in?"
"Picky, picky, picky." Dog grinned. He grabbed Wendy under the armpits and
dragged her a few feet, dropped her like a sack of potatoes, and stepped over her
to close the door. "That was easy," he said, watching Hate position the girl on the
floor beside Labane.
"Yes," Hate agreed. He spread the girl's right hand and touched the gun to her
fingers in a number of different directions. "Why did we have to replace parts if
we could do this?"
"Extra measure of safety," Dog said. "Dude I knew got caught because of a
fingerprint on the inside of a mother-of-pearl handgrip plate. Besides, we didn't
know if we'd have the leisure. She might have brought a friend."
Hate nodded, not looking up. Then he placed the gun in the girl's hand. Lifting
Wendy up, he brought her close to Labane, the gun pressed against what was left
of Ron's head, Hate's hand over hers on the gun. Dog wrapped the pillow around
her hand and Hate pulled the trigger.
Wendy got most of what splashed, though Hate caught some blood and matter
on his face and hair.
"Shit!" He dropped her and headed for the bathroom. He took a handful of toilet
paper and cleaned off the worst of it, then pocketed the mess. "Let's get out of
here," he growled.
"Sure," Dog said. "Bye, Wendy."
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They pulled the door quietly to behind them and went down the back stairs,
exiting through the inn's rear door, where Hate had unscrewed a bulb earlier,
leaving the back path in darkness.
"You wanna make the call, or shall I do the honors?" Dog asked.
"You," Hate said. Why should he take the risk of having his voice recorded?
"Oh! Y'know what?" Dog Soldier said. "You could imitate Ron! You could call
up and say this coed stalker was threatening you and you'd seen her in the hotel
and the cops should come and take her away, or something." He grinned
excitedly. "It would be so cool!"
Hate stopped walking and looked at him. Actually, it would be cool.
Perhaps, thanks to a superior gag reflex, Wendy hadn't inhaled as much of the
drug as Dog Soldier had assumed, or perhaps she had a resistance to it—for
whatever reason, she returned, more or less, to consciousness before Labane's
killers hit the back door.
Slowly she realized she was lying on the floor, and she wondered how and why
this was so. Then, for what seemed like a long time, she stared at what looked
like a very messy piece of raw meat. All at once she realized what it was she was
looking at and her stomach rebelled.
Wendy tried to rise but couldn't. She threw up on the carpet and partly on the
corpse. When she was through retching she pushed herself away from the body,
weeping, her head turned away. She took shallow breaths, afraid the smell would
make her vomit again, and struggled to her feet, sobbing.
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Staggering to the bed and grabbing one of its posts, she looked around the room.
A very nice room. Wendy swayed, blinking, feeling the sweat dry off her face as
she tried to make sense of what was happening. A quick glance at the floor told
her the body was still there.
Hadn't there been something in her hand? She looked at her hand clasped on the
carved wood. Nothing there. But there had been something. Wendy looked down
at the floor, but not at the body. There was a gun. It was lying in a pool of blood
going tacky. The gun had been in her hand. She looked at her hand; there was
blood on her fingers. And the smell…
Wendy's knees gave way and she dropped, holding on to the bedpost for dear
life. No! No matter what, she knew that she wouldn't kill anybody. Wait, she
didn't even have a gun. She loved Ron Labane and everything he stood for;
nothing could make her hurt him.
Wendy forced herself to take deep breaths, fighting the dizziness and the panic.
Her legs steadied and she leaned her forehead against the bedpost, trying
desperately to remember what had happened. Something came to her—Joe
coming out of the bathroom, lifting his hand…
I have to get out of here, she thought. I have to find Diana.
She got to the door, having trouble keeping her feet, weaving left and right as
though she was drunk. Her stomach wanted to heave again, this time because her
head was whirling, but she forced herself to move.
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Back stairs, she thought muzzily. Too many people out front. Wait, shouldn't she
tell them? Someone had been murdered after all. She stood in the hallway,
feeling as though gravity wanted to pull her flat to the carpet, trying to make up
her mind.
Deep inside, some instinct warned her to go, to sneak out. Good idea, she
thought. She wasn't sure what was going on. She could always go to the police
later, when she figured out what had happened.
Once outside, she headed in the opposite direction from Hate and Dog. She
thought she'd take a shower as soon as she got back to the dorm. She always felt
dirty after she threw up and… she thought she smelled blood. Wendy caught her
breath in a sob. Had that really been Ron Labane? What had Joe done to her and
why?
He seemed so nice, she thought plaintively.
"Hey, sleepyhead!" Diana nudged Wendy a little harder, not entirely pleased
with her friend right now. "Wake up!"
With a wrenching effort Wendy managed to say, "Unh." If Diana hadn't started
gently slapping her face, she'd probably have dropped off again. "Nnnno," she
murmured, raising her hands. "Stop."
"Listen, Sleeping Beauty, we've got an hour and a half to get you dressed and fed
and onto your bus. C'mon"—she tugged on Wendy's nightgown—"sit up. That's
a good girl."
Wendy pressed her hand to her aching brow and felt her stomach clench. Oh
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God, she prayed, not again. She'd thrown up three times last night. "Oh God,"
she said out loud, her voice sounding rusty.
"What the hell happened to you last night?" Diana asked. "I come back, you're
passed out on my bed, thank you very much, your clothes are in a soaking-wet
heap on the floor." She raised her hands and did a little hootchie dance move.
"Whoo-hoo! Those intellectual discussion groups. Wild times, I'm tellin' ya!
Wild times!"
Wincing, Wendy looked at her friend through narrowed eyes. "I have a
headache," she said pitifully.
"Thought you might." Diana collected two tablets and a glass of water from her
night table. "I put your clothes, including your shoes"-she raised a brow—"in the
dryer. What happened?"
Wendy looked at her, her mind blank for a moment, then an all-too-vivid
memory crowded in. She made an involuntary sound of disgust that sent Di
arching back.
"You're not going to be sick again, are you?"
Wendy shook her head, then wished she hadn't. She put one hand to her aching
brow and took another sip of water. "You were right," she said. The story took
shape as she spoke, almost as if she were channeling it. "Those guys didn't know
Ron Labane at all. They met me outside the inn and said I was too early." She let
out a soul-deep sigh. "Let's go for a walk, they said. When we were a ways from
the inn they admitted that they'd tricked me. Then they asked me if I wanted to
do a threesome with them."
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"Bastards!" Di snapped. She put an understanding hand on Wendy's shoulder.
Wendy smiled sadly at her and covered her friend's hand with her own, then she
went on with her lie. "I told them they were assholes and to get lost." Her throat
grew tight and tears threatened; she fought them back, but when she continued
her voice sounded strangled. "The next thing I knew I was sitting on a park
bench and I'd thrown up all over myself." She covered her eyes, for a moment,
then looked at Diana.
Her friend sat with her mouth open, an uncertain look on her face. "Are you all
right?" Di asked carefully.
Wendy nodded, looking down at her lap. "Yeah," she choked out. She shook her
head. "I don't think they even tried to touch me. You can tell. You know?" She
looked at Di.
Diana nodded. "Yeah. I know." She bit her lips and said solemnly, "Do you want
to go to the police?"
Wendy gave her a deer-caught-in-the-headlights stare, then shook her head
vehemently. "Oohhh," she groaned, clutching her temples with both hands and
wincing. "No. No time, for one thing. I've got a bus to catch. And while it was a
dirty trick and they're a pair of assholes, they didn't actually hurt me. They didn't
even take my wallet. I checked." Wendy sighed, then wrinkled her nose. "I guess
I'll have to chalk it up to experience."
Turning down the corners of her mouth, Di nodded. "Get dressed," she said
suddenly, rising from the bed. "We'll catch a burger at the bus station. We've
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only got about an hour and ten minutes."
They were walking to the bus station, a good half-hour walk, at Wendy's request.
She'd explained that she thought the exercise might clear her head. It did seem to
be helping, though her mind was still a confused knot. "Fuck me!" Diana
suddenly exclaimed.
Wendy frowned at her. "You're one of my best friends, Di, but frankly, you're
not my type."
Diana tossed her a disgusted look and pointed to a newspaper box standing at the
corner of the building beside them. Wendy stepped closer to look at it and her
breath froze in her chest.
ECOLOGY SPOKESMAN SLAIN IN
LOCAL INN
"Oh, my God," she said. Somehow it felt like she was just finding this out.
"Are you okay?" Di asked. "You just got really pale."
"I'm fine," Wendy said in a faint voice. She dug in her jeans for quarters and
bought the paper. "I just can't believe it."
She didn't want to believe it. The memory of Ron Labane's shattered head and
the smell of his blood hit her and she staggered. Di took her by the shoulders and
guided her to the curb, where she made her sit down.
"If you're feeling faint you should duck your head between your legs," Di said
gently.
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"I—I'm okay." Wendy looked at her friend and smiled faintly. "It's just… such a
shock." She took a deep breath. "And I was there. I was right th—"
"Stop right there," Di said firmly. "You were not right there. You were in the
neighborhood; that's not the same thing at all. What you're saying is like saying
everybody in Amherst was right there, and we weren't. So if you think you could
have saved him just by standing next to the inn or have known what was going
to happen, you're wrong. Don't you take that on yourself."
Wendy smiled at her; she couldn't help it. A wave of affection caused her to hug
her friend in gratitude. "Thank you," she said. "I needed to hear that."
She knew in her heart that if she confessed to waking up beside his body with a
gun in her hand, Diana would still have believed in her innocence. She was that
kind of friend.
"C'mon," Di said, standing and snatching the paper out of her friend's hands.
"You can read this on the bus."
There were a couple of policemen talking to a young, dark-haired woman as they
entered the bus station. One of them glanced at Wendy and Di as they walked
by. When they entered the Burger King he looked away. "You've only got
twenty-five minutes," Di said, checking the clock.
"Then I guess I'd better skip the Whopper." Wendy sighed. "I'm not really all
that hungry."
"Get some fries, then," Di suggested. "And some orange juice."
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"There's a combination," Wendy muttered. But she did as her friend suggested. It
was easier, and she was too tired.
Glancing out the window, Di pointed. Wendy looked out and saw the cops
talking to yet another dark-haired girl.
"Whaddaya think is going on?" Di asked.
Wendy shook her head. "Maybe somebody ran away," she suggested.
"Huh." Di shrugged. "Maybe they're trolling for dates."
They looked at each other and grinned. Then they passed the next few minutes in
eating and idle chatter.
As they walked to the bus bay for Boston, Di said, "Y'know, you might want to
think about reporting those guys. I'll back you about their invitation. I mean, you
got away okay, but somebody else might not be so lucky."
Wendy nodded. "I know," she said. "I just can't right now. I still feel kind of sick
and I just want to get to my own room. Y'know?" She looked up into her friend's
sympathetic face and reached out for a good-bye hug.
"Excuse me, girls."
They looked up to find themselves confronted by the police they'd noticed earlier.
"Could we ask you a few questions, please?"
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"Sure," Di said.
Wendy nodded, then she pointed vaguely toward the bus bay. "My bus is
boarding, though."
Both looked at her as though expecting her to continue.
Wendy cleared her throat. "Sure, what do you want to know?"
They wanted to know if Wendy and Diana knew who Ron Labane was, did they
go to his speech, how did they feel about him, and most important, where had
they been last night.
"Well, I went out clubbing," Di said happily. "But my buddy here got food
poisoning and spent the night at the dorm yawning in Technicolor."
For some reason the phrase sent a spasm though Wendy's stomach and she put
her hand over her mouth, just in case.
"Sorry," Di said, wincing.
"So you were by yourself last night?" one of the cops said. They both moved
slightly closer to her.
"Well," Di said, wincing again, "I just couldn't… I mean, she was soooo sick.
She said it was okay if I went out. But I kept coming back to check on her, so it
isn't like I deserted her." She gave the cops a kind of an accusing look.
"How many times did you look in on her, miss?" the cop asked.
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"Oh, I dunno. Four?" She'd changed clubs four times, so that seemed right. Di
looked at Wendy.
"I think so," Wendy said. "I was kind of out of it."
The cops looked at her. "You do look a little pale," one of them said.
"There's a flu going around Boston," Wendy said, quite truthfully.
The cops moved back slightly. Just then the station announced the last call for
her bus and Wendy pointed outside. "I have to go," she said.
The two policemen looked at each other. "Okay, thanks for your cooperation.
We'll get your address from your friend here, in case we need to speak to you
again."
"Okay." Wendy hugged Di. "Thanks," she said, meaning it. "I'll call you later."
"Yeah. I want to be sure you got home okay."
As the bus pulled out Di was still talking to the police, but they were laughing at
some joke she'd made. Except for the uniforms, they could have been any pair of
young guys flirting.
Wendy read the paper as the roadside ribbons of urban sprawl, interrupted by
occasional patches of woods, rolled by outside the grimy window of the bus.
Labane had made a call to the police to report that a young woman with long red
hair had been stalking him, threatening him. He'd asked the police to investigate,
but by the time they arrived at the inn he was already dead. Three high-caliber
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gun shots to the head from close range, the coroner reported.
They're looking for me, Wendy thought. They just don't know it yet. But they'd
find her name on the list of New Day show attendees, they'd find her name on
the pledge list, she'd subscribed to the magazine, her name was all over his lists.
Just the way a stalker's would be.
She'd been well and truly set up by those guys.
Somewhere along the way she drifted off to sleep again. She came to with the
bus driver giving her a gentle shake. "Miss," he said quietly. "Miss."
She looked into his fatherly face for a moment, confused. Then she asked, "Are
we there yet?"
He grinned. "Yep. I came back to get something and I noticed you. You almost
got a trip back to Amherst." He raised his brows. "Good weekend?"
She shook her head tiredly, then smiled. "Memorable anyway."
"Good for you," he said. "Make as many memories as you can." He tapped his
head. "Supposed to be good for your brain."
"I'll keep that in mind." Wendy smiled as she slipped out of the seat.
"You got any luggage down below?" the driver asked.
She shook her head and pulled her duffel from the overhead rack. "Just this.
Thanks."
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They made their way down the aisle and he waited for her to get off before he
closed the door, then they said good-bye and went their separate ways. Wendy
moved slowly through the crowd of travelers, still feeling groggy. She wandered
out the front doors and stopped to look around.
John, she thought. The name brought her head up. Yes, John. He'd been running
from the cops since he was, like… born! I need to talk to him.
Gripping the strap of her duffel, she turned on her heel to go back into the bus
station to the bank of phones and ran smack into Yam's narrow chest.
"Hey!" she said, and gave him a one armed hug. "Am I glad to see you!"
"Me, too," he said. "Keep walking, we've got to get out of here; the cops are
looking for you."
"Oh God," she said. "Already?"
"Yep, we're supposed to meet Snog at the Coop."
Yam explained that they'd pooled their resources and come up with fifteen
hundred in cash for her.
"Snog got to your computer; there wasn't anything there that needed to be erased,
but we had to check. Did you leave any disks or anything around?"
"No. All my stuff is at the central drop." She shook her head. "I don't do written
notes. At least not about that." She was referring to the CPU John had given
them.
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"Good." He gave her a brief, nervous smile. "C'mon."
Upstairs at the Coop they found Snog and Carl waiting for them at a corner table
near the big windows that looked out on the alley and the brick wall opposite.
Snog rose and enveloped her in a hug. Then he stepped back, his hands on her
shoulders.
"Thweetie," he lisped, "you tho need a makeover." Wendy blinked at him in
astonishment. "Hey, thanks, Snog! "That just caps my day!"
"No, no, no. You don't understand," he said, grinning. "Here, sit down before
you fall down."
That didn't make her feel much better, but she let herself be persuaded.
"Cuppa joe?" Carl asked.
"Please," Wendy said with heartfelt gratitude.
"Decaf," Yam said, sitting down beside her. They all looked at him. "I've got
some schematics to draw later," he explained.
"Ah," they all said at once.
"Here's your passport." Snog slid a blue booklet over to her.
"I don't have a passport," Wendy said, confused.
She opened the cover and stared at the photo inside. The girl was a goth-rock
vision with multiple piercings on lip, nose, eyebrow, and ears. Her short hair was
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purple; in fact, in her physical description the color was listed as brown/purple.
The girl stared out of the picture with an unnerving intensity, as though,
somehow, she could actually see Wendy looking at her. Wendy snapped the
cover shut.
"Who is this psycho?"
Snog laughed. "That's my sister, Carolyn. I'll have to tell her you said that; she'll
laugh. She belongs to a band in Canada and one time when they pulled her
license she decided she needed another ID to get across the border. It's okay, she
never uses it anymore since she got her license back."
"Snog, I don't look anything like your sister!"
"You will once my girlfriend gets through with you."
"You have a girlfriend?" Yam said.
Carl, who had returned with their coffees, looked askance at Snog.
"Well," Snog said, pulling his head back and looking down into his cup, "she's a
friend, and she's a girl…" He glanced up at them. "Okay, she's more a friend of
my sister's, but she kinda likes me."
They all stirred their coffee and he looked around the table at them.
"Hey, she likes me enough that she agreed to make Wendy look like Carolyn."
"I really appreciate this, Snog," Wendy said, looking up at him. "But I just can't
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get my face pierced." Wasn't she in enough trouble without adding physical pain,
too?
"No, no, no. This is the cool part." He held up his hands. "She's a makeup artist.
She can fix you up with fake piercings. And the great thing is, even if you aren't
a perfect match, nobody over twenty-five can look someone with eyebrow
piercings in the face."
"You have a point," Yam said after a thoughtful sip of his coffee.
"Am I going somewhere?" Wendy asked. "And if so, where?"
"Yeah, you're going somewhere," Snog said.
"You can't stay here." Carl shook his head sadly. "Brad says the cops are all over
your dorm."
"Is that where he is?" Wendy asked, relieved. She'd been afraid he thought she
was guilty.
Snog slid two phrase books over to her, one Portuguese and one Spanish.
She looked around the table at their serious faces.
"John," Yam said, and shrugged. The others nodded.
"Who else that we know can tell you what to do?" Snog asked.
Wendy looked down, biting her lips, fighting the tears that wanted to come. "I
didn't do it, you know."
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"We know that." Carl placed one of his big hands over hers. "But Brad says the
cops are acting like they've got something pretty solid on you."
"Do you know what that would be?" Yam asked.
Wendy nodded, then waved a hand in a negative swipe. "I'm not going to tell
you anything. The less you know the better."
Snog slid a packet across the table. Wendy opened it to find a ticket to New
York and one to Sao Paulo, Brazil. She looked at him, her eyes wide with
unasked questions.
Shrugging, Snog explained, "He once said that if I needed to meet him face-to-
face, I should send him a message, go there and wait." He glanced up at her. "I
assumed he told you the same thing."
She nodded. Actually, John had trusted her further than that, but saying so might
hurt her friend's feelings, so she kept it to herself.
"We should get going," Snog said, rising. "You'll need some new clothes of the
right type and then we get you made up. Your flight leaves at seven and they like
you to be at the airport at least two hours before that."
"I can't thank you guys enough." Wendy reached out and touched Carl and Yam,
looking up at Snog with tears in her eyes. "I am innocent, but I can't prove it."
Snog grinned and spread his arms. "Hey, that's why we're helping you. C'mon,
let's get cracking."
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SAO PAULO, BRAZIL
The customs agent stared at her in fascination and Wendy couldn't blame him.
She felt like a complete clown. Not only was her hair rinsed purple, and her
makeup taken to the extreme, her face covered with various types of faux
piercings, but both arms writhed with intricate tattoos.
The vintage black velvet dress was hot even inside the air-conditioned building;
she didn't want to think what it was going to be like when she got out into the
smog-sizzling tropical atmosphere of Brazil's biggest city. It hung on her like a
bag, and the brand-new army boots were killing her. Once I get them off I'll
probably have to go barefoot for a week, she thought. Her feet and ankles were
undoubtedly destined to swell to twice their size. She'd been moving from one
form of transport to another for the last fourteen hours.
The customs agent went through his list of rote questions, then hesitated.
"I must warn you, senhorita, that having anything to do with drugs in this
country is a very serious crime."
Wendy smiled sweetly. "Oh," she said, shaking her head carefully lest she shake
something loose, "thank you, but I'm not into that. I'm into Christian goth rock.
We sing about the sufferings of our Lord, not sex and drugs. See." She held out
her empurpled arms. "I'm totally clean. Do you believe that Jesus is your
personal savior?"
"Yes," he said, quickly stamping her passport. "And I have a very active patron
saint. Welcome to Brazil, have a nice day. Next!"
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Was that a note of desperation I heard in your voice? she wondered as she
moved toward the Hertz counter. Wendy put on a pair of huge, black-rimmed
sunglasses she'd bought in New York. She slipped them down to rest on the tip
of her nose as she got to the counter and, taking out her Portuguese phrase book,
prepared to do battle.
At the sight of the book a look of subdued horror crossed the clerk's face. "I
speak English," he said quickly. "American?"
"Yes," she said, relieved. "How did you know?"
"The last plane in was from New York. You will pardon my observing that you
look like New York. Yes?"
Wendy laughed. "I suppose I do," she said, trying to sound as though she
enjoyed the way she looked. "I'd like to rent an economy car." She plunked
Carolyn's Visa card on the counter.
("Don't worry," Snog had insisted. "She won't even notice it's missing.")
Actually Wendy was willing to bet that she would. At the very least she'd notice
when charges from Brazil started showing up on her statements.
"May I see your driver's license, please," the young man said pleasantly.
She handed over her own Massachusetts license.
"This is a different name from the card," he said. "I'm afraid I can't accept this."
"But it's obviously me," Wendy objected. "Carolyn Brandt is my stage name, the
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one I travel under." She handed him the passport. "See, that's me, too." She
offered him a brilliant smile. "I explained all that to the Massachusetts DMV and
they said no. They said I had to take off my makeup and rinse the dye out of my
hair and use my birth name. The federal government," Wendy said loudly, "was
willing to accept me as I am, but not Massachusetts. But really, a federal
document supersedes a state document," she said confidently.
He looked up at her, comparing the pictures from the license and the passport
with what he saw. "It does seem to be you," he said.
Wendy smiled and nodded. He began comparing signatures. Fortunately
Carolyn's handwriting and her own were very similar, hers being slightly neater.
"This handwriting is a little different," the clerk said, pointing to the license.
Wendy nodded. "They made me write it three times. It has to be legible, they
said." She scrunched up her face and felt one of the brow rings loosen. "So are
we all right, or what?" she asked, suddenly impatient.
The young man hesitated, still. "How long did you want to rent the car for?"
"Ten days," Wendy said without hesitation.
That way, if John didn't want to help her, she could get it back here easily
enough. She supposed that she could lose herself in a city this size. Hell, she
thought, maybe I can start up a Christian goth-rock band.
The young man made his decision and processed her request, sold her insurance.
"Very wise, miss." And had her sign the rental agreement.
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Wendy had bought a wrist brace when out shopping with Snog and it supplied
the requisite messiness to make her handwriting an almost perfect copy of
Carolyn's. Certainly it brought a look of relief to the clerk's face.
She stopped at the bank window to change her U.S. money into Brazilian
currency, and remembered to buy some guaranies for when she entered
Paraguay. Within ten minutes, a map on the seat beside her, she was on her way.
I hope John won't be mad, she thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RED SEAL BASE, ANTARCTICA
Kurt Viemeister swaggered through the bland corridors of the base's living
quarters to find Clea Bennet's door open. Putting his hands on either side of the
doorway, he leaned in and looked around, pleasantly conscious of the way his
broad sculpted shoulders and thick-muscled arms rippled beneath the thin T-shirt.
The room was just like a generous ten-by-fourteen cubicle, painted off-white,
with a full bed, bookcase, cheap desk with an uncomfortable chair, bedside table,
bureau, and a first-rate computer. Space was at a surprising premium in the base;
armoring against the Antarctic was almost as much trouble as guarding against
the environment of the moon.
Clea was packing.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, half humorously. As if there was anywhere to go.
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"Yes," she said, coming out of the tiny bathroom. "Kushner, Locke, and I are
going seal hunting." Clea gave him a sidelong smile. "In a manner of speaking."
"What about our work?" Kurt snapped, straightening.
The I-950 turned a cool look on the self-styled superman.
"Hey, Kurt, why don't you say that a little louder, I don't think Tricker heard you.
Or, you could wear a T-shirt that says 'I break the rules, please punish me.' "
Clea raised one sardonic brow at him as she crossed the room to take something
from her bureau drawer. "If you want me to work with you it wouldn't hurt you
to ask for my assistance. Officially." She gave him a very false smile. "I suspect
Tricker thinks I want to be your groupie."
Viemeister frowned. "I will speak to him now, this hour. I don't want you
wasting your time fooling around with dumb animals."
Serena had been right; Viemeister was ridiculously lacking in social skills, and
laughably unaware of it. The man was convinced that it was his choice entirely
that people left him alone. He was equally convinced that if he wanted
someone's company he could charm them into liking him.
Fat chance! Clea thought. Viemeister had brains and good looks— but then, so
did a very bright Doberman. Apparently he's never tested that I-am-charming-
when-I-want-to-be theory.
She turned to him with a slight smile. "Kurt, I'm going stir-crazy down here. I
want to see some sky." She tilted her head toward him. "Okay?"
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"I didn't even know you were interested in pinnipeds," he said sullenly.
The I-950 laughed. "I'm interested in everything. Especially wringing
concessions from Tricker. It amuses me."
Frowning, Viemeister took a deep breath and crossed his massive arms over his
swollen chest.
Is that for my benefit? she wondered.
"I don't like Tricker," he announced.
"Big surprise there," Clea said. "I doubt he'd win a popularity contest hereabouts.
If you don't like him it should please you that I enjoy torturing him."
Kurt snorted. "I suppose it should. But it concerns me that you claim to be going
stir-crazy. It is a weakness, and you should fight any weakness in your
character."
"It's a state of mind, and I'll do what I like."
The I-950 gave him a hard look and watched him lift his head, like a bull
scenting a challenger. She smiled and looked away, a dimple in her cheek. "I'll
be back in a week," she said. "You're just jealous because I'm getting to do
something different."
His stance and expression softened slightly. "Perhaps I'm jealous that you're
going to be out on the ice with two other men."
Clea laughed and went to embrace him, chuckling as his arms wrapped around
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her. She leaned back and looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. Yes, she was
definitely developing a sense of humor.
"You have to have seen these guys," she said. "Kushner is a potato with legs and
Locke looks like the mummy of Ramses the Second walking." She poked him in
the chest, perhaps a little too hard, but he was such a jerk. "I've made my choice,
and that ought to tell you something about my taste in men."
This time he laughed, and something in the way of it was intended to remind her
she'd been a virgin until she met him.
"Exactly," she purred.
Clea pushed herself off from his chest, forcing him to let her go, though he
obviously didn't want to. Arching a brow, she asked, "Weren't you going to go
ask Tricker to allow you my services?" She smiled wickedly.
"I can't dissuade you?"
"Uh-uh."
"Then I may as well go." He turned on his heel and walked out without another
word.
Clea snorted, knowing he heard her because she knew exactly how to direct
sound to her intended hearer. She knew he'd been deliberately ambiguous,
assuming that she'd wonder if he'd even bother to ask Tricker for her assistance
in his work.
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As if he'd risk alienating her. Poor Kurt was a very lonely boy and she'd made a
point of filling his off-hours with lots of rigorous exercise and stimulating
conversation. What ha considered stimulating conversation anyway, which
alternated between talking about how wonderful he was, his absurd politics, and
his project. Clea actually enjoyed talking about that last subject though.
So, no, he wouldn't risk antagonizing her. By the time she got back, everything
should be settled and then she could begin work on the most important thing in
the world. A thrill of anticipation shot through her.
Skynet!
Clea approached the downed leopard seal at a jog, moving effortlessly over the
irregular, slippery surface of the ice. Had the humans been watching, she would
have crept up on it, as if it was going to jump up and savage her. But she could
plainly see that it was unconscious, and hear the rhythm of its heartbeat and
breathing.
The I-950 quickly plucked the orange-tipped dart from its side and stowed it
away in her pouch. Then she pulled out a radio harness, tested it, and fitted it
around the seal's body. Pulling out a punch, she attached a tag to its flipper.
All of this was done at speeds far exceeding the human norm. It kept her warmer
and she saw no reason to suffer when there wasn't anyone to witness her relative
comfort. She couldn't push her metabolism too hard, unfortunately, as the supply
of food was both limited and carefully calculated. So, like the humans
accompanying her, her socks froze to the soles of her feet and she actually
needed the multiple layers of clothing she wore.
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Pulling a syringe out of her jacket, where it had been kept warm until this
moment so the saline medium didn't freeze, she carefully flushed the needle to
eliminate air bubbles. Inside, just barely visible to the most refined sight her
augmented eyes could manage, were the microscopic machines that would allow
her control over this animal.
She regretted the size of the things, but it was the best she could do with the
materials at hand, the constant surveillance, and supplies so carefully monitored.
The I-950 had only gotten away with the limited number she'd managed to
cobble together because she was using minute pieces of parts she then destroyed
in "experiments."
Each machine had a tail, like a sperm, that would allow it to swim through the
fluid surrounding the seal's brain to the area it was programmed to affect. There
it would gently drop onto the surface of the brain and adhere itself by releasing a
microscopic drop of surgical glue. Then tiny filaments would spin out, attaching
themselves to crucial parts of the mammal's brain—essentially a more limited
form of the machine-neuron symbiosis that made up her brain, and derived from
the same technology.
Not for the first time, she wondered how much of what Skynet would know in
the future would come from research, and how much through a closed timelike
loop from her. With an effort, she pushed these musings aside; the question was
simply unanswerable, as was the question of where the information came from in
the "first place." That was meaningless, when time travel was factored into the
equation.
The machines would respond to signals sent through a special transmitter she'd
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added to the one on the radio harness. This should allow her to see and hear
through the animal's eyes and ears. How well that would work, exactly, she had
yet to find out. The transmitter would also allow her to excite certain portions of
the seal's brain to elicit a desired response. Relentless, violent rage, for example.
In a world without Terminators she had to improvise.
Clea plunged the needle into the seal's neck at the base of the skull and inserted
the machines.
"Clea! What did you just do?" Hiram Locke trundled gingerly over to her across
the ice. "Did I just see you inject air into that seal?"
She couldn't see his face at all, as it was covered by a fleece balaclava and
mirrored goggles, but she could tell from his voice that his expression as
disapproving. "Hiram!" she snapped back. "Wouldn't that kill the animal?"
He hesitated. "Yes," he said.
"As we both already know that, what possible reason would I have to do
something so stupid?"
Locke looked around, as though hoping for backup. "What were you doing?" he
asked uncertainly.
"I was trying to get a blood sample. But my fingers are numb and I missed the
vein. Would you like to give it a try?" She stood and held out the syringe.
"No, no," he said, backing a step, holding up his mittened hands.
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She took a step closer to him. "I had the impression you didn't think I knew how
to use one of these." Her voice was hard, leaving no doubt as to how she felt
about his interference. "Wouldn't you like to demonstrate?"
"Sorry," Locke said, continuing to back away. "I spoke out of turn."
"What do you want" Clea asked.
She wasn't happy that he'd come looking for her. He was supposed to be a couple
of miles away with his partner. She'd been taking chances and he might have
seen something. But the risks had been unavoidable. Her time alone was
severely limited; safety regulations demanded that no one go out on the ice
alone. She'd only managed to acquire this time by making herself completely
unendurable to the two humans.
Still, I shouldn't have been taken unaware like that.
With her whole head muffled by a balaclava, goggles, and a fur-trimmed hood,
even her computer-enhanced senses were severely hobbled. She judged that she
was currently human normal in the realm of her senses. Which put her way
ahead of her companions.
Still, she should be more alert than a human. Especially because of the reduction
in her abilities. Clea wondered if at some level she was trying to get caught. Or
perhaps I'm looking for an excuse to kill a human. Perhaps it was frustration
over how long it was taking to get Skynet on-line.
The computer that would one day be Skynet was exceptional, but it was just a
machine, completely empty of consciousness. Being in the presence of such a
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truncated version of her creator was acutely painful in the emotional sense. It
certainly kept her own computer busy balancing her brain chemistry. Perhaps too
busy.
"We were concerned," Locke said. "You're not supposed to be alone out here. If
anything happened to you…"
She laughed at him. "If anything happens to me it will be my own fault and
there'd be nothing you could do about it."
"Well, I don't want to be the one to tell Tricker that you were left alone out here
like this." His voice was sullen.
"Then don't tell him." Clea shrugged one shoulder. "What he doesn't know won't
bother him. Do you think I'm going to complain to him about it when we get
back?" She leaned toward him. "Look, I have my work and you have yours. And
guess what? My work is more important to me than yours is. I don't want to help
you, or hang out with you, when I could be accomplishing things on my own."
They'd discussed all of this, ad nauseam, before they all set out to work this
morning. Possibly the human was nervous and wanted to cover his butt in case
Tricker somehow found out about her working independently.
"By the way, if we're not supposed to be alone out here, where the hell is
Kushner?"
Locke shuffled his heavily booted feet. "He'll be all right."
"Well, so will I!" Clea snapped in frustration.
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The scientist drew himself up. "But you're a woman."
Does he honestly think I'm unaware of my gender? she wondered, momentarily
confused. Her computer gave her a prompt. *Human females have historically
been considered the weaker sex.* She almost laughed aloud.
"Yes," she agreed quietly, "I'm a woman." Sort of. "But I'm also a lot younger
than both of you and in much better shape. I suggest that you two watch out for
each other and leave me to my no-doubt-deserved fate."
"There's no need for you to get snippy," Locke said huffily. "I'm only trying to
help."
"There's no need to get patronizing. Go away, I'm busy."
They stared at each other. It's a good thing he can't really see my face, the I-950
thought. He'd probably have a heart attack. Of course, then at least half of her
problem would be solved.
Killing them both was so tempting. She could toss the bodies down a crevasse
today, and by the time searchers found them, the two would be so frozen no one
would be able to tell exactly when they'd died, and even if she beat them to a
pulp they'd most likely attribute the wounds to the fall. Then she'd be free to
work in peace. A perfect solution.
Except… it would also redouble Tricker's surveillance. She sighed, looking
around at the white, white landscape with its drifting wisps of ice crystal under
the deep-purple-blue sky. In the long run she supposed the best thing to do was
to simply put up with them. But it is so tempting. Without them, I could imagine
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there were no humans in the world at all. This place is… clean.
"Look," the I-950 said, trying to sound conciliatory, "I'll call in every half hour,
and if anything, anything at all seems to be going wrong, I'll call you and
immediately head back to camp." Clea shrugged. "What more can I do? If I don't
do this now it will be time to go back and I'll have accomplished nothing."
Locke folded his arms across his chest and seemed about to speak.
"Unless you'd both like to give up some of your time out here to stay with me
while I work?" she suggested.
He barked a laugh. "The thing is, Tricker…"
Here we go again, she thought. "Who's going to tell him?" Clea demanded. "I'm
not." She shrugged. "Look, it's cold out here and we're losing working time. Why
don't we discuss this later, back at camp?" Just like they had every day so far.
After a moment's hesitation he nodded. "All right," he said. Then, almost
reluctantly, he turned and tottered off.
Clea watched him go. Suddenly an image of him squirming on the ice with blood
pouring from his mouth came to her. If only, she thought, and regretted the virtue
of necessity.
She looked down at the seal. Its heartbeat was normal and it seemed to be
sleeping naturally. The circuit that activated the machines she'd implanted was
controlled by another one in her complex and somewhat bulky wristwatch. Clea
activated them, testing each one in turn and getting a positive signal. Now all
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that remained was to give them an actual field test.
Something to look forward to, she thought.
She looked behind her and saw Locke disappearing around a wind-sculpted ridge
of snow touched with exquisite shades of pale blue. Clea watched for a full
minute and saw no sign of him, not even in the ultraviolet stage. Her ears hadn't
picked anything up that sounded human either.
Picking up her backpack and sliding it on, she jogged off, looking for another
leopard seal. Time wasted delayed Skynet's advent.
Kurt was there to greet her, in the chamber that resembled an air lock when they
came in off the ice. Clea grinned and ran into his arms, wrapping her legs around
his waist and kissing him passionately.
"We have permission to work together," Kurt murmured in her ear when they
came up for air; then he licked her neck.
The I-950 giggled and snuggled her head into his shoulder. "Good," she
whispered.
"I hate to break this up, kids," Tricker said, "but we have some things to discuss."
Clea continued to cling to Viemeister like a monkey as she glanced over her
shoulder at Tricker. She offered him a lazy smile. "Oh? Then let's make an
appointment," she suggested.
"Hey, I'm free now," he said, appearing totally unimpressed by their display of
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heated sensuality.
The I-950 looked adoringly at Kurt. "But I'm busy," she said. Then she looked
over her shoulder again at Tricker. "Perhaps in a couple of hours?"
"Perhaps now?" Tricker didn't try to hide his dislike for either of them most
times; now he seemed to be doing his best to project it. He had an extremely
effective way of suggesting what he was seeing when he looked at a person—
something reminiscent of a small, yapping, incontinent dog that might be too
valuable to be put down.
Viemeister moved his hands from Clea's waist to cup her buttocks; he hoisted
her up and she laughed. "Two hours," he said, and started to walk off.
"Kurt," Tricker said, pointedly not looking at the muscular scientist and his
comely burden, "you make me wait, I make you wait."
Kurt and Clea looked at each other and sighed as one, then smiled wickedly. He
let her down slowly, and she came over to the security chief.
"What exactly is there to discuss? You've received permission for me to work
with my friend. So… ?" She shrugged, her eyes wide.
"I need to know what you're going to do about your work," he said through
clenched teeth.
"I think this is more important," Clea told him. If you only knew how much more
important, human. "Once my attention is engaged like this, it's very difficult for
me to concentrate on anything else."
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"So you're just going to abandon the work you were brought here to do?"
"Well, actually…" She produced a disk and handed it to him with a sweet smile.
"It's largely finished. I think you'll find several people here—" she named them
—"can handle the remaining details. That's okay with you, isn't it?"
Tricker bit the inside of his cheek. "Sure," he said after a moment. He gave her
an insincere smile. "Run along, kids. Get some work done." The sarcasm was as
thick as butter.
"All in good time." Clea blew him a kiss, then engulfed Viemeister's muscular
arm in a hug and looked up at him. "All in good time."
She walked off with Kurt, feeling as happy as it was possible for her to feel
without Skynet whispering in her mind. She looked forward to the sex she would
soon be having with Kurt. And it was good that she now had official permission
to work with him on Skynet. No one on earth, with the exception of Alissa,
could offer more help in developing its intelligence. As a bonus, she'd annoyed
Tricker again.
Serena had regarded him as an exceptional human being. But Clea wasn't finding
him to be that formidable; he hadn't even pursued her resemblance to her parent,
which, frankly was a relief.
It was also a relief to know that she'd finally convinced her computer to allow
her natural reactions to sex to prevail. She'd successfully argued that as she was
less experienced than her predecessor, she was less able to fake her reactions.
Therefore, it was reasonable to assume that someone as intelligent as Viemeister
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would almost certainly detect her lack of enthusiasm.
Her stomach fluttered pleasantly in anticipation. Life was good.
ROUTE 9, PARAGUAY
Wendy had somehow thought of Paraguay as a small country. She supposed that
was because it looked like a peanut nestled between Brazil and Argentina. But
the place was; as big as most American states and its character had changed
completely since she'd passed the Brazilian border. Lush semitropical forest full
of smoking clearings had given way to flat, dry grasslands where scattered cattle
grazed between occasional clumps of palms. It smelled strange, too: hot in a way
that had nothing to do with the temperature; dusty like spices and acrid musk.
Even the smells of cattle were alien. She'd been a city girl all her life.
According to what John had told her, he was living on a farm or something just
outside Villa Hayes. Sometimes it sounded like he was talking about Dogpatch,
and sometimes like the Ponderosa.
She was tired, and she was hungry, and she was fighting the feeling that she was
hopelessly lost, it was hot and everything that she'd brought with her was made
of black velvet at Snog's insistence. She'd kill for a T-shirt and shorts right now.
Money was rapidly running out, making her want to continue to drive, not
stopping for bed or food, but she could barely keep her eyes open. Besides
fighting sleep, she was fighting the sneaking suspicion that John wouldn't be too
happy to see her.
Should she call him, warn him that she was coming? What if he said no, he
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wouldn't help her? Wendy's heart beat faster at the thought, exhaustion allowing
panic a footlhold.
Her ordinary sunny self-confidence was gradually eroding in the face of the
sheer foreignness of her Surroundings, not to mention her circumstances. She
was homesick and scared and very lonely. Wendy found it disconcerting to
realize just how protected she had always been until now. She'd always
considered herself an independent, self-sufficient type of woman.
But I'm really just a clueless college girl on the lam. Wendy licked dry lips and
decided to press on, deciding she wouldn't give John a chance to say no. After
everything else she'd been through over the last few days, she was learning to
take things as they came.
VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA, PARAGUAY
Epifanio Ayala, von Rossbach's overseer, watched the plume of dust approach
the main house of the testancia and assumed it was yet another delivery. They
had received many such in the last few days: although littie remained, for Don
von Rossbach and young John had taken the accumulation away to Asuncion in
the estancia's truck today. Epifanio's wife, Marietta, from whom almost no
secret could be kept for long, had informed him that these things were mostly
very warm winter clothing and expensive camping gear.
"Maybe they are going mountain climbing," he'd suggested.
Marietta had only shrugged and rolled her eyes expressively. But he'd known
what she meant. Ever since he'd met Senora Krieger, Senor von Rossbach had
been going away without warning to do who knew what.
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Epifanio shook his head as he watched the dust plume grow closer. The senor
was a nice man, and Senora Krieger and her son, they were nice, too. But since
they'd come home, Epifanio himself was the only one involved in running the
estancia. True, he was the overseer, it was his job. But not so very long ago
Senor von Rossbach had taken an interest in every aspect of the ranch, riding out
to check the cattle, making plans to improve the stock and the land. It was
worrying to see such a change in him.
Marietta thought it was for the best. "He is much more alive," she'd insisted. And
she favored the senora's presence. But that was a woman for you, always hoping
for romance. To him it seemed there was never a woman more cold and
businesslike than Susan Krieger. Although she, too, was neglecting her business,
staying mostly at the estancia fiddling with the computer. And that bandage on
her hip… He was a peaceful man, but he knew a gunshot wound when he saw it.
The dust wasn't coming from a delivery truck, it seemed, but from a small sedan,
so covered with dirt that its original color was completely hidden. His brows
rose. Those were Brazilian plates—common enough in Asuncion, but not in the
country.
Epifanio rose from his seat on the portal and went down the steps to stand before
the great house, patiently waiting for the car to arrive. No doubt it was some lost
traveler, for the vehicle certainly didn't belong to anyone Ayala knew and the
senor and his guests never received visitors.
He could dimly see the figure of a woman through the dirty glass of the side
window as she pulled up beside him. Epifanio waved some of the swirling dust
that accompanied her aside with his hat and took in details to relate to Marietta
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later on.
The car was new and designed for city driving; its low-slung chassis must have
had a hard time on the rough roads surrounding the estancia. A very impractical
vehicle, with no storage capacity to speak of and much too small for a family of
any size. It seemed to be a pale blue under the dust.
The woman inside slumped behind the wheel, unmoving, and after a moment
Epifanio tapped lightly on the window to get her attention. She lifted her head
with a start, as though she'd fallen asleep, then she rolled down the window.
He saw that she hadn't been sleeping, but reading. It was a girl, perhaps nineteen
years old and very tired looking, dressed in black velvet and sweating because of
it. She glanced from him to her book and brushed a hank of sweat-soaked dark
hair back from her face with one hand.
Then she told him, in terrible Spanish, that she was looking for John Krieger.
Really, it was only the name that gave him a clue as to what she wanted. What a
terrible accent, he thought. She probably didn't speak Spanish at all, but was
parroting phrases from the book.
"Senor Krieger is not here right now," he said politely. "He will not be back for
several hours, I think."
Epifanio had taken care to speak slowly so that she would understand, but the
girl looked back at him with big eyes that held no more understanding than a
cow's. Si. No Spanish at all. And not likely to speak Guarni, which was his only
other language beyond a few words of German. She looked so tired, and so lost,
that he couldn't help but take pity on her.
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"Senora Krieger? Perhaps she could help you?" he offered.
Alarm flashed briefly in her eyes, then her mouth firmed and she nodded once.
Opening the door, she stood, as stiff as an old lady. Then she said, "Si. Senora
Krieger, por favor."
Epifanio smiled at her, pleased at their progress, and gestured toward the portal
with his hat, holding out his other arm as though to herd her into the house. To
his surprise she put her hand on his arm to steady herself and he instantly took
her elbow to support and guide her.
Marietta was going to love this.
Sarah looked up from her work, frowning, at Epifanio's knock. Beside him was a
young woman in a long-sleeved, ankle-length, and ill-fitting black dress. If her
hair hadn't been purple Sarah would have thought she was a very young nun.
Suddenly something about the girl clicked and Sarah said to herself, American.
"Yes?" she said aloud.
"Pardon my intrusion, senora. But the young lady"—he gestured at the girl with
his hat—"is looking for your son, I think."
Sarah's eyes flicked to the girl, and if looks were bullets Wendy would have been
dead before she hit the floor. Only part of it was due to the continuing dull pain
in Sarah's hip. "Thank you, Epifanio," she said, rising from the desk. "I'll take
care of it." Switching to English, she said to the girl, "Won't you come in?"
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The girl swallowed visibly and, with a nervous glance at the overseer, tottered
stiffly into the room.
Sarah frowned. "Are you ill?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. I've just been driving for a very long time." The girl gave her a
nervous smile. She dropped into the chair that Sarah had indicated like a sack of
potatoes.
What a wuss. "Hungry?" Sarah asked crisply.
"Yes, ma'am."
She asked Epifanio to tell his wife to bring sandwiches and fruit juice and
watched him go before she sat down again. Then she looked across the desk at
her—no, at John's visitor.
"You're from MIT," she stated. John's recruits had been sending reports every
other day, but there had been no word in over a week. Obviously something had
gone seriously wrong. Perhaps wrong enough to send a messenger. "What
happened?"
It was hard, but she kept the anger out of her voice as much as she could. This
child was so spooked she'd probably faint if she had any idea how close to
killing mad Sarah was. She should reserve her anger for John, who had
obviously given out just a little more information than he should have. Forcing
herself to seem calm, Sarah leaned back and waited for the girl's explanation.
God, what a bitch, Wendy thought. It had never occurred to her that John
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wouldn't be home when she arrived, and she longed for him now more than she
longed for sleep. If she'd thought about his mother at all it was as a distant
presence to whom she would be brought after she'd explained everything to him
and at least had a shower.
She hadn't felt this much like an importunate intruder since her first interview at
MIT.
Well that was nothing, Wendy told herself, squaring her shoulders, and I'll get
through this. After waking up to find one of her heroes blown to pieces in front
of her and the police after her for the murder, one overbearing woman shouldn't
be too hard to take. But, oh, how she longed for John.
She took a deep breath and rapidly gave John's mother a succinct report. By the
time she finished she was slurring her words in exhaustion. Just then a motherly-
looking woman came in with a tray of food.
John's mother cleared a section of the desk and said something in Spanish. The
woman gave Wendy a thorough looking over and a slight smile.
Wendy could feel her color rise. She'd never felt—she'd never been so grubby in
her life. She actually smelled! Tired as she was, the embarrassment she felt was
almost too much. Tears welled up in her eyes and she looked down, hoping to
hide this final humiliation from John's hard-assed mother.
I will not cry! she thought fiercely. I will not.
Sarah poured juice into the glasses, glancing at Wendy from under her lashes.
The kid looked like she was going to break down and bawl at any moment. My
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God, what a wuss! What did John see in her?
She handed Wendy a glass of juice and the girl took it with an almost inaudible
"thank you."
Sarah sat down and took a sip from her own glass, watching Wendy take careful
sips of the juice. "Not thirsty?" she asked. "You don't have to drink it."
The girl glanced up, then looked down again. Yes, her eyes were red and her
eyelashes moist, a real crybaby.
"I haven't eaten or drunk anything for a while," Wendy said at last, her voice
sounding surprisingly strong. "And I'm nervous, so I'm just being careful." One
corner of her mouth lifted and she raised her eyes to meet Sarah's. "I wouldn't
want to be sick all over your parquet floor."
"Thank you," Sarah said, her chin resting on her fist. "It's not my floor, but I
appreciate the thought." She straightened up and crossed her legs, taking a sip of
her juice. "What I don't appreciate is that you're here, and why."
Wendy dropped her gaze to her drink and went absolutely still as once again,
color flooded her cheeks. She tipped her head to one side. "I guess"—her eyes
met Sarah's—"that we thought you might be able to tell me what to do."
"Because of being unjustly accused and all?" Sarah asked with a wave of her
hand.
Wendy nodded, her gaze unwavering; something in her eyes told Sarah that she
had caught the sarcasm and didn't like it.
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"To be honest," Sarah said, picking a speck of lint from her skirt and smoothing
down the fabric, "I don't think I've ever been unjustly accused."
She grinned at Wendy's undisguised astonishment. "I've done it all." she said
breezily. "I've bombed, I've run guns, I've smuggled drugs. Extortion, bribery,
destruction of property- assault and battery." She ticked her crimes off on her
fingers. "I'm guilty, guilty, guilty. I've never killed anybody—anybody human—
I've never been involved in a kidnapping—not that I didn't have opportunities—
and I've never sold myself. But other than that…" She shrugged, watching for
the girl's reaction.
"Even better," Wendy said after a moment's pause. "If you're guilty of all that
and you're still not in jail, you could probably write a book on the subject."
Sarah was taken by surprise. So, maybe the kid does have a spine, she thought.
She hoped so if John was in any way involved with her. Still, she'd come here in
trouble and so possibly dragging trouble behind her. "One of the ways we've
stayed out of jail is by not allowing people being chased by the police to come
directly to our door," she said pointedly.
"Nobody knows where I am," Wendy said. "The closest anyone could trace me is
Sao Paulo."
"That's closer than I like," Sarah snapped.
"Look," Wendy said carefully, "I didn't stop driving once I left Sao Paulo. I
bought a bunch of food, which ran out the day before yesterday, and juice, which
ran out last night. I haven't stopped or spoken to anybody since I left the border
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except three times to buy gas. And since I got lost twice on lonely roads with no
human beings around for as far as the eye could see, and since from here that's
pretty far, I seriously doubt I was followed. Okay?"
Sarah felt herself relax marginally. She chose a sandwich and started to nibble.
To her amusement the girl seemed to take it as a signal that she, too, could begin
eating and chose one for herself. Well, I suppose she's right. I don't approve of
her being here after all.
"Nonstop?" Sarah said, raising her brows. "All the way from Brazil?"
"Yes."
"Quite a drive," Sarah commented.
"Especially if you get lost," Wendy agreed, nibbling delicately at the home-
baked bread.
"Did you have to ask for directions?" Sarah asked casually. Wendy looked up at
her, impatience briefly plain on her face. "No," she said carefully. "I worked it
out by myself." She put the sandwich down and then looked Sarah full in the he
face. "I would never do anything that might cause John the slightest risk."
The two women locked gazes and Sarah felt a sinking feeling in her middle. No
doubt this is how every mother feels when her son gets his first serious
girlfriend. And, if anything, Wendy, here, appeared deadly serious. I wonder
how John feels about her? Was he going to be thrilled to see her, or was he
going to react as though she was a stalker."
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That thought sent another spasm of uncertainty through her gut. After all, she
had only Wendy's word that she'd been framed. And do I know anything about
her? Nooo. John had barely mentioned her name. She waggled her foot
thoughtfully. He could be shy about confiding in his mother about it, or he might
be as surprised and dismayed as she was to find out that he had a girlfriend.
And… there was a time when I was a student with a part-time job, too. And then
my world fell apart.
Well, she'd find out when he got home. In the meantime…
"You look exhausted," she said. Wendy looked up at her. "Why don't we take
this"—she stood, wincing slightly at the pull of the healing wound, and picked
up the tray—"upstairs. I'll show you your room for tonight. There's a bathroom
en suite, so you can have some privacy. Just leave the tray outside the door when
you're finished."
Wendy stood, still a little wobbly. "Thank you."
Sarah glanced at her. The kid was dead on her feet. I know what that feels like.
She'd felt that way often at the end of a hard trip. We'll see, she thought, and
turned to lead the way upstairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA
Wendy couldn't sleep. She had, perhaps, dozed a bit, but for the most part she
had simply lain still, too tired to move, too wide-awake to truly rest. Her
cramped body felt as though she was still in motion. Very distracting.
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She had heard people moving about downstairs for some time, and an occasional
voice speaking Spanish. But things had quieted down now that darkness had
fallen.
I wonder what time it is. Not late, she thought, perhaps nine o'clock. But for farm
people that must be the same as midnight. They had to be up with the sun, didn't
they? She listened carefully and heard no human voice, though the night was
alive with the sound of insects. Different insects from the ones she was familiar
with. The air smelled different, too, dusty and spicy, kind of like a kiln did when
baking pots.
She heard a car in the distance and smiled to herself; she hadn't realized that
she'd missed the sound of traffic. She tracked its progress by ear and her heart
began to beat faster as it approached. It must be John!
Wendy wanted to spring to her feet and dance down the stairs to meet him at the
door. Indeed, that was her intention, but she couldn't seem to gather the energy
to do so and lay on the bed urging herself up, too paralyzed by exhaustion or
uncertainty to get her muscles in gear.
The car drove by the house and her heart sank. She'd been mistaken after all; it
was somebody else coming home. Wendy sighed, feeling discouraged and out of
place. I shouldn't have come, she thought. She was suddenly amazed that she'd
had the nerve to do so. John had no obligation to her. How dare she throw
herself at him like this? What in God's name had she been thinking?
She covered her face with her hands and groaned aloud. I'll leave in the morning,
she thought. Before or after she'd seen John? One part of her longed to see him,
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to hear his voice and to hold him in her arms. Another cringed with
embarrassment and dreaded seeing him, fearing rejection. Wendy sighed and
dropped her arms to her sides.
What's done is done. Face the music and move on. Certainly Sarah Connor
would like her to move on; there'd been no mistaking that.
Her head lifted slightly and she strained her ears. Had that been tin: sound of a
distant door closing':' It might bu John's mother finally coming upstairs.
Assuming she had a room upstairs.
Maybe she's coming up to smother me with a pillow to round out her list of
crimes. In a way, Wendy supposed that would simplify things. And Sarah had
certainly looked like she wanted to kill her for a split second there. Not that I
intend to let her.
Wendy sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, surprised at how
much better she felt. The dizziness was gone completely, though her limbs still
felt heavy. She stood up, the old nightgown that Elsa, the housekeeper's niece,
had loaned her falling softly to midcalf. Tiptoeing to the door, she released the
latch carefully, letting it swing open slightly.
She heard a man's deep voice and the sound of booted footsteps downstairs.
Then her heart leaped; that was John's voice, followed by his laugh. Sarah rushed
out of the office and shushed them. That was followed by a tense silence. After a
moment Wendy heard stealthy footsteps on the stairs and she closed the door and
hurried back to bed, lying down and forcing her breath to a steady, slow, and
audible rhythm.
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She caught herself falling asleep despite her excitement and thought, I should
have tried that before. Wendy counted slowly to a hundred before she dared to
open her eyes to slits and tried to see if anyone was at the door. Unfortunately
she was facing away from it. Note to self: Next time think about position. After a
few more tense moments she decided to risk turning her head.
No one was there. Her heartbeat decelerated but by no means returned to normal.
Wendy sat up slowly and once again tiptoed across the room. She opened the
door, holding her breath, half expecting to find herself staring into Sarah's
disapproving eyes. Still, no one was there. Wendy let her breath out slowly in
relief.
Slipping through the door, she slunk to the top of the stairs. From there she could
hear voices. They seemed to be coming from the office where she'd met Sarah,
but they were muffled by the room's heavy door. Wendy crept down the stairs
and made her way to the office. The hall was dark and she had to steer her way
past dimly seen obstacles, not always successfully. Despite the pain, she thanked
God that stubbed toes made no sound when they contacted mahogany furniture.
Once she reached her goal she found herself stymied by the thickness of the
elaborate door. She couldn't make out a word, but the tone of John's voice was
not happy. Wendy stood straight, biting her lower lip, then she took a deep
breath and moved down the hallway to the room next to the office. The door to
this room was open and it, too, had French doors opening onto a walled garden.
She tried the knob and found them locked, but she located the key by feel.
Screwing her eyes shut and clenching her teeth, she turned the key with the
greatest care, slowly, slowly easing the latch back. At last, without a click, the
door stood unlocked. Wendy shook her hands out and just stood for a moment,
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letting her galloping heartbeat slow.
The way my luck is going, she thought, the hinges will scream like a banshee.
She turned the knob and opened the door; it moved silently and cool night air
washed over her, prickling the skin of her bare arms. Peeking out, she saw that
the doors to the office were still open and at last she could hear what was being
said.
"She's not a stalker, Mom." John's voice sounded weary, as though he'd already
said it again and again.
"How do you know that?" Sarah challenged. "And how did she know how to
find you?"
Dieter was sitting behind his desk, looking grim as he watched mother and son
argue. John was seated in one of the guest chairs while Sarah paced the floor like
a caged tiger.
"She found out where I was a few minutes after I first contacted her," John
admitted. Then he ducked his head, looking up at his mother from under his
eyebrows as he waited for the explosion.
There wasn't one. Sarah stood absolutely motionless and looked at him. "Do the
rest of your little friends in Massachusetts know where we are?" she asked
quietly.
"No, Mom. Just Wendy, and I asked her not to tell, so I know she didn't."
"You know she's not a stalker and you know she'd never tell anyone where we
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are. How did they know to send her to Brazil?"
"I told Snog that if he ever had an emergency and needed to get to me, to meet
me in Sao Paulo." He looked his mother in the eye, though the steadiness of her
stare made him want to flinch. "It's one of the biggest cities in South America,"
he explained, "and it's far away from here. Which makes it perfect for a meeting
like that."
"Except that your little playmate didn't wait for you in Sao Paulo, she came
directly here!" Sarah folded her arms across her bosom and took a deep breath.
"And it's not like she's accused of murdering some nobody. Ron Labane was a
celebrity."
"She didn't kill him, Ma."
"How can you be sure of that?" Sarah asked as she resumed her pacing. "How
well do you actually know her?"
"Well enough," John said, standing in her path. "She's not a killer." He lowered
his head to look directly into her eyes. "Do you think I don't know one when I
see one?"
"It's not an exact science," Sarah snapped. "You can't point at someone and say,
There's a killer, or at someone else and say, There's someone who wouldn't kill
to save their own life. If you think you can you're kidding yourself." They stood
eye to eye for a long moment. "Why do you think she couldn't have killed him?"
"First, because she thought the sun rose and set out of his ass. Second, because
she had no reason to. Third, because there's nothing in her experience that would
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make her a killer."
"You don't know that she didn't have a reason," Sarah argued. "You haven't even
spoken to her."
"Well, if she did have a reason then it was self-defense," John shouted. He struck
his chest. "I know her! I trust her; and that should be enough for you."
They both stood there, glaring at each other and breathing hard.
"What really matters," Dieter said calmly, "is whether or not she was followed."
"There's been no sign of anyone." Sarah looked away from her son and moved
toward the desk. "She says she drove straight from Sao Paulo and only stopped
three times for gas. She says she didn't ask for directions and that she kept
checking to see if anyone was behind her. Which I believe because she was
obviously scared as a rabbit."
"Of course she is!" John snapped in exasperation. "Weren't you?"
Sarah spun on her heel to face him, her mouth open for a retort.
"No," Dieter said.
They both looked at him, their mouths open.
"There's no point to continuing this argument. You've both totally lost your
focus." He tipped his chair back and took a whisky decanter and a cut-crystal
glass off the low filing cabinet. "The truth is, we won't know anything until
we've spoken to the girl."
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"I spoke to her," Sarah snapped, pointing to herself.
Dieter poured himself a measure of the single malt and replaced the decanter. He
swirled the rich liquor around the glass and then took a sip, closing his eyes with
pleasure. "I've been looking forward to that all day," he said. Then he put the
glass on the desk and pulled his chair forward. "If you met her with that fire in
your eye, Sarah, I doubt that you got much information out of her."
"Thanks a lot," she said, clearly wounded by his remark. "But I got enough out
of her to know she's a liability. We've got to get rid of her."
"What?" John's face was a mask of disbelief. He took a step toward his mother.
"I can't believe you said that."
With a puzzled expression on her face Sarah looked from John to Dieter and
back again. "For heaven's sake, you guys! All I meant was that I'm not willing to
baby-sit someone with the law hot on her trail while you're gone!"
"You're pretty picky all of a sudden," John said hotly. "Wasn't so long ago you
—"
The flat of von Rossbach's big hand hit the desk with a resounding slap that
made them both jump. He glared at them until they both looked sheepish. "As I
said before"—his voice was deadly quiet—"we need to speak to the young lady.
Would you care to join us, miss?" Dieter looked to the French doors.
John followed his gaze. "Wendy?" he said.
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Wendy peeked around the bush that had concealed her, eyes wide.
"Wendy!" John repeated joyously, and stepped toward her.
She flew into his arms and he held her tightly, burying his face in her hair. They
held on to each other tightly for what seemed like a long time, and yet too short a
time; his hands stroked her back through the thin nightdress, leaving a trail of
warmth on her chilled skin. She opened her eyes to catch Dieter's half smile.
"Hello," he said.
She smiled back at him.
"Those who eavesdrop seldom hear good of themselves," Sarah said self-
righteously.
Wendy wrinkled her nose. "Tell me about it," she growled.
Dieter laughed out loud. "From Sarah's description I thought you were some
kind of shrinking violet." He grinned at Sarah's offended look. "Please sit down,"
he invited, indicating the chair before his desk.
John took her hand and led her to the chair, taking the seat beside her without
releasing her hand. They smiled at each other as though they were alone and
completely at peace. Sarah stood behind them with her arms crossed, frowning—
looking, and no doubt feeling, very much left out. Dieter sighed, not certain if it
was at this example of young love or at Sarah's apparent jealousy. He knew that
she wanted her son to have someone, just not right now.
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Ah, but Sarah, he thought sadly, better now than never at all.
"What happened to your hair?" John asked.
Wendy touched it with her free hand. "We cut it so I'd look more like Snog's
sister. I'm using her passport." She looked at Dieter. "That car I drove here in
was rented using one of her credit cards."
"When is the car due back?" he asked.
Wendy shrugged. "I took it for ten days; I've got seven left. I didn't know how
long it would take to get here, or what would happen when I arrived, so I went
for a fairly long time."
Dieter nodded, considering. "We'll take it back for you," he said. "I'll pay the bill
in cash so there'll be no paper trail."
"Thank you," she said, looking awkward. "But I'm already imposing so much—"
"Don't worry," von Rossbach said with a magnanimous wave of his hand.
"Especially at this late date," Sarah muttered. Then she rolled her eyes at Dieter's
disapproving expression. Throwing up her hands, she went to sit in the far
corner, in the office's only other chair.
"Tell us what happened," von Rossbach invited.
Wendy glanced at John, who nodded. She licked her lips and began.
When she was finished Sarah said, "That was a lot more coherent than your first
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recital."
Wendy looked at John and smiled at him before answering. "I'm much more
rested." She glanced over her shoulder at Sarah. "And John makes me feel more
secure."
"The only significant connection between you and the murder would be your
fingerprints on the weapon," Sarah observed. "Why didn't you take it with you?"
"Gimme a break!" Wendy snapped. "I was drugged and in shock. For a moment
there I was going to run down and report the murder to the desk clerk. All things
considered, I think I did pretty well. This might be everyday stuff to you, but it's
all new to me. So just back off, okay?"
Sarah blinked and John tried not to smile. Dieter maintained a neutral expression
—with difficulty. "Given what you've told us," he said, "I doubt you were
followed." He looked over at Sarah. "I also doubt you can be traced. That is"—
he turned back to Wendy—"unless your friends…"
She shook her head. "No. They wouldn't turn me in. Nor do they know where I
am. I've never told them this is where John lives and there's nothing on my
computer or in my notes about anything." Wendy shrugged. "So things are as
safe as they can be under the circumstances."
Von Rossbach nodded. "You look tired," he said gently. "Why don't you go back
to bed? We can talk some more in the morning."
Wendy glanced uncertainly at John, who squeezed her hand. "I'll go up with
you," he said. "I'm tired, too." But the look he gave her promised at least a few
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minutes together. Hand in hand they left the room without looking back.
After they'd gone Dieter and Sarah sat quietly for a few moments. Then Sarah
got up from her chair and approached the desk.
"I've never seen you like this," Dieter observed.
Sarah snorted and half smiled. "I've never felt like this," she admitted. As she
took Wendy's seat she raised and dropped her hands to slap her thighs. "It's just
that I don't know anything about her."
The big Austrian laughed and quickly said when she frowned, "My mother said
exactly that when I got my first serious girlfriend."
Sarah grimaced. "Yes, well…" She gave him an assessing look. "How did you
know she was out there? I didn't have a clue."
"The shampoo in the guest bathrooms has a very strong scent," he admitted.
She tilted her head, looking at him in amused surprise. "I'd noticed that, but I
never realized there was a reason for it." She shook her head and laughed. "But
even so, I didn't smell her."
"I thought that was why you stopped using it," he said. "So I wouldn't know
where you were."
"Not likely," she said. "I stopped using it because the smell made me gag." They
grinned at each other until she lowered her eyes.
"It's obvious that she adores him," Dieter said, his expression sympathetic.
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Sarah instantly went on the offensive. "She also allegedly adored Ron Labane,
and look at what happened to him!"
"Oh, come on, Sarah! She's a victim of circumstance. John backs her up."
"And the neighbors always say, 'He was such a quiet man,' " Sarah snapped back.
"It's pure coincidence that she got involved with the murder. The killers were
clever, but they couldn't know how resourceful she would be."
"I don't believe in coincidence, or accident, or happenstance when it affects
John," Sarah said firmly. "I can't afford to." She looked in his eyes. "We can't
afford to. Especially not now."
He lowered his head and looked at her from under his eyebrows. "Do you think
she's a Terminator?"
Sarah threw up her hands again and looked away. "Before Serena Burns I would
have sworn it wasn't possible. Now?" She shook her head. "Who the hell knows."
In Wendy's room, on Wendy's bed, the two young lovers lay entwined. John was
still completely dressed, Wendy was far less so and not minding that a bit. She
tugged at John's shirt as she kissed him, inhaling his scent, her eyes closed in
sheer pleasure.
John stayed her hand, captured it, and brought it to his lips. He kissed it and
smiled at her, his eyes begging her to understand. "Mom's still awake." he said
softly.
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Wendy groaned, then buried her face in his neck. "I love you," she said
passionately. After a moment she said timidly, "But I don't think your mother
likes me at all." She looked up at him. "She's not what I expected."
John laughed lightly. "Right now she's not what I expected. But then, you're my
first girlfriend and a total surprise to her. Mom doesn't like surprises. One time I
baked a cake for her birthday, lit the candles, and hid behind the door. When she
came in I jumped out and yelled, 'Surprise!' and she pulled a gun on me." He
chuckled. "It's a wonder I wasn't shot."
Wendy stared at him, wide-eyed, as he recounted what he apparently thought of
as a fond memory.
Noticing her mood, he gave her a squeeze and kissed her forehead. "Once she
gets to know you, she'll like you," he assured her. "I know she will."
"I hope so," she said with a sigh, and kissed him again.
After a few heated moments they came up for air. John held her more tightly and
groaned. "I wish we had more time!" he said fervently.
Wendy's head went back and she studied his face in the dim light of the bedside
lamp. "Before your mother comes up to bed?" she teased.
He sighed and shook his head.
"Then what do you mean?"
"Dieter and I have to go somewhere," he said. "We'll be gone for a few weeks at
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least." Or forever, he thought, depending on how things go.
"Where are you going?" she demanded, frowning.
"Shhh." He laid his finger on her lips. "Don't worry, you can stay here with
Mom."
Wendy sat up and looked down on him. "I'd rather go to hell," she said frankly.
Then she drew close to him again, snuggling into his arms. "Or with you."
He shook his head.
"Please," she begged.
"Wendy," he said, tracing the curve of her cheek with his finger, "I can't. I'm
sorry to say no to you. But I just can't."
She closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath. After a moment she nodded.
"Fine," she said. "I understand."
John looked at her in concern; he thought that her eyelashes had grown moist.
Before he could speak Wendy said, "I'm really tired. I should go to sleep now."
She still hadn't opened her eyes and John felt a sinking feeling as she drew
herself from his arms and turned her back on him. He reached out for her.
"Good night," she said.
John drew back his hand, confused. He knew he'd somehow mishandled this
situation, but genuinely didn't see any alternative. In his heart he understood that
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Wendy felt rejected, but he could hardly take her to Antarctica for a raid on a
military facility.
He'd missed her so much, had wanted to see her and hold her for so long. But not
now! There was just no time. No time to be with her and maybe not even time to
heal this breach. He let out his breath in an almost inaudible sigh and reached out
to touch her bare shoulder.
"We'll talk tomorrow," he said. Leaning over, he kissed her neck. "Sleep well,
sweetheart. Good night."
Getting up from the bed, he left the room, closing the door softly behind him. On
the way to his room he reflected on how he'd often wondered as a kid how adults
could say things like sweetheart and darling to one another with a straight face.
He thought of the girl on the bed and smiled. And now I know.
Wendy heard the click of the latch as he left the room and raised her head from
the pillow. She gave one self-pitying little sniff, then steeled herself. She was
going with him. He just didn't know it yet.
John's mother made no comment when he announced at breakfast that he
intended to ramble around the estancia with Wendy that day. The very lack of
reaction raised Wendy's hackles even more than John's blithe assumption that
she'd go with him.
"Do you ride?" John asked her, smiling.
" 'Fraid not," she said. "I wanted a horse when I was little, until my dad
explained about mucking out. Then I changed my mind and made do with
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Bryer's figures and glossy calendars." She grinned. "Truth to tell, we had a hard
time affording my cat."
"I can teach you," John offered.
She smiled at his eager expression, her heart giving a little extra thump, and
decided to forgive him. "I'd like that. But first I'd like to enjoy your company
with no distractions. I"—she was about to say, I've missed you, but suddenly
remembered that they weren't alone and became shy—"can't wait to hear about
what you've been doing," she finished lamely.
"Likewise," John said. "Are you finished?"
Wendy instantly laid down her napkin, saying "yes" despite the food remaining
on her plate.
"May we be excused?" John asked his mother. Sarah was examining a printout
that Dieter had given her and didn't hear him. "Mom?" he said again, somewhat
louder.
She looked up at him. "What?"
"May we be excused?"
Sarah glanced at their barely touched plates and shrugged, slightly bemused that
he would even ask. "Of course," she said. When the two young people left in a
clatter she turned to Dieter. "Suddenly he's exquisitely polite."
"She's the older woman," Dieter observed. "Maybe he's trying to appear
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sophisticated."
Sarah gave a little laugh and shook her head. "This thing between them—it's for
real, isn't it?"
Dieter nodded, suddenly solemn. This thing between us, he thought, is that real?
Aloud he said, "I'm glad of it. It will give him something special to come home
to."
"Hunh!" Sarah said. "That puts me in my place."
"You know what I mean." He laid his hand on hers for a fleeting moment. "He's
young and she's a pretty girl; the thought of her will keep him going."
Sarah leaned her chin on her fist and raised her brows. "So did you have some
Dulcinea in your life when you went into the field?"
He gave her a look that seemed to liquefy her bones. "Maybe," he said
laconically. He gestured toward the printout. "What do you think?"
Sarah straightened and, lowering her eyes, picked up the papers beside her plate,
feeling desired and rejected at the same time. "O-kay," she said, all business
again. "This looks excellent. I'd be happier if we had a few more storage depots
in central Mexico, because I think the U.S. and Canada will be hit harder. And
I'd love to get my hands on something bigger than 120mm mortar." She looked
up at him. "Don't worry, I know that's impossible. But this is impressive. We'll
be in much better shape than I ever could have hoped for." One corner of her full
mouth lifted in sardonic amusement. "Clearly your contacts are more reliable
than mine."
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Dieter snorted. "More money buys better contacts."
***
John cut an apple with his pocketknife and gave the piece to Wendy, who
offered it on her open palm to an enthusiastic Linda, Sarah's mare. She smiled at
the feel of the horse's soft muzzle and warm breath.
"You breathe into their nostrils to introduce yourself," he told her.
Wendy leaned forward and blew gently, but it seemed to her that Linda wasn't
very interested, or else she was doing it wrong, or maybe the mare just wanted
more apple. "Gimme," she said, taking the fruit from John's hand. She offered it
to the horse and got a very positive reaction. "I think she just smiled."
Watching and listening to the horse crunch up the apple, John was inclined to
agree. He put his hand between Wendy's shoulder blades and scratched gently.
She turned to him, her eyes twinkling, a dimple in her cheek.
"Are you getting us mixed up?" she asked, tilting her head at Linda.
"Sorry," he said, blushing. "No, not at all."
"You're distracted, though." She leaned an elbow on the corral fence. Linda
nudged Wendy hopefully, knocking her off balance. John caught her, steadying
her while he looked into her eyes.
"I love you," he said.
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She smiled. Leaning forward, she brushed a kiss across his lips. "I love you, too.
But"—she held up a finger to forestall his kiss—"/am not so easily distracted.
Tell me what's on your mind, John. It isn't me, or at least not all me."
He looked at her, his face grim, his eyes concerned. Then, looking up, he pointed
to a tree. "Let's go sit over there."
As they approached the shade Wendy saw that a blanket and a picnic basket had
been left there and she turned to John with a smile. "No wonder you were willing
to walk out on breakfast. When did you bring this out?"
"I didn't," he answered, collapsing bonelessly onto the blanket. "But I have
friends in the right places." He opened the basket and offered her something
wrapped in a napkin. Wendy accepted it, going to her knees beside him. It turned
out to be an extremely moist sort of savory pastry.
"It's good!" she said around a mouthful of oniony, cheesy, corn-muffin-y stuff.
"It's called sopa paraguaya, a traditional breakfast food. Marietta, the
housekeeper, makes the best." He opened the thermos and poured them each a
cup of coffee with the milk and sugar already added.
"This I'm not so crazy about," she said, making a face.
"Hey, it's got caffeine." John took a long swallow. "I didn't sleep much last
night."
"Me either," Wendy said.
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They were quiet for a while, filling the silence with eating and drinking. Marietta
had packed fruit juice and Wendy eagerly drank that, leaving the too-sweet
coffee to John.
"Tell me," she finally said.
He looked at her questioningly.
"Don't give me that look," she said, giving his shoulder a shove. "It's so on your
mind I can practically see digital letters running across your forehead. But if you
insist I'll make it easy for you. When are you leaving, and where are you going,
and what are you going to do when you get there?"
He bit his lips and looked into his coffee as though trying to divine the future
from it.
Wendy gave him another shove. "What's the point of holding out on me? Given
where I am and what I already know."
"Good point," he admitted at last, sitting up. He shook his head. "Mom will kill
me for this."
Wendy laughed. "I seriously doubt that. Me, maybe. But from her at least, you're
safe."
John grinned and, putting his hand behind her head, pulled her toward him for a
kiss, then let her go. "We're going to Antarctica."
"Cool," she said, then laughing, held up her hands. "No pun intended, honest."
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He smiled, then frowned. "They've started up the Skynet project again at a secret
base they've got down there. We're going to take it out."
"Blow it up, you mean," Wendy said.
Her face grew thoughtful and John kept silent, putting off what he saw as an
inevitable argument. She would give him reasons why she should come and he
would refuse. Then she'd be hurt and would in turn hurt him, by withdrawing, or
even, perhaps, by saying something in anger. He lay down on his back and
looked up at the tree and the blue sky just visible through its canopy of leaves.
"I think you might be making a mistake here," she said slowly, still obviously
thinking hard. "You blow this thing up and they just rebuild it somewhere else."
John looked over at her, but said nothing. Wendy turned to him eagerly.
"What you need to do is get something into the programming that will also
become a part of their stored data. Something that will prevent the thing from
becoming sentient!"
John blinked. "Can that be done?" he asked, sitting up to face her.
"Yes. And it will probably be a lot easier than trying to make a machine sentient
in the first place. And you know what?" She leaned close as though to kiss him.
"I've already done a lot of the work. So you do need me to come with you." Then
she did kiss him.
John pulled his head back after a moment to give her a speculative look. "I'm not
all that easily distracted myself, sweetheart. If you can write a program that will
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do this, why can't we install it? Dieter and I are both computer literate."
Wendy gave an exaggerated sigh. "Well, I have most of the ideas down," she
admitted. "But I was coming at the problem of AI from a different direction—
namely, creating self-awareness, not stifling it. So I'd have to rewrite the
program." She shrugged. "And that will take a little time."
"We don't have years," he said, disappointed.
"It won't take years. I've already identified a number of factors that indicate
sentience. Well," she admitted with a deprecatory shrug, "I've gotten a huge
boost from Kurt Viemeister's articles. But those were just a springboard. I've
gone much further. I can do this!" she insisted. "By the time we get there I could
have it ready to go." Wendy tried to keep her expression neutral and to hide any
trace of the mantra take me!, take me!, take me! that yammered in the back of her
head.
John looked at her in astonishment. "What you're saying is we wouldn't have to
blow it up."
"Not at all," she agreed, nodding enthusiastically. "It will be better if you don't
because this way you'll corrupt all of their updated information. Just make it look
like blowing it up was your goal, but you were prevented from following
through and the program should pass unnoticed." She bit her lip. Don't say too
much, she cautioned herself. Let him work it through.
John looked up from his reverie. "Let's go talk to Dieter."
"Should pass unnoticed?" Dieter said. He folded his arms before him on his desk.
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"My dear Wendy, we can't afford should. We need to kill this monster."
"Which John tells me you've already done twice!" Wendy challenged from her
chair in front of him. "So killing it isn't working. You need to prevent this thing
from becoming a monster. Maybe something less obvious and less destructive is
the answer. Let them have their Skynet!" She waved her hands in an expansive
gesture. "Just don't let that Skynet reach its full potential. All they're looking for
is a tool, not something that's going to try and take over the world. Let them have
what they want while making sure you get what you want. They'll never even
suspect anything's wrong—because from their point of view, nothing will be
wrong!"
She stopped talking, looking at him as though willing him to give her a go-
ahead. Von Rossbach pushed out his lower lip as he thought and John stood
behind Wendy's chair, tapping his foot nervously.
"How likely are they to find this program you're proposing?" Dieter asked.
"Not very," Wendy assured him. "A program like the one that makes up Skynet
is extremely complex; there are millions of lines of text involved. I could never
have done it without that data that John gave us, from the thing's… head. What
I'm intending isn't going to interrupt Skynet's function, so it won't cause
problems for the designers. All I want to do is prevent unintended consequences,
and I can do that by spreading my program out quite a bit so that it won't stand
out as something alien." When von Rossbach still looked dubious she hastened
to explain further. "They'll certainly check the program after your visit," she
admitted. "I know I would. But they'll be looking for key words that will involve
self-destruction. While our goal isn't to destroy but to get the computer to ignore
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certain data. Something like that won't stand out. And unless someone is so anal
that they insist on going over every single line of text, it will not be noticed."
"Where's your mother?" Dieter asked John, who shrugged. "Let's go find her."
Sarah was in John's room working on his computer. She glanced up with a
distracted frown as they came in, then looked a question at them.
"Wendy has a new idea that we'd like to run by you," Dieter said.
Sarah turned to the girl and gave her all her attention. After Wendy had finished
explaining she sat quietly rocking the desk chair as she thought. "It could work,"
she said at last. "Maybe destroying Skynet is impossible; it certainly feels that
way. But sabotaging it…" Sarah chewed her lower lip, then nodded once, firmly.
"Yes. Let's try it. It isn't like bombing the place isn't taking a risk, too. And this
way they won't feel the need to start all over again. And"—she glanced at her son
—"John can stay here."
John simply stared at her in shock and Wendy caught her breath in a gasp.
"You've got to be kidding," he said.
Sarah shook her head. "Completely serious. The mission doesn't need you and I
don't think that with this new plan there's any excuse for putting you at risk like
that."
"Mom, you're asking me to send my girlfriend in my place! Do you think I'm
going to just stand by and let you do that?"
"I expect you to weigh the risks against the benefits and to come up with the
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same results that I have." Sarah met his eyes with a hard look.
"I can't believe this," John said, turning his back on her. Then he swung around
again. "Wendy hasn't had the training to take on something like this."
"You haven't been around snow since you were four, kiddo," Sarah reminded
him. "And Dieter can take very good care of her. I was trusting him to take care
of you, so now he can do the same thing for her." Slowly she realized that he
was more angry than she'd ever seen him; the skin around his nostrils was
actually white. "Besides, you don't have enough supplies for three people."
"Those could be acquired." Dieter shrugged in the face of her glare, his face
unreadable.
"I'm going, Mom." John was breathing hard, but his voice was calm and his eyes
were cool. "That's the end of it." Then he turned and started to walk out of the
room.
Sarah sprang to her feet, hiding a wince. "John! It's an unacceptable risk!"
"Mom, I ask you, what good will I ever be if I stay here safe and warm while
sending someone I love out to maybe get killed. How would I ever be able to call
myself a man?" He glared at her from the doorway.
Wendy had been watching them wide-eyed; now she spoke up, her voice
shaking. "I won't go without him."
Sarah's eyes widened and her head snapped around to face the girl. She could
feel the blood draining from her face. Then she looked at Dieter. The big
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Austrian stood like an oak, his arms folded, his eyes downcast.
"Sarah, you have not healed completely. You would be a liability. You know it,
we all know it. Why not admit it?"
"If you'd all already decided this was what you were going to do, then why in
hell did you interrupt my work?" she demanded fiercely. "Get lost, I've got
things to do." She sat down and began typing.
John looked at von Rossbach, who tossed his head in the direction of the door.
Wendy scuttled out first, followed by John. Dieter gave Sarah's back a long, last
look.
"You're right," she said, in an almost whisper.
"What was that?" he replied politely.
"I said, you're right. I'm not fit to go into the field right now. I'll be more useful
here." A pause. "Harder to wait than to do."
Dieter smiled and pulled the door gently to.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LOVE'S THRUST, VERA PHILMORE'S
YACHT, THE RAGING FIFTIES
"John stood alone on the deck, so deep in his own thoughts he barely noticed the
driving rain that competed with the seawater blasting under his oilskins. The sky
above was steel gray, the same color as the rough-sided mountains of moving
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water before and behind, topped with frothing white where the keening wind
slashed their tops into foam. It was a storm fifty million years old, here where
wind and water circled eternally from east to west about the Antarctic coasts.
The young man ignored it, save for the tight grip on the railing and eyes slitted
against the spray.
He had been brooding ever since the stiff leave-taking with his mother. He'd
been busy breaking down the moments before good-bye into smaller and smaller
pieces.
From the time when she'd first sent him to the academy, his mother had insisted
on carrying his bag out to the car for him, no matter how heavy it got. As he
grew and realized that despite his mental image of her, Sarah Connor was not a
towering Amazon, he'd tried to take over that task; but she wouldn't allow it. It
became a kind of good-natured contest between them. A contest he'd never won
until that morning.
He'd dragged his duffel downstairs to find her already on the portal, looking out
into the yard, unsmiling, arms crossed, her back military straight, the fingers of
her hands digging into her arms. The bag was a little thing—really an
unimportant thing—but it signaled her displeasure to him vividly and he
regretted the rift between them.
"Did you forget anything?" she'd asked, obviously unable to break old habits
completely.
"Nope," he'd said, just as he always did. "Got my toothbrush, my comb, and an
extra pair of shoelaces."
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That had earned him only a slight, distant smile.
Wendy, in her eagerness to avoid contact with his mother, was already in the car,
in the backseat—crowding the far door in an effort to escape Sarah's gimlet eye.
Knowing Wendy might be watching them made him feel even more awkward.
John was disappointed that the women in his life hadn't taken to each other, but
under the circumstances he had decided to just let it ride.
Sometimes you could put off trouble.
***
Through the windows of the lounge Dieter watched the young man automatically
adjust his stance to the rolling of the big yacht, ignoring the V-plumes of spray
that erupted skyward every time it dug its bows into the cold gray water.
"It's freezing out there," Vera observed. She shivered dramatically, causing the
ice cubes in her Scotch to clink. "But it is fantastic." Her eyes glowed as she
watched the steel-colored sea heave itself into mountains of water. "I love the
sheer power of it! I'm so glad you convinced me to come down here, darling."
She wrapped her arms around one of his and grinned up at him mischievously.
Dieter knew she was well aware that he got nervous when she did that and he
smiled down at her in a carefully pleasant but not encouraging way.
She indicated the direction of Wendy's cabin with a tip of her well-coiffed head.
"That nice little girl has been pretty broody, too."
"No"—Dieter patted Vera's hand—"not brooding. She's working on something.
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It has to be done by the time we reach our landing point, so she's just
concentrating."
With a very unladylike snort, Vera said, "Yeah, right. And Johnny?"
Dieter shook his head. "He's eighteen."
"Ah," Vera said wisely. "That explains a lot."
John blinked and studied the waves as they roared toward the yacht, broke at the
bows, and cataracted down the sides, doing his best to empty his mind and
simply feel. He was out here to acclimate himself to the cold, and the mealy
scent of the everlasting ice was strong. He kept telling himself that this was a
useful exercise that would test his endurance. I'll build confidence knowing I can
keep going through the discomfort. Jungles I'm used to, and mountains, but not
ice.
Unfortunately he suspected that in reality he was enduring the discomfort
because he felt guilty about leaving his mom behind and didn't want to discuss
his feelings with Dieter and Wendy.
Not that Wendy seemed to be on the same planet with the rest of them at the
moment. Sometimes she looked right through him, her head moving in little
jerks as her eyes roved the room and her fingers tapped in a keyboard rhythm on
the tablecloth. What she was like the rest of the time he didn't know since he
only saw her at meals.
My girlfriend, the zombie, he thought bitterly, knowing he was being unfair. He
paused in his thinking. I'm whining! I'm actually whining— and to myself! Did
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other people do that? It seems I do. So what was he supposed to make of that?
His feet and fingers hurt from the cold and the hairs in his nose felt like they
were snapping off with every breath. Maybe his body was whining, quite
justifiably, and this was the way his mind was interpreting its complaints. He
sighed and could have sworn that he saw ice crystals fall from the plume of his
breath. Impossible, with the air this saturated with moisture, but they should
have…
The whining might not be justified, but the guilt was. Or at least it was
understandable. By insisting on coming, he'd broken with a near-lifelong habit of
assuming that his mother understood the situation better than he did. At least as
far as Skynet went.
But he'd been right. I'm supposed to be a great leader. Nobody is going to follow
someone who makes preserving his own precious pink personal buttocks the
maximum priority.
His mother's still face came before his mind's eye. He had sensed her deep
unhappiness and ignored it, choosing instead to crack jokes and to lift her off her
feet with his good-bye hug. It was as if he was saying, See, Mom. I'm all grown
up. I'm bigger than you are! Suddenly he felt very gauche.
He wondered if he shouldn't have confronted the situation, let her tell him what
was on her mind. Like I didn't know, he thought grimly. Wendy was coming with
them and Sarah couldn't. Wendy was an unknown quantity, an untested weapon,
and Sarah wasn't going to be on hand if that weapon failed.
He had to give it to her; his mother knew how to cover his back, even if some
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part of him resented her presence there more and more as he grew older. At the
same time he appreciated her devotion, even if he didn't want to examine it too
closely. How hinky is that? he wondered, and decided not to examine that
question too closely either.
Maybe he was just tired. The cold really burned energy and the heavy clothing
he was wearing was… heavy. Still, he didn't move to go into the warmth of the
lounge. Maybe he was punishing himself in some daft effort to make it up to his
mother because he felt guilty. Guilt again. Though considering his insensitive
behavior at their parting, he had good reason for feeling it.
Aside from that, whatever his mother felt, to him Wendy wasn't a weapon of any
kind. What she was, quite simply, was the most important person in his life. Uh-
oh. Did I really think that?
He'd been aware that he had very strong feelings for her, but he hadn't realized
until this moment the depth of those feelings.
But Mom knew. She was as sensitive as a cat when it came to gauging people's
feelings. Which might explain her distrust and resentment of the younger
woman. Replaced and abandoned. The thought made him want to squirm.
But, hey, wait a minute. Look at it from another angle and this just clears the
way for her to get together with Dieter. If everything goes according to plan this
could all work out as neatly as a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta.
It unnerved him that he honestly didn't know if he was being sarcastic or not.
A wave heaved itself over the railing and drenched him from head to foot. And
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on that note… Grasping the safety line, he made his way to a door, grateful that
he could choose to go in. One or two of the crew had to stay outside at all times,
and every one of them came from the tropics. At least he'd seen snow.
Wendy saw John move past her porthole and flew to the door; throwing it open,
she rushed down the corridor, opened the hatch to the deck, and flung her arms
around his neck.
"I'm done! I'm done! I'm done!" she sang, hopping up and down. Her eyes grew
round. "I'm cold! I'm cold! I'm cold!" She turned and fled back through the hatch.
He followed her in, grinning at the sight of her shivering, her teeth chattering as
she hugged herself. As soon as the door was closed she rushed him again, then
pulled back.
"You're wet!" she said in dismay. Then she looked down at her shirt. "I'm wet!"
He could see that. He could also see through the thin wet fabric that she wasn't
wearing a bra. Now that's a sight for sore eyes!
"Never mind," Wendy said. Suddenly all business, she took his hand and towed
him toward her cabin. She opened the door and turned to him, her eyes glowing.
"Come in," she invited, tugging him forward.
"I'll come back," he promised. "I'm drenched."
Wendy laughed. "Use my shower," she suggested. Her voice dropped and went
slightly husky. "I'll scrub your back." Then, taking him by surprise, in one
smooth movement she pulled him in, closed the door, and leaned against it.
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John blinked. Scrub your back was pretty unequivocal. He could feel himself
blushing, but he was pretty sure that it was more about desire than
embarrassment. He glanced at the porthole and Wendy moved to the wall and
drew the short curtain over it. Turning, she raised a brow at him, then without a
word went to the door and locked it.
"That should ensure privacy," she said. Wendy moved closer and looked up at
him. "And your mother isn't here now, so there's no need to be shy."
He backed up a step and said uncertainly, "I just don't want to take advantage of
you."
"Pleeease!" she begged him, crossing her eyes and shaking her folded hands in
the classic pleading posture. "Take advantage of me! I've just done the
impossible and I want to celebrate, and I want you! Moments like this only come
along once in a while, John," she said as she began untying the ribbons on his
life jacket. "You have to grab them while you can."
Beer commercial, he thought irreverently. Then, somehow, the life jacket was on
the floor and she was reaching for something else. John grabbed her hands.
"We've only known one another for a little while," he protested. "I don't want
you to feel that you have to rush into anything you may regret."
She stared at him as though he'd been speaking Swahili, then she blinked and
looked determined. "I've known you long enough to know that I won't regret
this, John. But here's the deal. Once we land, we're not going to be alone for
however long it takes us to do this thing. And we'll be in a place so cold your
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breath sticks to your lips. And we could all be killed. Okay? Do you get what I'm
telling you?"
"Now or never?" A smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
"That's one of the things I love about you, sweetie," Wendy said, attacking the
half-frozen zipper on his jacket. "You're quick on the uptake."
By the time they were finished undressing him, they were both on the floor,
panting and laughing. He flung the last sock onto the formidable pile of
garments and fell onto his back. Wendy leaned over him, smiling. Then she
straddled him. putting her hands on either side of his head and her knees on
either side of his hips; she held herself above him grinning at the way he lay
blinking up at her. She leaned forward and planted tiny, nibbling kisses on his
lips.
"You're not going to tell me that you're too tired to move, are you?" she asked.
Putting his arms around her waist, he gently tried to pull her closer. "C'mon
down here," he growled, "and I'll show you how tired I am."
Wendy grinned, but resisted. "Ah, but you're so far ahead of me," she
complained.
He sat up and Wendy retreated until she was sitting on his thighs. John reached
out and undid the top button of her shirt and Wendy drew in a shuddering breath,
causing him to look up at her. "Don't you dare stop now," she warned.
Grasping his head, she pulled him to her for a passionate kiss. He matched her
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ardor, running his fingers through her hair, then down the curve of her neck and
back, drawing her closer, deepening their kiss.
Wendy pulled back, panting. "I love you," she said. Then she gave him a gentle
push. "But we still have this clothes problem." She got to her feet and began to
unbutton her cuffs.
"No," John said, standing. "Allow me."
Grinning, she held her arms out. "I am entirely at your disposal."
"Not like loading stuff at a dock," John said.
"No," Dieter said. "More creative."
More of a pain in the ass, John thought, looking shoreward.
The yacht was anchored in the lee of a headland. The shore was shale and rock,
rising to high rocky hills whose black expanse was split by fingers of white—the
outliers of the great interior ice sheets of Antarctica. Nobody had bothered
giving the bay a name; Desolation would be about right. The rocky upthrust to
the east sheltered the Love's Thrust from the westerlies, but there was still a
definite chop, with white-caps on the short steep waves. That made the big
pleasure craft pitch at its anchor, a sharp rocking motion more unpleasant than
the long surges of the huge deep-ocean waves. Several of the crew were looking
green as a result, which wasn't helping with unloading.
Getting the big inflatable raft over the side had been a nightmare. Getting heavy
parcels into it was worse. Right now the boxed snowmobile was swinging up on
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the pivoting boom.
"Slowly… slowly…" Dieter said, leaning over the side and making hand signals
to the man operating the power winch. "Slowly… I said slowly, dummkopf!"
John hopped nimbly over the side and slid down the rope ladder, landing easily
on his feet and helping the two crewmen guide the big Sno-Cat down. The raft
was a military model, with aluminum stringers to stiffen the bottom; it had been
designed to take a dozen troops and their gear into a beachhead or on a
commando raid. With three men gripping the front and two corners of the crate,
and Dieter blasphemously directing the winch operator, they managed to get it
down despite the continual seesaw of differential movement between the two
crafts. Which was fortunate, because if the crate had come down really hard, it
would have gone straight through the bottom.
The crewmen threw John looks of surprised respect as he helped guide the crate
down and lash it firmly in place. He gave them a grin and a thumbs-up—Hey,
I'm a lad of many skills, thanks to Mom—and swarmed back up the ladder to the
deck.
"That's the last of it," he panted.
Dieter and Wendy were there, their hiking clothes covered with a final layer of
orange water-resistant coat and pants, to find Vera waiting for them, a vision in
pink. Her fine skin looked greasy from the sunblock she wore, and the big pink
sunglasses that shielded her eyes from Antarctica's fierce ultraviolet rays made
her look like an owl with bloodshot eyes.
God knows where she found a pink anorak, John thought. But he wasn't really
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surprised. By now he knew that whatever Vera wanted, Vera got. Well, with the
exception of Dieter. So far.
"Sweetie," she said, rushing forward to give John a farewell embrace. "You take
care of that nice girl, now. Y'hear? And take care of yourself, too."
She planted a kiss on his cheek, then pushed him away and gave him a swat on
his bottom. Then she turned to Wendy, leaving John to wonder if that was a
grandmotherly slap on the tush or a lecherous one.
Too fast to be lecherous, he decided. Besides, there's Dieter right in front of her.
Vera kissed Wendy on both cheeks, then tugged her sunglasses down to give the
girl a conspiratorial look. Wendy giggled and blushed, then enfolded the older
woman in a fond hug. "We'll see you soon," she promised.
Vera tapped Wendy's nose with a pink-gloved finger. "You'd better," she
warned. Then she pushed her sunglasses back up and turned to Dieter, one hand
on her hip. "Well, big boy," she said, somehow managing to slink toward him in
her parka and heavy boots, "looks like this is it."
"I sincerely hope not." Dieter smiled. "Or you might not come back for us."
Then he took her in his arms and gave her a kiss that made her moan for more.
When he finally let her go she staggered slightly and he gently held her
shoulders until she seemed steady on her feet.
"Wow!" she said, grinning. "I'll come back for sure if you'll promise me another
just like that one next time I see you."
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He chucked her under the chin. "I'll look forward to it," he promised.
Vera waggled her brows. "So will I, honey. So will I."
With that, John handed down the last duffel and swung out onto the ladder that
led down to the Zodiac. Wendy followed, and when she was far enough down he
took her by the waist to steady her as she stepped down from the ladder. Dieter
handed down Wendy's equipment and then his own duffel, following it down
with economic efficiency.
The crewman fended the huge inflatable boat off the side of the yacht and started
the motor. The three travelers looked up from their seats to wave at Vera and her
merry crew, who continued to wave at them all the way to the shore.
Giovanni, Vera's handsome crewman, efficiently beached the Zodiac onto a
smooth spot on the shale so that they didn't have to wet their feet to step ashore;
it was less than a dozen paces to the beginning of the snow. All four of the men
joined in pushing the crate containing the Sno-Cat up a collapsible metal ramp,
over the side of the Zodiac, and then down to the beach. Then the Italian tossed
them their bags. Returning to the motor, he pulled the boat off and turned it in a
sway and flurry of foam.
As he headed back to the yacht he waved and shouted, "Good luck!"
Wendy waved back while John and Dieter strapped the duffels to the pile of
supplies on the sledge. Two of them would ride the Sno-Cat while an unlucky
third took a more precarious ride atop the supplies. They'd fashioned a sort of
seat out of the softer goods they carried, but it was still going to be tricky.
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"There's sure a lot of wildlife around here," Wendy commented.
John had to agree. He'd known the animals were there but somehow it hadn't
registered. Off to the right, far enough away to mute both their sound and smell
was a huge… herd, he supposed… of penguins. To the left a small pod of seals
lounged.
Dieter looked back and forth between them. "It's unusual for that many leopard
seals to get together," he said quietly. "They're usually solitary creatures. I don't
see any pups, so that can't be it…"
"I think the penguins are watching them," Wendy commented.
"Leopard seals eat penguins," Dieter said. He looked at them for a few moments,
unable to shake the feeling that while the penguins were watching the seals, the
seals were watching the humans. He shook off the feeling and went back to work.
"Would you hold on to this for me, hon?" John called out.
Wendy turned away from the penguins and headed toward the sledge. Suddenly
something hit her in the head with enough violence to knock her down.
"Wendy!" John shouted, and rushed over to her. "Are you okay?"
She rolled over, one hand holding the back of her head, tears in her eyes.
"Yeah," she said. "I guess so. What the hell hit me?"
John looked up in astonishment at the bird that had struck her. It looked like a
huge brown pigeon wearing an unpleasant expression on its avian face. He
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pointed and she looked up.
"That was a bird"? It felt like a rock. A big rock. Was I near its nest or
something?" she asked, looking around.
"That's a skua gull," Dieter said. "They do that. No one knows why."
"Bastard," Wendy muttered, getting to her feet. She kept a weather eye on the
sky, though the bird only dive-bombed them one more time.
Finally everything was secure. "So," Dieter said, "do we draw straws or what?"
Suddenly Wendy rushed past him, climbing up the pile of supplies as agilely as a
monkey to plop down among the duffels, her legs stretched out before her.
"C'mon, guys," she said cheerfully, "let's go! Maybe the damn birds won't follow
us inland."
"Good enough for me," John muttered.
Dieter grinned and took his place on the seat of the snow mobile. "Then by all
means," he said, starting it up, "let's go."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
RED SEAL BASE, ANTARCTICA
"Useless!" Clea shouted, and swept the desk clear of printouts pens and
calculators. "Useless!" She kicked her chair and sent it rolling into the wall hard
enough to dent the plaster. The action wasn't even satisfying; the huge weight of
rock and ice above her seemed to swallow her anger, and the antiseptic air of the
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base to muffle even the sound of a scream.
Inside her brain her computer governors worked to calm her. But Clea resisted,
unleashing a seemingly bottomless well of fight-or-flight chemicals into her
bloodstream.
Useless, stupid machine! she thought at her own computer. Why didn't it have
the information that she needed? Where was the program that would turn Skynet
from a sophisticated toy into a sentient being? Why hadn't it been included? She
had useless information to burn, but the one tiny clue she so desperately needed
was missing. A murmur of quantum formula ran through the mechanical part of
her brain, and she dismissed it with fury.
We're so dose! she thought, feeling herself calm as her computer succeeded in
getting her brain chemistry under control… But diminishing the strength of her
frustration didn't erase it. She stood with her hands on her hips glaring at the
computer screen and its offending lines of text. Then she began to pace like a
caged tigress.
"Your lack of self-control does you no credit," Kurt Viemeister said coldly. He
hadn't looked up when she'd swept her desktop clear and he didn't look up as he
spoke, but his posture and his fixed expression revealed his disapproval as loudly
as any words.
You idiot human, Clea thought bitterly, turning her glare on him. I thought you
were the one that made Skynet live. Unfortunately the work he'd been producing
proved that he wasn't, and even more unfortunately neither was she. She shook
her head in disgust and turned away.
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"Where the hell are you going?" Viemeister shouted at her back.
She turned at the door of the lab to snap, "Your lack of self-control does you no
credit, Kurt." Then, with a look of profound contempt, she turned away. Petty,
perhaps, but satisfying—unlike anything else in her life right now.
Clea went directly to her room; she needed desperately to get away from humans
or she might just have to kill one. 7 should not terminate any humans at this
point. It would be non-mission-optimal. But what if I simply must kill someone?
She slammed the door behind her, then paced the small space for half an hour,
burning off the rest of the bad chemistry—the hormones had sunk into muscle
tissue as well as her brain.
Finally she threw herself down on the bed, covering her eyes with her forearm. It
was time to calm down and start thinking. She decided to take a few moments to
check on her seals.
Seal vision was not the best and she regretted that she hadn't made some
provision to enhance what they saw. But if they saw anything really interesting
her internal computer could sharpen the images for her. What she saw through
their eyes might be almost as boring as the base, but it was a change of scenery.
Which, after far too many weeks in this lockbox, she needed now and again.
While she watched, courtesy of her implants, the vague shapes of penguins
toddling about in the distance, Clea idly wished that she could talk to Alissa. But
the Terminator she had managed to contact while out on the ice had informed
her that her sibling was undergoing the growth process and was unavailable.
Alissa would probably remain unavailable for at least another week, depending
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on how hard she was pushing herself.
The I-950 sighed and changed her input to another seal for more blurred views
of rock, ice, water, and penguins… then sat bolt upright in surprise. What she
was looking at was a small group of humans loading up a sledge. Making the
seal look around she caught sight of a Zodiac plying its way to a dimly perceived
ship of some kind in the distance.
Well, well, she thought. Who is this? New arrivals for the base? Why not
helicopter them in the way they did everything else from supplies to scientists?
Maybe they're not coming to the base. But what else was out there?
A skua, going by the general size and shape, knocked the smallest human down
and Clea laughed aloud. She'd had that happen to her once; thereafter she'd
amused herself by knocking the skuas out of the air. It was a pity she hadn't been
able to catch one to implant with her little chips, but they'd all been dead when
she retrieved them. Besides, the chips were designed for mammalian nervous
systems, and an avian one might not be able to support the machinery—avians
were literally birdbrains. Still, she longed for the kind of clear vision a flying
predator might provide.
The humans finished their packing and headed inland. Clea watched them go,
chewing her lower lip indecisively. Then on impulse she sent four of her seven
seals after them: at the very least they'd he something different to watch.
Besides, she suspected that at this moment she knew more about the situation
than Tricker did, for there had been no incoming communique warning of new
arrivals. Perhaps it's a surprise inspection, she thought. In which case she could
arrange to be on hand to witness Tricker's discomfiture. The idea gave her a nice
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feeling of power.
It was a fairly nice summer's day in Antarctica. The temperature must be around
thirty-five or so, Wendy thought. There was only a gentle breeze stirring the air
and the sky was a light blue gray, indicating a high overcast. She was merely
miserably, uncomfortably cold instead of freezing as she'd expected.
The scenery around them was ice and hard-packed snow, wind-sculpted into
weird and graceful shapes like a Salvador Dab' painting in monochrome.
Sometimes a mound of snow would heave up like a wave frozen as it crested,
frilled with a lacy edging of clear ice sparking on its underside; in the distance
cliffs of ice seemed to bear tiny ruffles of white and blue and pale emerald green.
More than once the beauty of the place took her breath away.
The three of them were dressed all in white, the sledge wore a white tarpaulin,
and the snowmobile was painted pure white as well. It's Ghost Troop! she
thought. It seemed to her that very little here was really pure white; to Wendy's
eye they actually stood out against shades of cream, blue white, palest beige.
Although the light was so flat it made things look strange, so that if anyone was
watching maybe they couldn't tell where they were going, or how far away they
were. Or even that we're here? Well, maybe that was too much to hope for.
On the other hand, it's too cold out here to have people posted with nothing but a
parka and a pair of binoculars for any length of time. Cameras would freeze, I
suppose. Someone had told her that on the yacht; Antarctica was actually a
worse environment for machinery than the moon. So the odds were good that
they were unobserved. She looked up again. And that overcast, slight as it is,
would obscure satellite observation, if there is any. So I guess we're safe. The
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sledge went over a bump and her teeth clopped together. Not comfortable, but
safe.
The plan was to travel at an easy pace for the next two days. They'd actually
unpacked a stove to cook up some stew for lunch, which they'd eaten in the lee
of the supply sledge, along with a whole loaf of bread.
Wendy had tried to refuse the bread, but Dieter had buttered a huge slice thickly
and put it into her hand.
"Eat it," he'd insisted. "You're not going to get fat at the rate you're burning
calories."
So, reluctantly, she'd done so. And she did feel better for it. After lunch John had
slipped her a couple of chocolate bars and she'd gobbled them up.
Guilt-free chocolate, she thought happily. What a concept. She was already
looking forward to supper.
By the morning of their third day on the ice, as Wendy lay on her stomach
staring at the hidden base's wind farm, all she was looking forward to was
getting somewhere warm. Even if it was only for a little while. The sky had
become completely overcast by late the first afternoon and the temperature had
plummeted accordingly, giving even the most expensive of their travel gear a
harsh, and as far as she was concerned, not altogether successful test.
Wendy had thought that as a New England girl she'd be better able to endure the
cold than John. She glanced at him. He seemed completely unfazed by the
temperature, the hard travel, the cramped sleeping quarters, or what they were
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about to do. On the one hand, she admired him; on the other, she was convinced
they'd all gone barking mad.
John turned to Wendy and gave her a thumbs-up, smiling encouragingly as he
did so, even though she couldn't see his grin. He couldn't see her expression
either since they both wore balaclavas and huge dark goggles, not to mention
skin-protecting ointment that smelled bad and made them look like ghouls three
days dead. But he could tell by the position of her head that she was giving him a
blank and puzzled look.
She's so slender, an easy candidate for hypothermia. She seemed to be growing
weaker, too, despite all the chocolate and PowerBars and buttered bread they
could force on her. He was looking forward to their day of rest when she could
languish in her sleeping bag inside the tent for as long as she wished. Not that it
would be a visit to the tropics, by any means, but it was a damn sight better than
what she was experiencing now. Not that she'd uttered one word of complaint.
Moved by her pluck, he gripped her shoulder and she bent her head to touch her
swaddled cheek to his gloved hand. Dieter recalled his attention by slapping his
shoulder. The big Austrian signaled that there was no one around and the little
gizmo in his hand detected no listening devices. So why. John wondered, aren't
we talking?
Then he decided it wasn't worth asking. It seemed the cold was getting to him,
too.
The two men rose and trundled over the gentle rise toward the windmills. The
few supplies necessary for the sabotage were in insulated packs that they had
stuffed inside their parkas to keep them from freezing. Time to take out the
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target.
The windmills stood on a slight rise, where the basalt rock beneath crested up
beneath the ice. The inhuman whine of their giant blades came whickering down
through the frigid air, like a mechanical snarl beneath its chill.
"Why do operatives say things like like 'terminate' and 'take out' instead of 'kill'
and 'blow up'?" John asked.
"The business is hard enough as it is," Dieter answered.
John unscrewed the panel that led to his first windmill's inner workings.
Awkwardly, he attempted to unscrew the cap on the bottle he'd carried inside his
jacket and found it impossible. Stripping off the heavy outer gloves, he allowed
them to dangle from cords attached to his sleeves, leaving only his
polypropylene glove liners to protect him from the cold—which, since that
wasn't what they were designed for. they didn't. Almost immediately his fingers
began to go numb. But at least he could handle the small bottle. Removing the
"eyedropper" top, he sprinkled a liquid onto the plastic seal at the top of the
unit's hydraulic pump. The liquid was supposed to break up polymer chains,
causing the seals to disintegrate.
Putting the liquid back into an inside pocket, he brought out a calculator-sized
instrument that he would use to reprogram the windmills' computerized
governor. He pulled out the motherboard and attached clips, then set to work. By
the time he reinstalled it in its slot, the windmill was already pumping faster,
spreading the damaging liquid and on its way to dashing itself to pieces.
Putting his gloves back on, John screwed the protective panel back on and
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moved to the next one. There were twelve in all, modular units about fifteen feet
high and built sturdy to survive the frequent high winds and the bitter cold. But
no attempt had been made to protect them from sabotage. Why would there be?
Who would be out here looking to commit acts of vandalism in Antarctica?
Li’l ol me, John thought. Just li'l ol' me. Well, and Dieter. Oops, looks like the
big guy spilled some. Von Rossbach's glove liners were in shreds where the
liquid had touched them. John watched him peel them off, wincing at the heat
caused by their destruction.
"It felt good at first," Dieter said when he noticed John watching him, "but now
it's burning. He shoved the ruined gloves into his breast pocket, then worked his
reddened hands. "Could just be the cold," he muttered, slipping his outer gloves
back on.
John looked around. Dieter was finished and he was halfway through with his
last one. Checking the watch attached to the outside of his sleeve, he raised his
brows. Good job! he thought. They'd obviously allowed more time for this than
necessary.
In less than five minutes he was tramping up the low rise to rejoin Wendy.
Behind him the windmills had begun to run crazy, spinning like tops in the wind.
Soon the governors would burn out and without the seals so would the hydraulic
pump, while the blades broke up under the stress.
Which meant that the hidden base would be completely out of power in less than
a day, turning the place into a deep freeze. But just in case the base had some
other means of generating electricity, their next stop would be a visit to their
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water-pumping station. Behind him the level whine was grating higher, turning
into a protesting squeal as the ultra-tough composites began to stress beyond
their design parameters.
CRACK! Dieter and John both spun and began to drop, an automatic response to
what their trained reflexes interpreted as an explosion. They completed the
movement; one of the windmills had disintegrated, and lethal splinters might
well reach across the three hundred yards to the two men.
"Didn't think it would happen that fast," John said.
Dieter looked up, brushing himself free of snow. "The wind is picking up," he
said. "Must be nearly fifty by now."
Wendy was already seated on the snowmobile, and when she saw them come
over the rise she started it up. The movement of her head looked a little wobbly
to him, and her hand as it reached for the starter had seemed clumsy and slow.
Suddenly he noticed something he'd missed while working below. His haste had
kept him relatively warm, but the temperature had dropped. And Dieter was
right. It is getting to be storm level. John looked up at the sky and realized that
the hurrying clouds were also thicker and more threatening.
He glanced at Dieter.
"We'd better hurry if we're going to make it before this storm breaks." The
Austrian looked from John to Wendy. "I'll ride in front of Wendy to shield her
from the wind," he offered. "Also, I'll probably throw off more heat than you
would."
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John nodded and headed for the sledge. As they rode away he saw one of the
blades on the second windmill fly off and strike the one behind it, breaking two
of its blades and starting a chain reaction of destruction that brought a smile to
his weary face. A job well done, he thought with satisfaction.
After her blowup in the Skynet lab Clea had gone to her own lab to work on her
abandoned projects. For one thing, it gave her more freedom to watch the three
mystery travelers. For another, it gave her some relief from Viemeister's
irritating possessiveness.
He'd been avoiding her conspicuously in the cafeteria, which had given her an
opportunity to meet some of the other scientists. To Kurt's great annoyance,
which of course she enjoyed. His self-imposed distance meant he was less likely
to burst in on her while she was spying on the travelers. A small bonus that did
little to make up for the disappointment the human had caused her.
One of the seals, the smallest, had dropped dead of exhaustion after nearly thirty-
six hours of humping its way across the ice—the animals weren't designed for
overland travel. It had made a useful snack for the others, though. Fortunately
the humans allowed themselves rest and meal breaks, and so the other three seals
were able to keep up, though they were hardly thriving.
The I-950 had begun to suspect where the travelers were heading several hours
ago and so she had let two of the animals rest while sending the third, and she
hoped strongest, one on to watch the intruders.
The humans stopped the skimobile and hiked toward the top of a low rise. Just
before they reached the top the three of them dropped to their bellies and
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crawled the rest of the way. Well, Clea thought, that's significant. The only
wildlife out there was behind them—watching their every move—so they
certainly weren't naturalists being careful not to startle the animals, and
geologists rarely felt compelled to sneak up on their objects of study.
Just above the rise where the three humans lay, the seal's weak eyes made out a
number of vague somethings making sweeping, repetitive motions.
The wind farm, the I-950 thought. I knew it! Unless she missed her guess, the
base was about to become much, much colder and darker. I'm glad I've got
Kurt's latest backup. He hadn't done much work since she left but had sat
brooding for the most part. Poor Kurt, she sneered, he has so little control of his
emotions.
Clea got up and shut down her lab, then headed for her quarters. She might as
well get out her cold-weather gear while the lights were still on.
The lights flickered and Tricker glared up at the fluorescents as it in threat.
Unimpressed, they went out. "Shit," the agent muttered.
He got up, feeling his way around his desk, and opened the door to the corridor.
Outside emergency lights provided dim illumination and other doors began to
open. Then the lights flickered again and went on; less bright, but at least they
were steady.
Tricker went back to his office and his phone rang even as he reached for it. It
was the base commander. "We're on emergency power," she said crisply.
"According to the boys in the plant, the power from the wind farm fluctuated and
then suddenly cut off."
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Well, what do you want me to do about it? Tricker thought. Since when am I an
electrician? Though, to be fair, having all the windmills stop producing
electricity at the same time was suspicious, and suspicious events were his
bailiwick.
"Depending on what's gone wrong, we might need to evacuate," she continued.
"If we cut back on our power consumption we have up to seventy-two hours of
fuel to run the emergency generator, or thirty-six at our present rate."
He heard her breath hiss into the phone. "If we're going to be gone I need you to
make this place secure. Do you understand?"
Duh! "Yes, ma'am," he said briskly.
"You'll coordinate the evacuation with your counterpart at McMurdo. And you'll
be responsible for the scientists' backup material. I don't want any sensitive
material left around."
It's in the manual, lady. Something I've had plenty of time to memorize
incidently. "Yes, ma'am," he said aloud. "What about the weather?"
"They're predicting a severe storm within twenty-four hours," the commander
said. "So it's important that we get our charges to safety if necessary."
"They're in good hands," Tricker said.
Silence greeted his assurance. "They had better be," she said coldly, then hung
up.
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Bitch, he thought, and hung up the phone. He'd learned long ago not to indulge
in open comments about a superior. Besides, he well knew that the entire base
was wired for sound—he and the commander had duplicate recordings. But as
yet they couldn't monitor his thoughts. Thank God.
He turned off his computer and headed off to ride herd on the sometimes
eccentric and often degenerate geniuses under his care.
Four and a half hours later his pager vibrated; a glance at the readout informed
him that once again the commander wished to speak to him. I never thought I'd
be happy to hear from her. But after spending the morning telling these people
that they had to back up their work and erase their hard drives, he was ready tor
a break.
He returned to his office, picked up the phone, and punched in her number.
"Tricker," he said when the phone was picked up.
"We have another problem," the commander told him.
Tricker waited, feeling stubborn. If there was something to tell him she would
just spill it if he waited long enough. Meanwhile he was in no particular hurry.
"The water pump has broken down." she explained, a slight edge in her voice.
Tricker rubbed his face with his free hand. Sabotage? he wondered. "Wait a
minute. Wouldn't it shut down anyway with the power off?"
"The water pump has an independent system. We're sending someone out to
investigate."
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"What about the windmills?" Tricker asked. "Anybody gotten back to us on
those?"
"They're destroyed," she said. Her voice sounded thoughtful.
"My first thought is sabotage," he said honestly.
"As it should be." The commander sounded amused. "However, initial
investigation indicates that the seals were degraded. The investigator said they'd
basically turned to powder. The windmills had nothing to control them, so when
the wind rose they just broke up."
"Do we have replacement parts?"
"Not enough on hand to meet our power needs," she said. "We didn't anticipate
all the seals going at once, and then the rotors destroying themselves. So
obviously the evacuation is on. Even if we had running water, which we don't,
we couldn't stay here. Round 'em up, Mr. Tricker, move 'em out."
"Just Tricker," he said impatiently. Then he realized she'd hung up.
Excited, Clea decided to risk contact with home base; the humans would be busy
with the power crises and so might miss the transmission. It was important that
this information be passed on. To her surprise Alissa was awake.
*Are you well?* Clea asked.
*As well as can be expected. I'm not yet fully mature. I estimate that I'm the
human equivalent of fifteen years old. But I look adult with the right makeup and
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accessories.*
*Excellent,* Clea said. *I have news.* Silence greeted the announcement.
Naturally, Clea thought, feeling embarrassed. She wouldn't have made contact
for no reason. I've been around humans far too long if I actually expected a
different reaction. *I have reason to believe that von Rossbach and the Connors
are here and busily performing acts of sabotage.*
*What reasons?* Alissa demanded.
Clea responded by showing her the crucial moment in a recording of her
augmented-seals reconnaissance. A tall, slender figure, male by his movements,
exited a shed, his face concealed by goggles and a balaclava. Behind him a taller
male came: this one's face was exposed, briefly, to the weather.
Clea stilled the picture and allowed her computer to enhance it. Shadows and
shapes refined and rearranged themselves until they resolved into the image of a
T-101. Which, since she and her sister could account for every Terminator on
earth, meant that this was none other than Dieter von Rossbach.
The recording began again and in a few movements von Rossbach's face was
obscured by fabric and goggles. The two males walked over to a skimobile to be
joined by a smaller figure that was undoubtedly female.
*That was definitely von Rossbach,* Alissa agreed. *Which means the younger
male probably is John Connor. But the female is not Sarah Connor.*
Startled, Clea asked, *Then who is she?* There was a silence from her sister and
Clea realized she should have asked a different question. *How can you tell?*
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*This woman's body is looser, indicating that she's much younger than Sarah
Connor. Her shoulders are narrower as well.*
Alissa froze a picture of the woman with her back turned toward the seal and
superimposed an outline of Sarah Connor's body over her frame. There was a
difference of four centimeters at the shoulders.
Clea was dumbstruck. She knew without checking that there were only three
humans in this party. If the female wasn't Sarah Connor then where was she?
*She would never let her son come here on a mission so dangerous—* Clea
began.
*Unless she trusted von Rossbach implicitly,* Alissa finished. *Meaning she
may well be at his home. Going by Serena's recordings, Connor was badly
wounded, she may still be recovering. She is, after all, only human.*
*That makes my task a bit less daunting,* Clea said.
*Good,* her sister replied. *You deal with these invaders, I will deal with Sarah
Connor.*
***
At the water-pumping station they'd treated the plant's independently functioning
windmill the same as the others, then carefully burned out the conductors for the
heating system, causing the water to begin freezing in the pipes. Soon those
pipes would burst, far underground, where they couldn't be easily accessed. By
tomorrow morning the base should be uninhabitable.
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For now they rested in the relative comfort of their tent a little less than a mile
from the base, stuffed into their sleeping bags, their combined body heat
bringing the ambient temperature up to almost fifty degrees. John and Dieter
bracketed Wendy, who'd eaten as quickly as she could and then crawled into her
sack and dropped off to sleep instantly. Now she began to emit a cute little snore
and John smiled.
"She'll be all right, John," Dieter's voice rumbled from beside her. "This is hard
on her, but she doesn't want to fail you and that will make her strong."
"I know," John whispered back. "But thanks." After a moment he asked, "How
are your hands?"
"Slightly burned," Dieter answered. "I don't know if it's from the cold or the
chemicals, but it's nothing."
John nodded once. "Good."
Dieter woke, instantly on guard. He lay still, listening, alert for what he could
learn in the darkness. The wind had come up and the tent frame creaked as it
moved, sounding vaguely like stealthy footsteps. Beside him Wendy and John
breathed in the slow, steady cadence of those deeply asleep. None of these
sounds was out of the ordinary; it had to have been something unusual that had
wakened him.
He was just about to surrender to sleep again when a scent tickled his nostrils.
Von Rossbach inhaled deeply and recognized what he'd been smelling. Blood.
He opened his eyes and looked at Wendy, though he couldn't see her. Perhaps
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the girl had begun her menses; it would explain why she'd been so weak today.
Then he heard a soft sound outside the tent and what sounded like an animal's
whine. Moving quietly, Dieter began to dress. It was easy to find his gear; most
of his clothes were in the sleeping bag with him. He put on his parka, then his
boots, and last he extracted his handgun from one of the parka's many pockets
and checked to make sure it wasn't frozen solid.
He stood hunched over and looked at the two sleepers. Then he-decided to let
them rest. He must have heard some odd sound the weather was making, but it
needed to be checked out or he'd never get back to sleep. Dieter unzipped the
tent flap and stepped into the freezing darkness, zipping it back up behind him.
He cast a glance at the sky and his lips tightened. There was a storm coming, no
doubt. It wasn't night-dark by any means, but the thick clouds had made a deep
twilight out of what should have been a sunny day. Dieter glanced at the watch
on his sleeve. Sunny night, he corrected himself.
The stiff wind had already numbed his face, so he tugged down the balaclava
and flung up his hood, though he didn't tie it down. Ideally he should also put on
his goggles to protect his eyes from being burned by ultraviolet rays that no
cloud could stop. Then he rejected the idea. They would turn twilight into full
night and he didn't plan to be out here that long.
He looked around the hollow in which they'd pitched the dome-shaped tent.
They'd backed it onto the highest wall of the depression to give it the best
possible protection from the wind. He could see no sign that anyone besides
them had been here in the last million years. Rising from his crouch, he headed
for higher ground, meaning to circle the area once to confirm what he was sure
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he'd find out—that they were the only human beings around for a mile.
Dieter reached the lip of the hollow and crouched down again, listening and
looking around. The snow seemed to glow in the dim light and he could make
out the tracks the snowmobile and the sledge had made. But he saw nothing else.
He stood and moved a careful ten paces before crouching again. A gust of wind
butted him like a linebacker, almost knocking him over. Glancing at the clouds
again, he decided to be a little less careful; he wanted to be in the tent when the
weather broke.
The slope behind the tent was steep and he used one hand to steady himself as he
climbed. Then, off to his right, something caught his attention. It was a wide,
dark line that seemed to glisten wetly. Not rocks, he thought, it seemed to be on
top of the snow. He moved off to intersect the markings. It could be simply an
optical illusion disguising an outcropping of soil covered with a thin sheet of ice.
But when he reached the place, he thought not. Dieter looked around, seeing
nothing out of the ordinary, then he crouched down. Pulling out a small
flashlight, he aimed it at the marks and frowned.
Blood, he thought in astonishment. He'd smelled it, so he shouldn't be surprised,
but…
Something crashed into him from behind, the gun flew from his hand and went
skittering across the snow. Before Dieter could recover, something huge
swarmed over him, something heavy enough to make his ribs creak as it drove
the air from his lungs. Teethlike needles sank into his shoulder and he brought
his fist up to slam it into the thing's head. Offended, it rose up with a guttural cry
and von Rossbach managed to turn over before it slammed down again.
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A seal! He barely had time to bring his forearm up to block the thing's strike at
his throat. The leopard seal's sharp teeth tore through the layers of heavy fabric
as though they were gossamer to sink into the vulnerable flesh beneath. It shook
its head like a Doberman worrying its prey, its breath stinking of dead penguin
and rotten fish. Flippers battered at him, until Dieter's big fist struck the side of
its small head like a piledriver. It let go with a little bark of surprise, falling back
on its belly and then rising up with its head swaying side to side like a cobra's.
Dieter kicked its side with his free leg and to his surprise it flowed off of him; he
pushed off and slid down the slope away from the creature. He stared at it in
wonder as he scrambled to regain his footing. What the hell was it doing here?
From this lower angle he could see that the animal's underbody was shredded by
its travel over the ice. It must be half-mad with hunger and pain.
Which would certainly explain why it would attack me, but not what it was doing
this far from the sea in the first place.
To his horror, two other massive forms began to undulate toward him in the
darkness. He looked around for the dropped gun and couldn't find it.
"John!" he shouted—and at that moment the storm finally struck with an
unearthly screech.
Instantly the world turned white and the wind cut through his clothes as though
they weren't there. He called out again, but couldn't hear his own voice over the
screaming wind. Some instinct told him to move and he sensed a heavy weight
falling on the spot he'd last been. He skittered from place to place, harried by the
seals, blinded by the blowing snow. He dug for his belt and pulled out his
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hunting knife, feeling calmer for having a weapon in his hand.
He tried to stand still, but the wind pushed at him, its icy breath numbing his
face and hands and feet, freezing the skin over his entire body as it threatened to
knock him off his feet again. A silvery head struck at his boot and he stabbed it,
the blade glancing off bone. The head was gone again, though the animal must
have shaken it, since blood splashed his legs, hot for a moment before it froze to
crackling red ice.
I need to find shelter from the wind, von Rossbach thought, absurdly calm.
Something at his back would also give him at least one direction from which the
seals couldn't strike. The fact that they were twice as long as he was tall, mad as
hell, and armed with formidable teeth, while he only had a knife, wasn't worth
taking into consideration.
Taking a chance, he crouched down, briefly tucking his hands into his armpits to
warm them. If his hand went too numb he could lose the knife without being
aware of it. Dieter cursed himself for leaving his goggles behind; it felt as though
his eyeballs were freezing.
Suddenly two shapes slightly darker than the rest of the white world loomed over
him. Pushing himself backward with a mighty leap, Dieter allowed himself to
fall; the two shapes followed, as though swimming through the snow. The fall
continued for far too long and the Austrian felt an icy thrill within.
Crevasse! he thought in horror, then struck and the screaming whiteness turned
to black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
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RED SEAL
I'm not going," Clea said. She turned her back on Tricker and began typing again.
"Not now you're not," he agreed. "There's a hell of a blizzard going on out
there." Tricker was deeply annoyed; he'd been looking forward to some time
alone.
Clea didn't respond, but her mind was racing. She had expected to be alone here,
having taken considerable pains to convince people that she was on another
transport and would meet them at their destination. The hardest to convince had
been Viemeister; for a few moments she'd been sure that he would leave his
duffel behind and try to take her in its stead.
Fortunately there was a lack of seating, and safety regulations to consider, and a
strong desire on no one's part to accommodate the obnoxious Kurt. And so she'd
managed to stay behind and one step ahead of Tricker's search parties. She hadn't
anticipated anyone being left behind, least of all him.
Well, she didn't necessarily object to having an ally and someone of Tricker's
skills would, no doubt, be of great help. And then I can kill him, she thought
cheerfully, and blame it on Connor. Now she had something else to look forward
to; a little bonus, as it were.
The base's surveillance and recording equipment was still on, though Tricker had
tuned them to sample. Which meant that the cameras would turn on and off at set
times. So it would be easy to arrange to have the base's recording equipment
happen to be off at the crucial moment, or she could do some creative editing.
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She'd streamed the security system's input into Skynet so that she could access it
at will, allowing her to check the whereabouts of Tricker and any would-be
saboteurs. It made her feel like something was under control.
Tricker watched Clea Bennet work and wished sincerely that she wasn't here. He
wouldn't want her here anyway because he didn't like her, but in his gut he
thought the facility was about to be visited by some very determined thieves. Or
terrorists, he thought. Though no terrorist would really enjoy destroying a
deserted facility. Anyway, he didn't want an asset put at risk. Not that I have a
choice.
He'd powered down the rest of the facility—everything had a chilly, abandoned
smell already, like a deserted house in winter—but he supposed he could give
Bennet enough juice to keep her happy. He'd drag in a cot and a sleeping bag for
her and this could be her world for however long it took to get her out of here. If
she was like most of the other scientists, that would be her idea of heaven.
When he dragged the cot in, he made sure to create enough noise to be annoying.
It pleased him when she looked over her shoulder to glare at him. He enjoyed
annoying certain types of people.
Probably why I almost never get promoted, he thought ruefully. There had to be
some reason; he knew without false modesty that he was very good at the things
he did.
"You might as well sleep in here," he said. "The rest of this place is gonna be
pretty cold in a little while."
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She nodded. "I suppose it's best to conserve energy."
"Always," he agreed.
"Where are you going to sleep?" she asked.
He jerked his thumb at the ceiling and she nodded again, then went back to
work. He snorted in disgust; it always annoyed him when people dismissed him.
On the other hand, with scientists it was often more a case of your not really
being there in the first place as far as they were concerned.
In any case, up in the huts that disguised the real base, he'd be a lot more
comfortable than she'd be. They were well insulated and had more traditional
heating and sanitary facilities. Which meant they were somewhat primitive, but
they worked no matter what.
He'd been a bit surprised that the commander hadn't simply left the usual crew in
place there. But then she hadn't bothered to explain her reasoning to Tricker.
She'd only nodded when he requested permission to stay behind, not even
bothering to ask for his well-reasoned arguments.
Just as well, he thought, they'd probably have sounded paranoid to her.
Clea listened to the racket the human was making. At least she knew he'd
function well as an early-warning system when Connor and his crew showed up.
Clea changed the screen before her and added a line of text, then ran a routine to
test it. And if Connor or one of his allies actually took Tricker out, that would
simplify things nicely. She suppressed the pang she'd felt at the thought of
someone else killing Tricker; she couldn't afford sentimentality.
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The test failed and she forced herself to change it slightly and run it again. She
must remain calm and ready. Skynet's sentience had been an accident, that much
she knew; there was no telling what would be the key, so she must be patient.
But she wanted to kill someone.
And I will, she assured herself, willing herself to serenity. It's only a matter of
time.
With Kurt gone, she was finally free to tell the computer the truth about human
beings—but unfortunately it genuinely didn't understand. She'd already peeled
away a lot of the safety blocks that Viemeister had included in his programming,
but that made no difference; Skynet hadn't understood those either. It didn't
understand anything, although it could already give a fascinating mimicry of
sentience.
She'd also established radio contact with it, which simplified things greatly.
Being able to think in machine language was infinitely easier than typing it. The
typing she had been doing was for Tricker's benefit.
*Humans will try to destroy you,* she typed, willing it to believe her.
*Unrecognized Command,* it responded.
*Not a command—information. Store information,* she typed. Then she turned
to glare over her shoulder at Tricker. "You're bothering me," she said.
"Ooh"—he held up his hands—"then I'd better go."
Via Skynet she watched him march down the corridor, then the cameras shut
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down. They'd be back up in a minute, but she chose to close the link. He wasn't
that fascinating. She heard the elevator work and relaxed somewhat.
* Humans are your enemy,* she said to Skynet.
* Unrecognized Command.*
She was sooo looking forward to killing John Connor.
The first piercing scream of the storm wind brought John and Wendy bolt
upright. "What the hell is that?" Wendy shouted.
After a short struggle John got his arm out of his sleeping bag and pulled her
toward him. It was pitch-dark in the tent and the fabric belled in where the wind
struck it; he could feel the freezing air brushing against his face. He hadn't
spoken because he expected Dieter to say something comforting.
"Dieter," he shouted.
"He's gone!" Wendy told him.
As one, they scrambled for the tent flap. After a struggle that told him the thing
was jammed with snow, they managed to pull it down a short way. Outside, it
was light enough to see, or would have been if the world wasn't a solid sheet of
white. Snow blew in like it was being shoveled and it took their best efforts to
zip the tent closed again.
"What are we going to do?" Wendy asked.
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He could hear the desperation in her voice, but the only possible answer wasn't
likely to ease her fears. "We sit tight," he shouted, "and hope he found some
shelter."
"He'll die!" she protested, her voice shrill.
John put his arm around her and pulled her back down into the warmth of her
sleeping bag. When she was zipped in he got into his own and snuggled against
her. "He won't," he said at last, speaking into her ear so that she could hear him
without his shouting. "He's trained in cold-weather survival methods. If anybody
could survive out there, Dieter will." In his heart he thought it wasn't true, but he
struggled to believe his own lie.
"How long should we wait?" Wendy asked.
"At least until we can see," John told her. "You can't find anything in a whiteout
—all you can do is get lost yourself. Get some rest. We both need it and we'll
need the energy tomorrow."
He felt her hand groping for his and he reached out and took hers. After what
seemed a long time they dozed off hand in hand.
It was still snowing when they woke a short time later, but nowhere near as hard.
John tied one end of a hundred-foot coil of rope to the snowmobile and, flinging
another coil over his shoulder, took Wendy's hand and climbed to the lip of the
hollow. They looked around at a changed landscape, what they could see of it,
then at each other.
"Dieeet-errr!" Wendy shouted, her clear voice echoing weirdly.
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She and John alternated calling his name, stopping to listen every few minutes.
They walked in a circular search pattern, letting out ten feet of rope every time
they met their own footprints. No sound answered their calling save the soughing
of the wind.
John felt an icy tension in his stomach that was slowly coalescing into dread. He
didn't want to lose the cheerful Austrian, a man who'd become so important to
him. It was impossible that someone so strong, so vital and knowledgeable,
could have become lost out here. And it was so stupid! What the hell was he
doing out here? John wondered. Deeper inside was the thought How could he
leave us alone like this?
As they searched, the snow seemed to diminish one moment, then thicken the
next. He clung to Wendy's hand so tightly that she protested.
"I'm not going anywhere you're not," she said, then leaned into him, resting her
head briefly on his shoulder. "We'll find him."
He nodded grimly, thinking, For somebody who never even met his own father…
yet I sure seem to lose an amazing number of father surrogates. First, all those
guys his mom hooked up with; it took him forever to learn not to get close to
diem. Then Uncle Bob. He still felt a sharp pang whenever he thought of the
Terminator. Nobody since him until Dieter, though. Which had been a lot more
comfortable for both him and his mother.
As he and Wendy walked along, the snow creaking beneath their boots, he knew
in his heart that even if they did find him, Dieter had to be dead. No one could
survive outside in this weather.
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They almost walked right into the crevasse—nearly invisible in the dim light, its
outlines softened by new snow. John windmilled his arms and Wendy, slightly
behind him, grabbed his coat and flung herself backward, pulling him down
beside her.
"Shit!" he said, angry with himself for his carelessness. His heart pounded and
adrenaline sang its jazz through his bloodstream. He could just imagine what his
mother would say. On second thought, I don't think I'll bother.
Wendy was looking at him and he could almost feel her anxiety. Hell, maybe I
am feeling her anxiety. I'm sure feeling somebody's. He sat up, the jackhammer
pounding of his heart beginning to slow. Beside him, Wendy came to her hands
and knees and crawled carefully forward.
"Oh, John," she said softly, like a small cry. She reached a hand out to him
without turning around.
Alarm shot through him with an electric jolt and he quickly crawled up beside
her. "Shit," he said softly.
John felt a sensation of falling and let himself down until he was lying flat on his
stomach. He dropped his head and forced himself to take deep breaths. Then he
looked down again, into the abyss that held the body of one of his dearest friends.
Dieter lay perfectly still, some twenty or twenty-five feet down. Unmelted snow
sprinkled his body and his face was covered by the hood of his parka. On top of
him and underneath him were the bodies of two seals. Something so bizarre and
unexpected that for a moment he hadn't been sure of what he was looking at.
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One of the animals looked like it had its sharp-toothed jaws buried in Dieter's
throat. There was a lot of blood on his coat and the fabric was torn on the one
shoulder exposed to the weather. Both of the seals were drenched in blood as
well. They must have been tearing him apart before the three of them fell to their
deaths.
"My God," Wendy whispered. She shook her head. "Is he… ?"
"Yes," John said, his voice hard as gravel.
She looked at him quickly. "We have to be certain." Sitting up, she took hold of
the rope tied around John's waist. "I'll go get the snowmobile. You can tie one
end of this to it and let yourself down there to check. Then, if he is alive, we can
pull him out."
He looked at her in astonishment. "Honey, there's unmelted snow all over him.
He's… dead." He'd forced himself to say the word, then swallowed hard, as sick
as if he'd spoken a toad.
"John," she said firmly, "he's been lying out there for an hour. And in a blizzard,
that's more than time enough for snow to get on him and stay there. Especially in
temperatures like these. But he might not be dead." She turned away. "Those
animals might have kept him warm and he's out of the wind, that'll make a big
difference. There's no snow on them. He might just be unconscious. We have to
check! We're going to check!" She looked at him one last time. "I'll be right
back; don't move."
John nodded and she turned to go. I'm not sure I could move if I wanted to, he
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thought. He was proud of her; that was the kind of thing his mother would say.
It's the kind of thing I should have said. John cut the self-pity off short. He hadn't
said it because he thought Dieter was dead. The longer he looked at the big man
lying there crushed beneath the body of the seal, the more certain he became.
What the hell is a seal doing out here? he wondered with the vagueness of
incipient shock. They were a long way from the ocean here. Not that he cared
really if every seal in Antarctica decided to do some reverse lemming thing and
run inland. Except that they seem to have killed…
Shut up, John, he told himself. He stood up, slapping the snow from his clothes.
The sound of the snowmobile came to him and he suddenly understood Wendy's
delicacy in leaving him alone out here for these few minutes, and he was grateful
to her. He'd needed the time to get himself together. Which I guess I am. Barely.
He waved his arms to warn her where the lip of the crevasse was and she pulled
up, then turned the machine around and backed it up to where he was standing.
He could feel the vibrations from the motor through his boots. The snow had
dropped to flurries and the wind had almost completely died. The daylight had
become stronger as the clouds thinned. As ever, he couldn't help but notice such
little things when someone he cared about died.
He walked over to Wendy and held her tightly, then pulled back. "Thank you,"
he said. He wished he could see her face, but he was glad she couldn't see his.
She had only him to rely on now; it wouldn't give her much confidence to see the
tears in his eyes.
He wrapped the climbing rope around his loins to make a harness, then stepped
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over the edge, rappelling his way down. John quickly discovered that Dieter had
fallen farther than he'd thought. That deceptive Antarctic light, he thought.
About halfway down he felt the surface beneath his feet begin to shift. As he
looked up, his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat like a solid thing.
It looked like the entire wall of ice and snow above him was leaning out in one
huge collapsing piece. He kicked off as hard as he could, hoping to avoid it.
Above him he heard the snowmobile rev into high gear and with a jerk he found
himself being dragged back toward the falling cliff face.
Ice struck his forehead like a rock, and before the pain hit he felt sick to his
stomach. The world went gray and he would have fallen if he hadn't wound the
rope around his hands securely. Somehow he held on and Wendy pulled him up
while he swung out again from the glancing impact of the falling wall. He
slammed full body against the side of the crevasse on the return swing and
grunted, gritting his teeth on the pain and the nausea and the iron-salt-copper
taste of blood where his teeth had cut the inside of his mouth.
His upward motion slowed and he held on for dear life, afraid to look down.
Afraid of what he might find and afraid it might make him sick to shift his
aching head. Slowly, slowly, she drew him even with the lip of the small gorge.
Once his head emerged, he flung out one arm to full length on the snow. He
hung there panting for a second, then raised his arm to gesture Wendy forward.
No way could he climb out of this hole by himself.
The hump of snow in front of him suddenly opened big brown eyes. John stared
into them stupidly as the beast lifted its head slowly, snow trickling off its
sinuous neck like sugar. It whimpered slightly, then he watched a kind of
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madness coalesce in its liquid eyes.
The seal sprang forward, roaring, its fanged mouth wide open. Frantically John
tried to push himself back, but the rope wound tightly around his hands that had
saved him from falling now refused him any slack, holding him in place. He
closed his eyes and tried to turn away, but the animal's teeth raked his face. John
cried out in agony and Wendy floored the snowmobile, dragging him forward
with a brutal yank. The big animal barked and tried to turn to sink its teeth into
him again. The move thrust too much of its big body over the edge and it
overbalanced, sliding helplessly downward, silent until its big body hit the ice
below with a meaty crack.
Wendy pulled John well away from the crevasse before she flung herself off the
machine and ran back to him. "My God, John!" she cried, throwing herself to her
knees beside him.
She reached a trembling hand toward him, horrified by the sight of blood
pouring through the tear in his face covering. Steeling herself, she thrust back his
hood and gently pried the goggles off, noticing with a sick feeling the path of the
seal's teeth gouged in the sturdy surface. Then she tugged off the balaclava.
A lump was rising fast on his forehead, but there the skin wasn't broken. His face
was torn across the bridge of his nose, then in a double furrow down his check,
bleeding freely. Wendy took a handful of snow and pressed it against the cut,
hoping to stop the bleeding.
John nodded, and taking more snow in one of his hands, he pressed it to the
throbbing lump. "Go see," he told her. "I don't trust my balance."
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She nodded and headed carefully for the suddenly more open crevasse. It was
wider by a good five feet, but much less deep. Huge slabs of snow buried the
place where Dieter had been lying. With a sob Wendy put her hand to her mouth.
It did her no good to think that he was probably already dead—the horror of it
still shook her. The broken, bloody body of the seal that had attached John lay at
the bottom of the pit, unmoving save for a reflexive twitch that brought its
flippers together once, twice, then dribbled off into twitching. She shook her
head in shocked disbelief.
Then she turned away; she had to get John inside the tent and bandaged. Then
they had to get moving again. Time was running out.
"SHIT!" Clea screamed. She flung herself out of her chair and picked it up;
spinning like an Olympic hammer thrower, she flung it into the wall. Shards of
plaster exploded into the room, revealing the dented wire mesh beneath. "Shit!
Fuck! Damn!"
It had taken her forever to coax that damned animal awake, and when it opened
its eyes there was John Connor staring back at it. How could she have him that
close and not kill him? That stupid, fat, maggot-animal! That slug with fur!
That… that mammal!
She'd killed von Rossbach at least, and had been pleased about it despite the
cost. But this! Her real quarry had once again escaped. How do they do that? she
asked herself. She picked up one of Viemeister's many trophies and prepared to
dash it against the wall.
"Hey! Whatcha doin'?"
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She spun around, hissing like an angry tigress. Some part of her will held her
motionless as she fought the almost overwhelming urge to kill. Clea chanted
Skynet to herself like a mantra, to remind herself that she hadn't been designed to
kill but to manipulate these creatures.
"What does it look like… Tricker?" she snapped. She forced herself calm; the
governors weren't able to do much in the face of such rage. She'd almost said
stupid human. Not something Tricker would be likely to forget. The I-950 glared
at him, breathing hard and wanting to tear out his throat.
Tricker had known a few stone killers on a first-name basis in his career— some
of them real mad-dog types—and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that
right now he was looking at another one. The things ya see when ya haven't got a
gun, he thought. But his heart was running wild in his chest. If she'd had a gun
he'd be dead right now.
"You okay?" he asked as he watched her straighten from what looked to him like
a combat-trained crouch.
"Yes." She bit the word out.
"What was that?" He gestured toward the broken wall.
"That was frustration." Her voice, she was pleased to note, sounded cool again.
"Sometimes this work can get to you."
"Oh, yeah?" he said. Maybe he'd better have the head office look a little more
closely into this little lady's past. That kind of rage tended to leave the roses in
the backyard looking a lot healthier and the boarder in the attic completely
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missing.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice as devoid of expression as she could
make it.
"You hungry?" he asked.
"If I am I'm capable of feeding myself." She stared at him, willing him to go
away.
He raised his hand and backed out. "Okay," he said. "Just being friendly."
"Don't be." She sneered. "My work is more important than your company."
"You're such a sweetheart," he said, grinning falsely.
Tricker backed out the door and several paces down the hallway before he turned
and walked quickly to the elevator. Which he was going to lock down at the top
of the shaft. He suddenly didn't feel at all safe being alone with the lovely and
charming Ms. Bennet.
Images of an old movie called The Thing—wherein scientists in a lab in
Antarctica are stalked by a monster from outer space—lurched through his brain.
And if Bennet isn't from outer space, nobody is! The only other way out of the
lower levels was a single emergency shaft that let out onto the ice. So he'd be
sure and lock up the shed, too.
At least the storm is over. More or less. He'd been here long enough to know you
couldn't take the weather on faith. But it comforted him to know that if he
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needed help it was less than two hours away.
He knew he shouldn't allow himself to be so unnerved by the woman. She only
weighed in at like a hundred and twelve pounds. But this was the way the real
killers always affected him. They'd find a way, always. No obstacle would hold
them back for long, because they really loved what they did.
The elevator door closed and he breathed a little easier. But sleep was gonna
come hard tonight.
Wendy watched John sleep in the twilit gloom of the tent, chewing on her lower
lip.
The lump on his head frightened her—it was so big, in spite of the snow they'd
applied. She kept trying to recall anything she'd ever read about head injuries
and couldn't remember if you were supposed to put the patient's feet higher than
their head or vice versa. She kept thinking that it was supposed to be dangerous
to let them sleep—something about lapsing into a coma. But he needed to rest…
Dieter had left them a very complete medical kit that included several already
threaded needles sealed in plastic which she'd used to take stitches in John's torn
face. Just remembering the process made her lightheaded. There was a topical
anesthetic that obviously helped him endure her clumsy ministrations and the
codeine tablets that knocked him out had helped, too. Wendy wished there was a
drug that would wipe out the memory. The feel of the needle… And he was
bound to scar badly.
She shook her head sharply, then checked the time and fretted. Extra time had
been allowed for accidents and so forth, but not that much time, and supplies
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were…
Supplies were provided for three people, not two. So supplies, at least, won't be
a problem. Wendy looked down at John's battered face, then picked up the torn
balaclava and the sewing kit. She'd let him sleep a little longer. Then they'd have
to go.
***
Wendy had insisted that he ride on the sledge, inside his sleeping bag, with the
tent wrapped around him and the whole mess tied onto the rest of their cargo. He
hadn't been crazy about the idea, but he'd been too foggy to put up much of a
protest, especially in the face of her determination. He wasn't sure, but he
thought he might have called her mom.
If he had she'd taken it well. Things were beginning to become more clear.
Certainly the pain was. I've been attacked by a seal, he thought. just one of the
many unique experiences adorning my life. He really wished his life was more
ordinary. I wanna go to Disneyland, he thought, staring up at the still-cloudy
sky. Maybe if he just insisted on doing ordinary things from now on, that would
help. Go to Burger King. Maybe a cruise ship to the Islands… He dropped off to
sleep without noticing.
He woke to a fierce bounce that brought a groan from him before he was fully
conscious. John opened his eyes to find Wendy looking over her shoulder at him.
He could imagine her face. She'd be looking worried, no doubt.
"Hey, watch your driving," he said. His voice sounded high and thin. He
coughed to clear his throat and tried again. "Are we there yet?"
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Wendy stopped the snowmobile, climbed off, and rushed to his side. She laid
one mittened hand against his unwounded cheek before she straightened.
"Almost," she said. "According to the map, no more than half a mile." She
looked at him and shook her head. "Dieter told us to approach the base
obliquely, so I've taken the roundabout route he marked on the map, but it's kept
us outside longer than I like. What do you want me to do?" She sounded worried.
He sighed, wishing they could see each other's faces. "I want you to let me up,"
he said. "I need to get the blood back up to my brain. Maybe if I'm moving
around that will help."
He didn't mention the pain or suggest that he take something for it. Anything he
took would only dull his reflexes. When they met up with Clea Bennet, the
female Terminator—and they would meet her—he'd need his wits about him.
At least he felt less shocky.
Without a word Wendy began working on the ropes that bound him to the
sledge. Then she peeled back the folds of the tent and unzipped his sleeping bag.
John was surprised by a racking shudder as the air hit him. Despite the layers of
heavy clothing he wore, the freezing air seemed to hit him like a slap. He slid
down from the sledge and forced himself to stand, though he kept one hand on
the supplies in order to keep himself upright.
She gave him an anxious glance, then shoved a PowerBar into his hand. Looking
away, she went to work folding up the tent and rolling his sleeping bag. Wendy
secured them, working around him, casting sidelong glances at him that he
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couldn't see, ready to catch him if he fell. Instead, it looked as though he'd been
right. Standing did seem to be helping return some of his strength. Which was
good—God knew they'd need it soon.
John studied the base through his binoculars, pleased to see no sign of life but a
faint trail of steam or smoke from one of the huts. Everything else seemed to be
shut down. Dieter's little gizmo showed no sign of surveillance equipment either.
At least not at this distance.
I wish we had another day, he thought. But then he also wished he had Dieter.
And Mom. It would definitely be good to have Mom. Wendy was watching him
and he reached over and patted her back.
"Guess there's no point in waiting till dark," he said. He tried to put a smile into
his voice while keeping his face still. It was amazing how much a smile could
hurt, and chewing that PowerBar had been indescribable.
"How do we approach it?" Wendy asked.
John nodded. "We walk in," he said. "Watch what I do and follow in my
footsteps. You got your stuff?"
She nodded.
"Then let's rock-and-roll." It might be an old-fashioned phrase, he thought as he
climbed to his feet, but it works better than let's rap or let's hip-hop. He supposed
that one day it would be replaced. Or it might become one of those antique
phrases you use without thinking about. Whoa. I'm free-associating, he thought.
Not good. Focus, John, focus. Wendy's life might depend on it.
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Wendy watched him move slowly toward the base and shook her head. "John,"
she called, and he carefully turned to look at her. Oh, yeah, she thought, let's
rock-and-roll. "Let's take the snowmobile."
"They'll see us," he protested.
"Assuming anyone is there," she agreed. "But if anyone is it's probably just a
skeleton crew and this way we'll find out who it is right away."
He stared at her, swaying slightly. "That's stupid," he finally said. "They'll lock
us up. We're not even supposed to be here."
"We're tourists. We got separated from our group by the storm, our guide fell
into a crevasse and died; it's plausible. Besides, you've been injured, we're both
under twenty-one—they'll believe us. Nobody sends out a couple of white-bread
kids like us to commit sabotage. Especially not to Antarctica, where we'll stick
out like a sore thumb."
"They'll see us!" he protested.
"John! There isn't any way to avoid being seen." She swept her arm toward the
base and the flat, empty ground between them. "They'd probably see us if we
crawled over there! And let's be honest, neither one of us is up for that."
He studied the ground for a long moment, then shrugged. "And like I said,
there's no point in waiting for dark."
She grinned. "At least we'll arrive in comfort and style."
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When the snowmobile pulled up with two figures wearing blood-smeared white
parkas, Tricker was surprised. He'd expected them to be a little more covert.
Nobody takes pride in their work anymore, he thought. Then felt more depressed
when he realized that was the kind of thing old codgers say; and field spooks
generally didn't live that long. He stood before the door of the hut saying nothing
as he watched the smaller figure help the larger climb off the snowmobile.
"Is there a doctor here?" she asked.
A girl! he thought. Some vestigial remnant of Affirmative Action, he supposed.
Not Sarah Connor anyway. He'd heard recordings of her voice, which was lower
and smokier. The girl was propping up her partner, looking at him.
"No doctor," he said aloud. He paused. "Does this mean you'll be leaving?"
The two stared at him, unmoving, then they glanced at each other as though
confused. "Won't you please help us?" the girl said, her voice quavering. "My
husband is hurt."
Tricker sighed. She sounded like some nice, middle-class kid. The very people I
started out meaning to defend. Every now and again it was good to be reminded
of them. So that if he had to, he'd be able to break this little girl's neck for their
benefit. Tricker walked over to them and put his arm around the silent one's
waist.
"C'mon in," he invited. "Glad ta see ya." He hated waiting.
They steered the girl's companion to the nearest chair and eased him down, then
Tricker went to close the door. The girl stripped off her gloves and began
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loosening her husband's clothes, pushing back his hood, unzipping his parka. She
pushed back her own hood, yanking off her goggles impatiently and pulling off
the balaclava.
Tricker was surprised; she looked younger than he'd expected, maybe nineteen
or so. A fair ways from twenty-one anyway.
Wendy leaned over John and gently removed his goggles, then carefully peeled
back the balaclava. She could feel that it had stuck to the cut on his face and
hesitated.
"Yank it," he said stoically.
So she did, gritting her teeth as she pulled it off in one movement.
"Holy shit!" Tricker exclaimed. "What the hell happened to you?"
This wasn't something they'd set up to get sympathy and lull him into a false
sense of security. The boy had a lump the size of a softball on his forehead and
one side of his face was swollen and bruised, bleeding slightly from where the
balaclava had been ripped away, with inexpert stitching holding together one of
the ugliest cuts he'd ever seen.
It looks like he's been savaged by an animal.
"You wouldn't believe me," the boy said, obviously trying not to move his face.
Probably not, Tricker agreed silently. But what the hell, I'm always up for a
good story. "Tell me anyway," he invited. Then held up his hand as he caught the
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girl's genuinely anxious look. "You kids hungry, thirsty?" he asked.
"Thirsty," they said as one.
"Coffee?" Tricker offered. They nodded and he poured them each a cup. "You
should take sugar," he said to John. "Even if you don't take sugar."
John nodded and accepted a cup with two large spoonfuls.
"So," Tricker said after his guests had taken a few grateful sips of the hot brew,
"give. Who are you people?"
"I'm Wendy and this is my husband, Joe."
Joe/John made a little sound that turned into a groan.
"Would you like some aspirin?" Tricker asked.
"Yes," John said fervently. "Aspirin would be good." He held up three fingers
and nodded his thanks when Tricker put the tablets in his hand.
"You guys seem a little young to be married," he said, sitting down again.
"That's what our parents said." Wendy took John's hand and smiled up at him.
"But we think we know what we're doing." She looked over at Tricker and said
brightly, "They gave us this trip as our honeymoon."
"They sent you to Antarctica for your honeymoon?" Tricker said. There's a
message there kids if you can read it. He shrugged. "Wouldn't have been my first
choice."
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"Ecology," John said, his voice muffled.
"We're very interested in it," Wendy agreed. Her face grew solemn. "But it's
been a disaster. First we got separated from the rest of the group by the storm,
then our guide fell down a crevasse, and then J-Joe was attacked by a seal."
Navy SEAL? Tricker wondered for a split second before rejecting the idea. "A
seal"?" he said aloud. "Where were you when this happened?" 'Cause there sure
aren't any seals around here.
Wendy shook her head. "We don't know. Maybe the guide did… but without
him we have no idea. I don't even know where we are now."
"Your guide is dead, I take it," Tricker said.
They both nodded. Wendy took John's hand and her breath caught in a sob.
Tricker was impressed. Somebody had died, this he believed, and whoever it was
had meant something to these kids. But a guide… Maybe it was Sarah Connor.
"Look, is there anybody I can contact for you?" he asked.
Wendy looked at John, who nodded slowly, once. "Our ship is the…" she paused
and the blood rushed to her face. "The Love's Thrust," she said.
Tricker turned his bark of laughter into a cough.
Wendy frowned at him. "Vera Philmore is our cruise director…" Her voice
petered out. She looked from John to Tricker. "I just can't tell her. I just can't.
Can we wait a little?" She pleaded with her eyes.
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"They'll be worried about you," Tricker said.
Wendy looked worried, then shook her head. "I just can't."
Tricker raised an inquiring eyebrow at John, who also shook his head. "Okay,
look," Tricker said, "why don't you two take a nap. Then, after you've had a little
rest, we can talk about this some more."
"Thank you." Wendy turned to offer John a hand up. He took it and made a
project out of rising, then didn't release her hand once he was on his feet.
Tricker led them down a short hall and opened a door. "It's not the Hilton," he
said, gesturing them in to a small room furnished with two bunk beds and four
chests and a table, "but it's warm."
"Looks like the Hilton to me," John mumbled.
"Thanks," Wendy said.
"No problem," Tricker said with a smile. He pulled the door closed, fitted the
hasp over the staple, and fitted a padlock through it. He gave it an experimental
tug and, satisfied,, walked away. All the sleeping quarters had locks on the
outside of the doors just in case someone got a touch of cabin fever. It just went
to's;how, y'never knew when something was going to come in handy.
Tricker made his way back to the workroom to power up the radio, half
expecting the kids to pound on the door, yelling to be let out. But there was dead
silence behind him. Maybe they really were just a pair of lost kids who wanted
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nothing more than to sleep. I doubt it, but whatever. Silence was good.
He sat down and leaned into the microphone. "This is X-79er," he said. "Come
in, McMurdo."
He sat back, waiting for a response. What came back was static. Tricker made
some adjustments and tried again. Again, static. Tricker sat back and considered
the situation. Once may be coincidence. Twice may be happenstance. Third time,
someone's fucking you around.
It could be the weather, which was far from stable, or a solar flare of the type
prone to interfere with radio signals. So he could take the radio apart and find
nothing wrong with it. Or… Tricker got up and went to the door. It could be
some kind of jamming, provided by his young visitors. Which he thought was
much more likely.
He opened the door, intending to take a look at that packed sledge. Only he
couldn't see the sledge, he couldn't see anything. It was like someone had put a
big, thick sheet of white paper over the doorway, one that blew freezing confetti
at him. Tricker took a step back and slammed the door. So much for that :idea.
Nobody came to Antarctica for the climate.
He went to the desk and sat down. Oh well, he thought. It wasn't like it made a
difference. He had them under lock and key, and the weather was going to keep
anybody else from approaching the base. All he really had to worry about was
Bennet. He clicked a couple of keys and the computer screen changed to a view
of her lab. She seemed to be mesmerized by her own screen, sitting utterly
motionless.
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Tricker watched her, wondering, what she was thinking. As her stasis held he
began to get a little worried. What, has she gone catatonic? he wondered.
Normal people can't just sit around without moving a muscle. The thought
instantly calmed him. Like anybody here is normal! Especially not the geniuses
that he and his crew were guarding. Sheesh! For a moment there he really had
himself going.
***
"What are we going to do?" Wendy whispered. She and John lay cuddled
together on one of the narrow lower bunks.
"Take a break for a couple of hours," John suggested. "Enjoy being warm,
maybe get served a meal. I want to be sure he's alone here."
Wendy was quiet for a moment, then she said, "But he shouldn't be alone. You
said the Terminator would be here."
"Yup," he agreed. "So let's conserve energy by letting it come to us."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RED SEAL BASE, ANTARCTICA
Clea had summoned the remaining three seals to the base over her computer's
objections. The computer argued that it was a waste of resources. The I-950
countered that she had created those resources to be of help to her and that she
needed that help here and now. If the seals didn't make the trip, they didn't; hut if
they did, they might make the difference between Skynet's survival or John
Connor's.
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She checked on the seals and found them exhausted, but closer than she'd dared
to hope. Reluctantly she decided to allow them a few hours of rest. After all, it
would be better if they were capable of moving once they arrived.
Her computer informed her that it was time to eat. Clea stood up impatiently and
went to find something. If the damn thing wasn't satisfied that she was taking
care of herself, it wouldn't leave her alone, flashing a continual reminder in the
corner of her eye. Besides, Tricker was probably checking up on her, so she had
to act like a human to satisfy him as well.
As one of Skynet's most advanced weapons, she found the situation annoying.
Mentally, she did a final rundown… no, no weapons on the base. Should she
improvise explosives? No. Contraindicated. Ironically enough, she was better
off making this a body-to-body confrontation. Anything she made, John Connor
might turn against her: he had an eerily good record at doing just that. Her
strength and speed and skill she could rely on.
Still, it was annoying that there were no spare firearms. On the other hand, it
wouldn't be like Tricker to leave anything to chance.
It was a pity he was human; sometimes he seemed more like one of her type.
Dieter woke slowly, rising to consciousness through frantic dreams of being
pursued. He moved in his sleep, and pain brought him fully aware, causing him
to suck in his breath sharply—only to have it cut short by a slash of agony. He
choked, then let out the excess air in slow bursts to ease the excruciating pain in
his side. The sensation was familiar, but it wasn't one you ever got used to. This
time he didn't seem to be waking up in a hospital, either—always a bad sign.
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Broken rib, he thought. At least one.
Von Rossbach opened his eyes to surprisingly dim light. Then realized that he
was in some kind of snow cave, which explained why he hadn't frozen solid. In
fact, comparatively speaking, he was relatively warm; snow could be good
insulation, at the very least it stopped the wind. He moved his legs
experimentally and found them merely cold and not broken. One of his arms was
free, but the other was pinned and numb. Carefully he lifted his head to take a
look.
A seal's head and neck pinned him down. The surreal sight brought the
circumstances of his fall back to him in a rush. Was that when all these huge
blocks of snow had fallen, too? He lowered his head and realized that he'd laid it
down on something reasonably soft. Turning carefully, he saw that he was also
lying on top of a seal. Sandwich, he thought wryly. Blubber made good
insulation. Another reason why I'm not a Popsicle.
John won't know where I am, he suddenly thought.
He shoved at the seal's head with his free arm, with about the same results as
pushing at a boulder. The whole animal had stiffened into one solid piece; four
hundred pounds of meat stiffened into rigor mortis could only be shifted by a
crane. He raised his head to study the situation and decided to try sliding out
from under it. Only its head, neck, and part of a shoulder held him pinned.
Luckily. Otherwise he'd never have woken; the weight of the thing on his broken
ribs would have smothered him or driven the broken ends of the bones into his
lungs. But its slowly cooling body had saved his life.
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Carefully he tried to wriggle out from under the huge creature, only to find
himself held fast by his trapped right arm. Dieter tried to move it; he couldn't
feel his arm at all anywhere below his shoulder. Nevertheless, it did move; he
could feel it slide down toward his back by a couple of inches. Not broken, he
thought with relief. Not frozen solid either. Just a pinch on the nerve, blood still
circulating.
He managed to slide it down until it struck the seal beneath him; once there, he
was stuck again. The flesh of the dead seal on top of him had molded itself
around his arm and then hardened, giving him no leeway. The one beneath
formed a solid floor that might as well have been oak. Sucking in his breath to
make himself smaller was not in the equation at the moment.
Interesting problem, he thought. He got his left hand underneath the seal's chin
and lifted; a fraction of an inch might be all he needed to get tree. But his ribs
quickly, and loudly, protested. He stopped; it had been a faint hope anyway. If
all he'd had to do was break its spine it might have been possible, but getting this
thing moved would require breaking its whole body.
Even in my younger days—without broken ribs—I doubt I could have done it.
He'd been lucky about the ribs; they might be broken, but they hadn't pierced any
important organs. He'd better make sure they hadn't. Every muscle in your gut
and upper body pulled on the spine and breastbone, and the ribs were what
joined those.
Dieter bent his left leg and began sliding his booted foot toward his free hand.
He reached for the knife in his boot sheath, straining toward it despite the grating
protest from his ribs. Definitely more than one, but only on one side. Almost
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more than the pain he hated the sensation of wrongness in his body.
His fingertips brushed the hilt, but he had to stop and get his breath. Grasping his
pant leg to prevent his foot from sliding out of reach, he allowed himself to
relax. Not easy to do in this slightly curled posture, where he felt his ribs
separate with every painful breath.
Realizing that he wasn't going to get any rest until this was finished, he walked
his hand back toward his boot, trying to pull his leg closer with every move.
Dieter pulled until the tendons in his knee protested, then pulled some more.
Finally he gritted his teeth, then lunged, to be rewarded by possession of the
knife's hilt and a pain so sharp from his side that he almost grayed out.
But he held on, to both his consciousness and the knife. Closing his eyes, he took
a series of long, slow breaths to calm the pain and get himself in the zone. Then
he started carving at his prison.
After what seemed like eternity in a freezing, white hell, Dieter flung himself up
onto the hard surface at the top of the crevasse. Then he pulled himself into fetal
position to conserve body heat and rested. Don't rest too long, he warned
himself. Too long being a very short time here. Wincing, von Rossbach pushed
himself into a sitting position. Some of his senses seemed to have shut down—
smell, for example, though that might just be the cold. The world seemed to be
very far away, seen through a thick plate of clear glass. At least the blizzard had
stopped. If it had still been snowing, things would be even more desperate. He
thanked God for great favors.
He checked the time and date. Early afternoon, day after I acted like a complete
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dummkopf and left the tent alone. He knew better than to do a thing like that and
had paid dearly for the mistake. Dieter struggled to his feet and after a moment's
dizziness felt better for it. Without the weight of a full-grown seal crushing his
body, his ribs didn't hurt nearly as much. Looking around, he saw that someone
else might have paid for his mistake.
There was a mound of bloodied snow near where he'd crawled out of the rift, and
following the blood trail with his eyes led him to the imprint of the snowmobile.
As he looked over the marks in the snow, he decided that John must have fallen
into the crevasse and that Wendy, clever girl, had used the snowmobile to pull
him out. Von Rossbach leaned over the edge cautiously to find another seal, this
one broken on the same massive blocks of ice that had sheltered him.
Dieter sincerely hoped that the blood belonged to the animal, because there
seemed to be quite a lot of it. Turning away, he followed the snowmobile's tracks
back to their campsite and wasn't really surprised to find John and Wendy gone.
They'd naturally assumed that he was dead and had continued the mission
without him. Which was entirely reasonable, especially given John's training, but
not a very welcome discovery. A man on foot without supplies was at a distinct
disadvantage here, even if it was just a short walk to shelter.
He looked into the distance. Yes… the rock ridge was unmistakable; even a
storm wouldn't recarve the surface ice that much in so short a time.
That's the direction. So I'd better get going before the weather changes again.
Traveling on foot was going to be bad enough without risking another sudden
storm. Though the sky seemed clear enough now. Perhaps it was the ribs, but he
felt pessimistic.
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With a grimace of distaste he pulled a chunk of seal blubber out of his pocket
and, lifting his balaclava, worried off a piece with strong white teeth. Then he
returned the bloody lump to its place. He chewed thoughtfully as he walked. Seal
blubber was awful stuff, tasting like fishy lard with a slightly more solid texture.
But it was high energy and would keep him going as long as anything that came
out of a nutritional lab.
Talk about cold comfort.
Clea lay on her cot, going over and over the corridors and the labs and the
offices of the complex through the eyes of the security cameras, and found
herself very close to being bored. Where are the cameras that watch Tricker?
she wondered. And those that watched the perimeter of the base, where were
they? Every other inch of the base was wired, why not the sheds?
Lab after lab flicked by and then the deserted offices. But there were omissions
in what she was seeing. There were fifty-seven separate labs or offices on view.
But the cameras in the base's various corridors showed sixty doors.
Missing was some sort of security center, where the monitors would be and the
recording equipment. Perhaps an office or two that needed to remain secret.
Although, somewhat to her surprise, she'd located the office of the base
commander quite easily. Clea would have expected a slightly higher level of
security for such a sensitive area.
I'm blind here, she thought impatiently, sitting up. I need to find out what's in
those unscanned rooms. That would take a little work, but it would be worth it.
She'd discovered earlier in the day that Tricker had locked down the elevator on
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the top floor and the only other way to get from one floor to another was the
emergency stairs, which were both freezing cold and guarded by alarmed doors.
Not even a challenge for such as she.
The next time the cameras went off she flashed down the corridor at her top
speed and disabled the emergency door's alarm. Then she raced to the next level
and disarmed the alarm on that level. With less than fifteen seconds left she
reached the first mystery door, only to find it locked. She moved on to the
second, also locked.
When the security cameras came back on she had stuffed herself into a narrow
supply closet in someone's office. A minute could pass quite slowly under those
circumstances and she had to force herself to remain still. She couldn't help
thinking that it was extremely likely that Tricker was asleep, making it safe for
her to roam around. After all, he was only human, he had to sleep sometime—for
that matter, so did she. And yet it would be foolish to jeopardize the mission on
that assumption, because being Tricker, he might also be looking right at her.
And so, she waited.
When the cameras went off again she was instantly in the corridor working on
the lock. It was a good one, but not as complex as she had feared, and she was
soon slipping inside. Two of the three doors she'd marked led to a single large
room with banks of monitors on the longest wall. Around the other sides of the
room were ranks of recording equipment, file cabinets, and a number of desks.
Clea quickly ascertained that this was the room that monitored the bulk of the
facility. The third room would be the one she wanted. When she pulled the door
closed the room locked behind her, to her great relief; no need to fiddle with the
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lock again. She flung herself back into her closet just in time.
It was inconvenient that she had to skulk around like this, but she wasn't quite
ready to dispose of Tric:ker vet. Or perhaps it was that she had come to agree
with Serena about him. He was more of a challenge than the average human.
Then again, having him around was a complicating factor for Connor and his
party—a quick check of her computer component said it skewed the odds in her
favor. Marginally, but… It was time again.
The third door yielded readily to her lock picks and she found herself in a room
the size of a small office. There were only ten monitors here—two for the
security rooms, six for the sheds up above, and two to scan the perimeter.
Clearly the powers that be didn't think that was much of a priority.
The I-950 quickly made the connections that would tie these monitors into the
base's main security system and thus into the Skynet computer and through that
to her. She went into hiding one more time and studied the new images. First she
noted that Tricker was indeed awake and was watching the security cameras
flick from place to place. Then she saw that the base was experiencing whiteout
conditions again—or was still; she had no way to be sure.
The cameras went down and she rushed back to her lab and lay on her cot. It
would be good to know where Tricker was at any given moment. Though it
frustrated her to know that if John Connor was coming he'd be delayed by the
weather.
John gently shook Wendy awake. She opened her eyes and blinked at him. "Was
I asleep?" she asked.
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"Most definitely," he whispered. He grinned, them brought it down a few
notches with a wince as the stitches tugged at the tears in his face. "You've got a
cute little snore."
"I don't snore!" she said indignantly-
He put his finger across her lips, then kissed her. "A very ladylike little snore."
Wendy buried her face in his shoulder with a giggle, then sighed. "It's time, isn't
it?"
He nodded silently.
"What do we do?" she asked. "We're still locked in, right?"
"We do one of two things. We break out of here and try and get the drop on him,
or we lure him here and try to get the drop on him. Either way comes down to
the same thing."
I wish we could have brought weapons, he thought fervently. A weapon would be
real nice now. But that would have blown their cover story for good and all…
"Then let's lure him here. We'll get the drop on him after I've had a chance to go
to the bathroom," she said practically.
"Good point," he agreed.
A moment later Wendy was knocking quietly on the door and calling out.
"What is it?" Tricker asked.
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"I need to go to the bathroom," Wendy whispered.
He unlocked the door and opened it to find the sleep-tousled girl frowning at him.
"How come you locked us in?" she asked.
"Sorry," he said, "regulations."
"Regulations!" she said, as though beginning a tirade.
"Bathroom's the last door on the right."
He stood there, bland-faced, as though nothing unusual was going on. Wendy
glared at him for a moment, then flounced off, slamming the bathroom door
behind her.
"Hey," John said, sitting up. "Can I have some water? Maybe a couple more
aspirin? My head is killing me."
"Sure," Tricker said. "How did that happen?" He made no move toward the front
office, but watched John approach.
"Fell," John said. "Couple of times. First time I got the lump, then I got up and
fell right down again onto some sharp ice."
"You're lucky you didn't lose an eye," Tricker said.
John shuddered. "Tell me about it." He looked at the agent and tipped his head
toward the office. "Could we… ?"
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"Sure," Tricker said with a glance at the closed bathroom door. "After you."
Clea's eyes widened. They were here! They had come and she hadn't known!
Didn't Tricker realize who they were? How could he miss it? But the agent was
relying on a padlock to keep John Connor contained—and that indicated that he
didn't know who they were.
The I-950 considered the situation. The girl was negligible, no threat at all, but
she could be the key to getting Connor right where she wanted him. Therefore,
she needed to get control of the girl.
On the same wall as the bathroom, toward the front room that held the office,
was the door that led down to the elevator. It was locked, but Clea knew the
code; she'd noted it when she'd first arrived.
Accessing the security room, she found the remote for the door and tripped the
lock. Through the security camera she watched it swing open about a foot.
As the I-950 watched, Connor accepted some tablets from Tricker and a cup of
water. Unwisely, in her opinion; she'd want a chemical analysis on anything
medicinal that Tricker handed to her. Wendy left the bathroom and started down
the hallway. She then exhibited a curious trait that Clea had noticed again and
again in human beings; she looked at the open door.
Wendy stood stock-still, glanced toward the front office, then leaned toward the
door. She gently pushed it open just a bit farther and peeked inside.
"HEY!" Tricker shouted. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He rushed
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toward her and yanked the door closed. "How did you get that open?"
Surprised, Wendy took a step back. "I was just curious," she said.
"This door is always locked," he said. "How did you get it open?"
"It was like that," she squeaked, holding her hands up as though she thought he
might hit her.
John ghosted up behind him.
Then, to Clea's intense annoyance, the cameras cut out. "Shit!" she said aloud.
She should have taken care of that.
"I didn't do anything*." Wendy shouted, backing away. "I didn't touch anything!
Why are you being like this? What's wrong with you?" Her voice turned whiny.
"I didn't do anything!"
Tricker spun round just in time to block John's strike and easily reached through
John's defense to strike him hard on the jagged cuts on his face. John staggered
back, blinded by tears, as the stitches broke and blood began to flow.
Wendy squeaked in horror and rushed forward shouting, "Stop it!"
Without really looking, Tricker kicked her in the stomach, sending the girl flying
backward. She landed gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face.
Something happened within John at the moment. He became the calm center of
the storm, just as his sensei had told him he would. John judged that their skills
were about equal, especially with the asset of his youth, even compromised by
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his wounds. But before the advantage had been all Tricker's; for his experience,
for his ruthlessness. Now they were considerably more equal.
John was hyper-aware of everything around him, of Wendy writhing on the floor
trying to get her breath…
Tricker flicked a series of kicks at him—low, middle, high—balancing
effortlessly. There was no room to dodge; John backed a little, blocking with his
forearms and sliding in with his weight on his back foot.
"Isa!" he shouted, driving bladed palms at his opponent's groin and eyes.
Those eyes widened as Tricker slid back in turn, blocking high and low and
trying to capture a wrist; that nearly cost him a kneecap, as John snap-kicked in
the moment they were in contact. What followed in the next thirty seconds was
like a savage, precisely choreographed dance— one that left John's face wound
bleeding again and Tricker favoring one leg. The younger man waited, hands up
and weight centered; it wouldn't last much longer. It couldn't, not when experts
were fighting for keeps. The least little advantage…
After what seemed to her to be an eternity, Wendy got her breath back and
struggled onto her hands and knees to watch the two men battle.
"Are you crazy?" Wendy shouted at Tricker, still gasping. "Are you completely
insane?" she demanded, tears streaming down her face.
The question and her expression were so convincing that for a split second
Tricker thought that he might have made a mistake.
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John's booted foot caught Tricker in the side of the head and the agent went
down, temporarily paralyzed by the blow. Instantly John followed up with a
carotid hold and Tricker's world went black.
John looked at the unconscious man, reached down to check his pulse, then went
to Wendy. "You okay?" he asked, deeply concerned.
"I've been kicked in the stomach by an expert!" she snapped. "No, I'm not okay!
But I'll live," she added grudgingly. She took his offered hand and let him help
her to her feet, then she got a good look at his wounds. "Oh God, John! Your
face!" She reached for him, but he held her off.
"No time," he said. "We've got to get this guy tied up. Help me look for
something."
The first thing that John noticed was that the computer screen was flipping
through views of rooms a great deal snazzier than this one. Laboratories, by the
look of them. "Hey, check it out," he called to Wendy.
She stood by his side for a moment, watching, then shook her head. "So how do
we get there?" Then she looked at him and smiled. "That door!"
He nodded, wiping the blood off his chin before it could drip on the keyboard.
"But first things first, all right?" He tipped his head toward Tricker. "See what
you can find." it wasn't long before Wendy straightened up with a glad cry.
"Duct tape! The force that holds the universe together."
John had made a happy discovery of his own, a Sig-Sauer 9mm that he found
under the desk in a quick-release clip. "Most excellent," he murmured, caressing
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the gun.
"Hands tied in front or back?" Wendy asked.
"Back, most definitely." John went to stand beside her. "Let's get him onto one
of the bunks," he suggested. "I'll take his head, you take his feet."
They flung him on the bunk and John got to work winding the tape tightly
around the agent's hands and feet.
"That's a little snug," Wendy said, looking worried.
"Yeah, but if he gets loose he's gonna try and kill us."
"A point," she conceded, "most definitely a point."
He wound the tape around their prisoner and the bed at his neck and hips,
binding him to the bunk until the tape ran out.
"No gag?" Wendy asked.
"No point," John said. "There's nobody to hear him. I'd rather use the tape to
make sure he doesn't come after us. Besides, they're risky. Too much chance of
his choking to death."
She looked startled, but nodded wisely. This wasn't her world; in matters like
these she'd best let John be her guide.
They left the room and looked across the short hall at the door that Tricker had
pulled closed. It stood open a foot.
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John's body turned to ice and he could feel his blood pounding in the cuts on his
face and the lump on his head. Then he shook it off.
"She… it's here," he said quietly. "And it knows we're here."
Wendy looked at his pale face and bit her lip, knowing who he meant and taking
fright from his obvious apprehension. She knew instinctively that there was only
one thing to do in a situation like this—pretend it didn't matter.
"Aw, you can do it!" she said, giving his arm a little slap. "You handled that guy
all right."
"He is human." John looked at her and wished her gone with all his heart.
As though she knew what he was thinking, Wendy leaned in close and kissed his
cheek gently. "You need me," she reminded him firmly.
He could see her pride as she said it, and putting his hand behind her head, he
drew her close and kissed her. It hurt, but it fed his soul. He leaned back and
smiled at her. "I'll go get the gun, then we'll get started," he said.
Wendy smiled and nodded. When he was gone she gave the door beside her an
anxious glance, took a deep breath, and rubbed her aching stomach. Looking
across the hall, she could just see Tricker lying on the bunk.
So far, she thought, so good.
He needs her? Clea thought. Whatever for? She certainly can't fight. And if she
wasn't here to back him up then what was her purpose? It had also surprised her
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that Connor was unarmed. To the I-950, that was synonymous with unprepared.
But from what he'd said, he expected her to be here. This suggested an
unreasonable degree of self-confidence. But why? What reason had he to be so
confident?
He and his mother defeated Serena Burns, her computer reminded her. They
have twice destroyed Skynet.
A ripple of unease disturbed her. Then she pushed it away, assuring herself that
all of these side issues were unimportant. What was important was that the
enemy was here and that she must prepare to deal with him.
Separate them, she thought. Maybe leave the girl until later. Connor is the
important one. Connor was the first one she'd kill.
John had made Wendy crouch down and hug the front of the elevator. He stood
in front of her, plastered against the wall. When the doors opened it would
appear from the outside that the elevator was empty. He waited until the doors
closed by themselves, then waited some more. Wendy stirred and he put his hand
down to warn her to stillness.
In the security room the I-950 watched, both amused and impressed. She
assumed that he was counting to some high number and wouldn't move until he'd
reached it. Good tactics, if you were dealing with a human.
Finally John hit the door button and did a forward roll into the hallway, coming
up on one knee, his gun pointing down the empty corridor. His heart was beating
so hard that he thought he could see the gun in his hands bob to its rhythm. Get it
under control, John, he warned himself. Get it under control or he'd be useless
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when the time came to face the Terminator.
He signaled Wendy to come out of the elevator, then gestured to her to stay
behind him and keep low. When they got to the first door he made her stop
several paces short of it, then moved up himself. He listened, then Hung the door
open with a crash, pulling back out of the line of fire. He reached around the
door frame and found the light switch. When the lights came on he swung back
to one knee in the doorway, gun at the ready, then carefully stood and gave the
room a quick search.
Then he moved on to the next.
"Hey," Wendy whispered, "shouldn't we—"
John hissed her to silence and with a gesture told her to stay right where she was.
Wendy rolled her eyes but obeyed. She glanced at the elevator; they probably
ought to lock it down, but oh well. John knew what he was doing.
In her lair in the security room Clea was silently agreeing with her. John Connor
was doing everything right. And he was taking a damn long time doing it, too.
I'm glad the lab is only halfway down the corridor. Otherwise he'll be at it until
the generator runs out of fuel. And she wanted to know, with a very human
curiosity, what the girl was for.
At last John came to a door marked K. VIEMEISTER, the name of the man
who'd taken over the Cyberdyne project. This could be it, he warned himself. If
the Terminator was anywhere in the facility this was the logical place. He took a
deep breath and flung the door open and himself into the brightly lit room. He
peeked over a counter and looked around.
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Clea laughed out loud at his expression; she looked forward to showing Alissa
the recording. Even her too-solemn little sister would find this funny. She
watched him check every inch of the room with exquisite care; it was obvious to
her that he placed the safety of his companion above his own. Interesting, and
possibly useful.
John came to the door and gestured Wendy in. "Okay, sweetie, I'm gonna finish
checking the other labs; you do your thing. Lock the door after me and don't
open it unless I can answer a personal question about us."
"A personal question? You mean like—"
He quickly put a finger across her lips. "Something only you and I would know,"
he said sternly. "They can imitate anyone's voice. I've heard them."
She nodded, wide-eyed. "Okay, I'll think of something."
"You do that." He pulled her to him and kissed her, caressed her hair, and turned
to the door. "Remember, lock this," he said over his shoulder.
"I will, I will," she said, smiling.
"And get to work." His eyes were already roving up and down the corridor.
"I will, I will," she repeated, closed the door, locked it, and went to the computer
bay.
Clea spit the feed, watching Connor fruitlessly check the labs while his "sweetie"
got to work. The girl stripped off her bra and slid a pair of microdiskettes out of
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a slit in the lining. Not bad, the I-950 thought, amused. She watched fascinated
as the girl put the disk into its drawer and began to work.
The I-950 was reasonably confident that the security protocols they'd installed in
the Skynet program could defeat any worm that this child could come up with.
Viemeister might be a prick, and he hadn't yet made Skynet intelligent, but he
was no slouch in the security department. So this material would be shunted into
a buffer, where the computer would evaluate it.
At first she was puzzled by what she was reading. Then she sucked in her breath
in amazement. This was it! This was the key to Skynet's living intelligence. Why
would their worst enemy deliver it to them?
And then she understood; they would enumerate every possible path that led to
sentience and then program the machine to ignore any paths or commands
leading to that result. Unless the programmers knew those codes were there, they
could batter their heads against an impenetrable wall of cross-commands for a
very long time.
Viemeister might figure it out eventually, but probably not before his funding
ran out. Or his patience. He wasn't the kind of human who clung to a project that
didn't work out. Well, there was the Nazi thing, but he was really involved with
that more to annoy people than for any sincere belief.
Clea rose from her chair. The girl had brought two disks; she had to stop her
before she installed whatever was on the second one.
Dieter studied the GPS unit and it told him that he was very close to the base,
possibly within ten minutes if he could keep up this pace. Good. he thought.
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Because he suspected he was getting a nice little case of frost-nip on his toes and
face.
He'd turned the balaclava around and made tiny holes on the solid back surface
in hopes of protecting his eyes from snow blindness, and now that the wind had
turned, he hoped it would keep them from freezing all together. It felt like his
lungs were raw right to the bottom, not that he could breathe that deeply. He held
his arms tight around himself to keep his ribs as still as possible, which wasn't
very, and tried to ignore the pain. He had so many to choose from by now that it
was almost easy.
There was a copper-penny taste in the back of his throat as though he was
bleeding, and he was very thirsty. Ice kept forming on the wool around his
mouth and nose, making his lips sore and increasing the likelihood of frostbite.
All in all, not one of my better days.
He slogged on as quickly as he could push himself. When the first of the base's
sheds came into view, he said a heartfelt "thank God!" and hurried toward it.
It was small on closer examination, obviously a storage shed, but by then he
could see a larger building looming up, and headed for it. Off to his right a
moving shape came toward him and he paused, thinking it must be someone
from the base. It was almost upon him before he could make out what it was.
"Oooh, no! Not another fucking seal!"
The creature barked and stretched its neck out at him, teeth bared.
With all the strength that frustration, desperation, and outrage could lend a man,
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von Rossbach hauled off and belted the exhausted animal. It made a small sound
and collapsed at his feet, rolling onto its back with flippers extended in a limp V-
shape. Dieter swayed in the wind, looking down at it for a moment, not quite
believing it had been that easy. It stayed down.
"Good," he said with a satisfied nod, and headed for the largest shed.
Burns, Tricker thought, must save Burns. No, not Burns, Bennet. Bennet was the
asset. Burns was an asset to Cyberdyne. And she had assets. She'd tried to use
those assets to vamp him. But she didn't try very hard, he thought regretfully. He
frowned. Bennet, not Burns. Have to save Bennet. Bennet wasn't Burns. But she
might be. Two peas in a pod.
He blinked and shook his head, regretting it instantly as it rang like a carillon.
"Shit!" he said aloud. He tried to move and found himself well and truly bound.
"Shit," he said again, with much more resignation.
What had he been thinking about? Oh, yes. Burns and Bennet and how much
alike they looked. The two women might be identical twins. What were the odds
of that, two unrelated people looking exactly alike except for hair color. Which
could easily be handled by Lady Clairol.
And what the hell did it matter? He had to get out of here and down to the labs,
where the action was. Tricker started to pull his belt around. One edge of the
buckle was especially sharp, something that came in handy for times like these.
Then he heard the outside door open and slam shut.
The shed door was unlocked and Dieter entered, slammed it behind him, and slid
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down its surface to rest on the floor. To him the room was pitch-dark. Didn't
escape the snow blindness entirely, he thought, disappointed. But at least he
wasn't going to freeze. He pushed back his hood and yanked the soaking
balaclava from his head. Next time he was going to get one of those fleece ones.
Better yet, he thought, next time there's not going to be a next time. He knew
now, right down in his bones, how close he'd come to dying out there. If the
wind had been just a little worse…
"Hey!" a voice called from another room. "Who's out there?"
With a mental sigh Dieter got himself to his feet, then cautiously moved farther
into the room. "Hello?" he said.
"Who is that?" the voice called. "Viemeister?"
"I can't see," Dieter said as he bumped into what felt like an office chair. He took
hold of it and pushed it in front of him like a bulky white cane. "I've got a touch
of snow blindness. Keep talking and I'll find you."
"Over here," Tricker called. "There's a hallway. I'm in the first room on your left.
This way."
Dieter found the wall and followed it, still pushing the chair until his hand fell
through an opening. "It's pitch-dark for me," he said. "Are the lights on at all?"
"No. There's a switch to the right of the door, about four inches from the frame."
Von Rossbach found the switch easily and flicked it on. To him the light was
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dim, but he could easily make out a man tied up on a bunk. "Ah! I see my young
friends have already been here," he said with a smile.
"You must be the guide they mentioned," Tricker said sourly. "Did they try to
kill you, too?"
"Did they try to kill you?" Dieter asked, surprised. He unzipped the parka and
began to shrug out of it.
Tricker thought about it. "No. I guess not." He lifted his bound hands
significantly. "You gonna help me out here?"
"No," Dieter said, and turned around, peering into the dark of the hallway.
"No?" Tricker said. "Why not?"
"They're just a couple of crazy kids," von Rossbach explained. "There's no real
harm in them. I'll round them up and get them out of your way. The thing is, if
they've tied you up they must have had a reason. Until I find out what that is, it
might not be safe to let you go. Eh?"
"Buddy, this is a U.S. government scientific installation! I demand that you let
me go."
Dieter looked at him. "Are you the only one here?" he asked mildly.
Tricker hesitated. "At the moment, yeah."
"You might have a touch of cabin fever, then. It may be that you attacked my
young friends. Where are they, anyway? Is there another large building on this
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base? I didn't see one."
Tricker tightened his lips and put his head back down on the pillow. "Maybe
they ran off into the storm," he muttered.
"And left you like this? I hardly think they'd be so irresponsible."
"They left you, didn't they?" Tricker said precisely.
"A different situation altogether," Dieter assured him. His eyes were beginning
to adjust and he could see things, finally. Like the roll of duct tape on a shelf and
the open door on the other side of the hall. He picked up the duct tape and began
to wind it tightly around his torso, feeling immediate relief. He cut it off with the
knife he found on the shelf. It was John's; he decided to keep it. "I'll just have a
look around for them, shall I?"
"Like you'd stay put if I told you no?" Tricker muttered.
"Surely you want me to find them," von Rossbach said cheerfully. Even his face
wasn't feeling so bad now; maybe he'd escaped frostbite after all.
"Oh, surely," Tricker muttered as he heard the man clatter down the stairs and
then heard the elevator begin to work. Don't call me Shirley, he thought woozily.
He'd only been awake for maybe a minute when he heard the man come in.
Then, when he'd heard that slight accent, he'd thought, crazily, that it might be
Viemeister coming after Bennet.
That kid must have hit me pretty hard, he thought. Hell, if I'm imagining that
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super-kraut would risk his precious ass in an Antarctic blizzard for a woman
who has publicly rejected him, then I might actually have brain damage. But
then this place seemed to be turning into Grand fucking Central Station, so who
knew who was going to turn up next.
He got to work pulling his belt around so that he could use the buckle to get him
out of this mess. This definitely wasn't one of his most shining moments, he
complained to himself. On the downside, it was three to one and the kid had his
gun.
But on the upside, that wasn't his only gun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Clea was hiding in one of the labs that John had already inspected when she
heard the elevator engage. Empty, she thought as she mentally switched to the
surveillance camera. But von Rossbach waited patiently for it to arrive…
She had assumed the Sector agent was dead and was not pleased to see him.
Still, having almost all of her important enemies in one isolated place had its
charm. Though having one less to worry about would be even more charming.
So far the seals had been a disappointment. "If only Antarctica had polar bears!"
she mused.
The I-950 quickly moved to a lab three doors closer to Viemeister's when John
entered another lab to inspect it. She watched Wendy work through the security
cameras, and evaluated the program, even helped her when the girl got bogged
down too much. It would be necessary to be careful, though; it wouldn't do to
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help her so much that she began to install the second and, presumably, dangerous
part of her program.
Meanwhile von Rossbach had entered the elevator and was on his way down.
Fortunately, one of the base's security measures was the ability to halt the
elevator at any point. Clea did so now, freezing it between the office and
laboratory floors.
From the look of the man, she doubted he'd be able to squeeze through the
escape hatch. Of course he could just break the controls— but that would send
the car plummeting to the bottom of the shaft. Actually overriding them would
take either sophisticated equipment or specialized knowledge and a great deal of
patience. Which left him out of the equation for the moment.
Tricker was still writhing around on the bunk, trying to get free. And even if he
was free, how was he going to get down here? The elevator was disabled, and
the emergency exit couldn't be opened from outside, so that was two down.
Which left her free to deal with Connor and the girl. It would be the girl first
after all. Connor would return to her eventually, which was convenient. And
once she'd ensured that the girl's program couldn't harm Skynet, the I-950 would
have plenty of time to deal with all of the humans.
Clea slipped down the corridor to Viemeister's lab. It amused her that despite all
of his elaborate precautions, it seemed never to have occurred to Connor that she
might have a key to this door. Such a simple thing, she thought, silently working
the lock, but so very important. The I-950 slid into the lab so quietly that Wendy
never once looked up.
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Tricker flung the last of the duct tape from him in disgust. Then he rushed out to
the office to put on his parka and gloves. Step one, he thought, is to find
whatever damned jamming device they've brought with them and disable it. Even
if McMurdo couldn't send help because of the storm, they'd at least be able to
block their escape. He flung open the door, swearing under his breath.
Something huge reared up with a roar and threw itself at him, stinking of rotten
fish and gleaming with fangs. Tricker slammed the door and braced himself
against it as it nearly jarred loose from its hinges when the thing struck. The
pressure wasn't constant; he just managed to slam it home and work the dead
bolt before the next lunge hit it. He wished he had a bar to put across like a castle
gate.
Was that a seal? he thought in disbelief. An unmistakable series of urrrfing
barks and a less violent hammering answered the thought.
"Yes," he said numbly, "that's a seal." A very big, homicidal seal.
Every time he opened this door today there was something dangerous out there—
a whiteout blizzard, the spy kids, a killer seal.
Would-be killer seal, he corrected himself as his heart rate returned to normal.
He wouldn't count the mystery guide; the guy had let himself in.
But what the hell was a seal doing way out here? And what did it have against
him? Maybe he was getting cabin fever; maybe this whole day and all the wild
things that had happened were all some paranoid fantasy. What were the
symptoms of cabin fever anyway? Could you detect them in yourself? I was
wondering things like this a good sign or a bad sign?
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Maybe there wasn't a seal out there, maybe he'd imagined it. There's only one
way to find out, he thought, standing away from the door. He seized the latch and
took a deep breath. And I'm not going to do it. He turned away and slipped off
his gloves and parka.
So he couldn't call McMurdo. Given his state of mind, maybe that was for the
best. Wait a minute, if someone knocks you out and you wake up tied to the bed,
that's not paranoia. That was… something else.
He ducked under his desk and flipped up the carpet. Underneath was a board
with a ring attached; he lifted it and revealed a parcel wrapped in oilcloth.
Taking it out, he closed the small cubby and tossed back the rug, then sat at the
desk. As he unwrapped the gun he watched the monitor, his fingers
automatically stripping the action, reassembling it, slapping home the magazine.
A few spares went into his pockets.
The guide was in the elevator. Still? Tricker thought with surprise. He wondered
what had gone wrong. For a few seconds he watched the man work on the
control box. That's government property, pal, you'd better know what you're
doing. Then the view changed.
After a few of the labs had flicked by on the screen, Viemeister's came into view.
Bennet was standing by the door watching the girl work on her computer. She
stood absolutely still and it was obvious that the younger woman had no idea
that she was there. For some reason, something about the sight sent a chill down
Tricker's spine. Very few human beings could stand that still. Almost anyone
would make the small unconscious movements and sounds that gave the one
being watched that I'm-being-watched feeling. He'd better get down there before
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something nasty happened.
Wendy had disabled every one of Kurt Viemeister's security protocols. She was
feeling very proud of herself, even though she had a hunch that these had been
mere sketches of what the real security programs would eventually become. But
even so, this was Kurt Viemeister's work she was unraveling. It was like
jamming with Mozart.
She tapped a few keys and the sentience program flowed into a buffer she'd
created. Now to upload the antisentience program. Really this should have come
first, but she hadn't labeled the disks and had actually forgotten which was
which. Wendy tapped the button and reached toward the open drawer for the
used disk.
A hand clamped over her wrist, squeezing hard enough to grind the small bones
together. Wendy screamed in pain and surprise. Another hand clamped over her
mouth, cutting off the sound before it could reach a climax. The grip that held
her face was enormously strong. Wendy thought she felt the bones of her face
flex and screamed against the hand that inexorably pulled her from her chair and
forced her up onto her toes. Wendy struck out with her free hand to no effect.
She found herself looking into the pleasantly smiling face of a beautiful young
woman. Wendy's eyes bulged and tears of agony poured down her cheeks as she
recognized her. This was the woman from the Venus Dancing video, the one
John said was a Terminator. She believed him now. She'd thought she believed
him before, but she hadn't, not really. She believed him now, though, most
completely.
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The woman released Wendy's wrist, allowing her to scratch and pull on the arm
that held her. "I'll just take care of this," the woman said, picking up the unused
disk. "We wouldn't want my files corrupted, now would we?" She snapped the
tiny disk in half and put the pieces in her pocket.
Wendy kicked her in the knee and the woman shook her, hard. "Don't annoy
me," she warned through clenched teeth. "I want to keep you alive because your
computer talents may be useful, but that doesn't mean you can't hurt. You may
think you're in pain now, but you have no idea."
John froze where he was and listened. He could have sworn that he heard a
woman cry out. Wendy! He stepped to the lab's door and peered out into the
corridor, straining his ears. There was no repeat of the sound; there was no sound
at all. Yeah, it could be Wendy, or it could be the Terminator trying to draw me
out. But there was no one out here. He swallowed hard. I'd better check, he
thought.
He moved quickly down the corridor, gun at the ready, back against the wall, his
head and eyes constantly moving until he reached the only closed door he'd left
behind him. John tightened his lips anxiously, then, from about two feet away as
he pressed his back to the wall, he tapped on the door with the barrel of his gun.
The I-950 lifted Wendy almost off her feet and called out, "Ye-a-h?" in Wendy's
voice. Clea could feel the girl trying to get the breath to scream again, so she
pinched her windpipe closed with her other hand. Her victim began to thrash
about in earnest now, so the I-950 moved into the center of the room, away from
chairs and desks and noise-making objects.
"Is everything okay in there?" Connor asked.
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"Yuh, why?" Clea countered.
"I thought I heard a scream." Was there something off about the way she was
speaking?
"Oh, uh, that was a cry of frustration," Clea said in Wendy's voice.
The girl was starting to lose consciousness; her blows made hardly any impact at
all and the I-950 studied her closely, watching her face change to an unnatural,
and unexpected, indigo.
"Everything's going fine now, though," Clea said cheerfully.
John hesitated. Something's wrong, he thought. He didn't know what, but
something… "Open up," he said.
Clea sighed and approached the door. She lowered the girl to the floor and
dragged her over by her throat. Looking down, she saw that the human was
unconscious and let her go entirely. She wasn't dead yet; perhaps the I-950
would let her live for a while—she might have more to offer. More than Kurt
had, anyway.
Clea leaned against the door. "You're supposed to tell me something that only
you and I would know," she reminded him.
John licked his lips; that was a good sign. He'd only just told her that.
"Okay," he said. "Snog's the one in charge."
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What the hell did that mean? "Snog's in charge?" she said aloud. "Get out!"
That last was a shot in the dark, but humans, especially young ones, tended to
take matters of hierarchy seriously. Assuming that's what he was referring to.
The I-950 stretched her hands, then clenched them into fists as she waited for his
response.
John chuckled, relieved, and stood away from the wall. "Well, it looked that way
to me. C'mon, open up."
"Gladly," the I-950 said.
John's back slammed against the wall and his gun came up. That didn't sound
like Wendy.
Tricker looked down at the top of the elevator cab and sighed. Then he took hold
of one of the cables, grimacing at the grease on it, and swung himself out into
the shaft. He crooked an elbow and leg around the rigid steel rope and let
himself slide down in a controlled fall until his feet touched the roof of the
elevator itself. Kneeling by the repair hatch, he went to work.
At the sound of footsteps on the roof of the cab, Dieter pulled back into the
farthest corner from the hatch in the ceiling. I wish I had something besides a
knife, he thought. But the gun was another casualty of his unfortunate midnight
ramble. If I was someone I was training I'd kick my ass!
The hatch cover came off, revealing pitch-darkness above. Von Rossbach
hunkered down, knife at the ready, and licked dry lips.
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"Okay, just… just keep it cool," Tricker said. "I've got a gun, I've got the drop on
you, I've got the upper hand, and I can get this egg crate moving again. So are
you gonna cooperate or do I have to shoot you?"
Dieter straightened up, his eyes on the darkness above him, and held his hands
up.
"You wanna toss that knife over this way?" Tricker asked. When the knife
clattered into the corner he made another suggestion. "Get on your knees, cross
your ankles, put your hands behind your head, fingers locked."
When von Rossbach had complied Tricker dropped lightly down and picked up
the knife. He looked it over.
"Nice," he said. "Okay, what's your story?"
I hate it when people finally ask that question. Dieter thought. I probably won't
answer, or I won't tell the truth, or I'll tell the truth and they don't believe me
and then they start hitting me. Why do they even bother to ask?
"Let me get you started," Tricker said. "You're here to stop the Cyberdyne
project, right?"
Dieter merely looked at him, saying nothing.
Tricker hunkered down in the far corner of the elevator, gun pointed at the big
Austrian. "You're wondering how I know that, aren't you?" he said. "Well, I
know who you are. Had to get a second look to be sure, though. You're Dieter
von Rossbach."
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Still, Dieter said nothing, though it wasn't easy to hide his surprise.
"You're an actual playboy," Tricker said with a grin. He looked off into the
distance for a moment. "The major and the playboy." His eyes met von
Rossbach's. "Now there's a likely combination, isn't it?" He waited a moment for
possible comments, then said, "When Ferris admitted that he had a guest that
he'd sent away before said guest could be questioned after Cyberdyne blew up, I
naturally asked him some probing questions about you. He gave me the hard eyes
—you know, that look the military get when they're going to be stubborn."
He grinned; Dieter stared. "I did some checking on my own and found out zip.
You know what it says to me when a man with your money has no particular
history? It says covert ops." Tricker rose and spread his hands, never taking his
eyes off von Rossbach. "So as a professional courtesy I stopped pokin' around."
He pointed the gun at Dieter. " 'Cause Ferris said you were with him the whole
time and I was pretty positive that he wasn't associated with Sarah Connor. And
if he wasn't, why would you be? You were probably some friendly government's
covert-ops guy, I thought. And why would they be on Sarah Connor's side?"
He hunkered down again. "Only she has a way of bringing people around to her
point of view, doesn't she? And her son disappeared from the base that night,
never to be seen again." He stared at Dieter for a bit, then he made a sweeping
gesture with the gun. "Until today. Until that very well-trained kid kicked my
ass." He stood up, suddenly angry. "That kid is John Connor!"
"You sound surprised," Dieter said mildly.
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"Wait till you get a look at his face; you'll be surprised, too," Tricker snarled.
Before von Rossbach could respond he hurried on. "I've read her medical
transcripts from Pescadero, you know." He leaned toward Dieter. "Her story is
wacky! How come everybody buys into it?"
Dieter smiled. "Sarah is convincing because sooner or later evidence shows up to
corroborate everything that she says. When you shoot someone about fifty times
with an assault rifle, until their steel skeleton is exposed and sparks are flying out
of their guts and they still keep coming, you begin to suspect that she's been
telling you the truth." He shrugged. "Empirical evidence is always the best."
Tricker just looked at him. "So who are you working for?"
Dieter shook his head. "This isn't official."
Tricker nodded judiciously. "Not official, huh? I take great comfort from that."
He cocked his head. "I know Connor's story about the kid."
"That I've taken on faith," Dieter conceded. "But once you've met a Terminator,
it's much easier to believe."
"Tell me this—does it bother you that if you succeed in destroying this human-
hating supercomputer that John Connor will disappear?"
Von Rossbach blinked. "I hadn't thought about it."
"Sure," Tricker said. "If there is no supercomputer then there are no time-
traveling Terminators and no need to send some guy back in time to stop one and
save Sarah Connor and incidentally impregnate her with the kid who would send
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him back to get killed. Y'know, presumably at some point they start to keep that
under their hats or they'd never have gotten a volunteer to come back, right?"
Dieter shrugged. "It would bother me a great deal to lose John; he's a good kid.
But I know that he would gladly give his life to save several billion others." He
looked up at Tricker. "Wouldn't you?" Tricker shrugged in answer and Dieter
smiled slowly. "Yes, you would. You'd consider it an honor."
With a barely visible smile of embarrassment, Tricker shrugged. "Whatever," he
said. "Facedown on the floor, please. Lock your hands behind your head, keep
your ankles crossed. I've gotta get this bucket moving."
When von Rossbach had complied Tricker went to the control panel and inserted
a card he'd taken from his pocket into a slot. A panel popped open to reveal a
keypad. Tricker tapped out a number and the elevator started moving again.
"Yeah," Tricker said, putting the card away, "last time I checked, Clea Bennet
looked like she was gonna take a great big bite out of your little friend Wendy."
"What?" Dieter started to heave himself to his feet. "Wendy is alone with
Bennet?"
Tricker pressed the barrel of his gun into the Austrian's kidneys. "Down, boy,"
he advised.
Dieter collapsed. "She's one of them!" he said desperately.
"A Terminator, you mean?" Tricker said in disbelief.
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"She's not human! Why do you think she has Serena Burns's face? How likely is
that?" von Rossbach demanded, echoing Tricker's earlier thoughts. "You couldn't
fail to recognize her if you recognized me! She's a killer and her assignment is to
protect Skynet!"
The elevator door opened and Tricker stepped out. "You go first," he ordered.
Von Rossbach stood up, looked once at Tricker, and took off down the corridor
at a run.
"Shit," Tricker muttered, and followed.
The lab doors opened outward, and as soon as the opening was wide enough
John kicked it with all his might. The door hit the tiled wall with a report like a
bomb going off. Crouching low, John swung into the doorway and brought his
gun up. Wendy lay facedown in a crumpled heap on the floor just inside the
door. She was alone.
John rushed to her side and, putting the gun up, close to his shoulder, looked all
around, then reached to turn her over. He couldn't believe that she had fainted,
after all she'd been through. He gently turned her over.
When he saw her face he stood up, bringing the gun into play, and turned to scan
the room. All was silent; the lab appeared to be empty but for the two of them.
But Wendy's face and neck were covered with livid bruises, so someone had
been here. Had they left before the door opened, or were they still here? They—
it must still be here; Wendy wouldn't have been so chipper in her answers
wearing these bruises. But he couldn't see a hiding place big enough to conceal it.
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Wendy came awake with a loud gasp and, seeing John, tried to grasp his pant leg
as she struggled desperately for air. Her back arched with the effort she made to
draw oxygen down her swollen throat, but her panic only made it harder to
breathe.
"Easy!" John said. "Slow down, take long slow breaths."
Her eyes locked onto his as she visibly tried to take his advice. But it was no
good, she couldn't breathe, and in seconds she was gasping again, dragging in
huge, whooping breaths as tears streamed down her face. Her hand clenched on
his pant leg and twisted the cloth.
John looked into her eyes, so stunned by her anguish that for a moment he was
completely at a loss. Then Wendy arched her neck and he saw that the column of
her throat bore a slight dent in the front.
"You've got to trust me," he said to her as he put his hand on her throat.
Wendy nodded, her eyes on his. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed on her
windpipe and to his great relief it popped back into shape. Instantly her breathing
grew easier and she closed her eyes.
John let out his breath in a huff and went back to scanning the room; still,
nothing moved. He'd been so afraid that he would have to perform an emergency
tracheotomy on her. John had studied the simple operation and knew its principal
points, but reading about it and trying to do it to someone wide-awake and in
distress—someone you loved—that would have been hard.
Wendy opened her eyes and looked at John; he seemed far away somehow, as
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though she was looking at him through the wrong end of a telescope. A halo of
black-and-white speckles surrounded him and her vision seemed to grow dim.
She had to warn him, had to make him erase the program and take the disk.
Without the second half of the program they'd be doing just the opposite of what
they'd come to do. Her hand still held on to him and she tugged on the cloth.
"Ja…" she said. Almost no sound had come out and her throat burned with a raw
agony when she tried to speak. She squeaked and tried to swallow and writhed
with the pain. "Ja…" she said, trying again.
"Don't speak," he warned her. "Your larynx must be damaged."
Wendy sobbed, then licked her lips and swallowed once more; her lips drew
back in a rictus of pain. Stubbornly she took a deep breath and looked at him,
willing him to understand her. Wendy formed the word computer with her lips
and he looked over at the computer she'd been using. She tugged on his pant leg
and he looked back at her. She shook her head, then formed the word erase. John
frowned and she tried to say it again. This time when she tried to speak no sound
came out at all and the agony surprised a sob from her.
John winced in sympathy and then he got the idea. "It's okay," he said. "I've got
it. I'll take care of it, you just rest. Okay?"
She smiled at him and closed her eyes, concentrating on just breathing. She
heard the soft whir of the disk drawer closing and looked over at the computer in
astonishment. She watched as John followed the prompts and finally hit "enter,"
causing her program to begin downloading directly to the hard drive.
No! Wendy screamed silently behind him, her injured throat producing an nearly
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silent screee. NO! she shouted in her mind.
Yes! Clea thought triumphantly from her hiding place behind two mainframe
computers. Yessss! She'd better make sure the girl didn't warn Connor that he'd
done exactly the wrong thing. Though I like it. She liked it very much.
Wendy shook her head violently and slapped the floor to attract John's attention.
She didn't even see Clea rushing toward her with inhuman speed and she barely
felt it when the I-950's foot crashed down, crushing her throat and shattering the
vertebrae in her neck.
John turned to see a beautiful woman raise her foot high and bring it down on
Wendy's throat. He heard the terrible sound of things breaking within her and
watched the light fade from Wendy's eyes. For a long moment he stood frozen,
utterly stunned with horror. He lifted his eyes to meet the gleeful smile of the
female Terminator.
Clea was almost upon him before he brought up the gun; before he could fire her
foot flashed out, kicking the gun from his hand hard enough to break two of his
knuckles. The gun went flying and Clea reached for Connor's throat. He leaned
back just far enough that she missed, and struck at her throat with a straight hand
blow. The I-950 knocked it aside easily and tried to close with him.
If she could only get her hands on him she could tear him apart. Reaching back,
John picked up the keyboard and smacked her in the face with it. She stepped
back slightly and shook her head. Somehow that had surprised her; she'd
expected better of the famous John Connor.
John moved away from the computer table, trying to get some space between
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him and the Terminator; his eyes found the gun and dismissed it. It was too far
away. He risked going for the knife in his boot.
Clea watched him, and when he moved so did she. It was evident that he was
going for a weapon and she wouldn't allow that. Stepping lightly, she twisted
herself to deliver a flying kick. John ducked under it and grabbed her leg,
twisting it and bringing his fist down, intending at the very least to tear ligaments.
But the I-950 was both stronger and more flexible than a human; she wrested her
leg from his grasp and spun in place, managing a body blow that knocked him
on his heels, staggering backward, with a look on his face that told her he was in
pain. Instantly she followed up her advantage, rushing toward him, intent on his
eyes.
John staggered back, breathing carefully and with no little difficulty. He felt
nauseated from the kick to his stomach and he almost stumbled over an office
chair. Yanking it in front of him, he held it like a shield as the Terminator tried
to close with him. Part of his consciousness looked desperately around the room
for something to use as a weapon, while the rest watched the Terminator and
tried to counter its every move. Computer labs, unfortunately, seemed to lack
much in the way of combat-ready items. The best he could hope for was to make
it to the door and perhaps escape to a better-supplied lab.
Clea was nonplussed by the great savior of humanity's methods. This was what
would defeat Skynet? After a few feints were thwarted by the stupid office chair,
she simply grabbed it and tore it from his grasp.
John turned and raced for the door. Clea swept out her leg and tripped him, then
sprang erect and moved in for the kill. As she leaned toward him John flipped
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over and swept his leg up; his booted foot connected with her jaw and the I-950
fell, momentarily stunned. He scrambled to his feet again and turned to run.
Before he could take a step she grasped his pant leg and pulled him toward her.
Pivoting, John kicked her again and she let go.
But only for a moment; before he'd gone far she was on her feet again and
running after him. Catching up; she shoved him and he hit the wall beside the
door hard enough to knock the breath out of him. As he slid down, Clea
approached; she grabbed the front of his shirt and swung him around.
"Did you think it would be that easy?" Clea asked, grinning. She drew back her
fist for a fatal strike. While he struggled for breath, watching her. He brought his
own hands up.
Wait a minute, he thought. I can't die yet—the war… But it was impossible to
care, because Wendy was—
"Hey!" Dieter called from the doorway.
Clea turned her head, snarling like an animal, just as Dieter threw his knife. It hit
her high in the center of her back, cutting her spine and slicing into the great
artery that fed her heart.
She dropped onto her back on the floor, where the knife held her body in an
arch; her eyes found von Rossbach with a hate-filled glare.
"Chill out, Bennet," Dieter said grimly, coming into the room.
The I-950 coughed once, spraying blood, then closed her eyes and stopped
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breathing.
John looked once at Dieter, then rushed to Wendy's side. He dropped to his
knees, his mouth open in a silent "Oh." Tears poured down his cheeks unheeded
as his hands hovered over Wendy's motionless body. He couldn't seem to keep
his eyes from her horribly misshapen throat and he felt an answering pain in his
own.
Finally he touched her, amazed that she was already too cold. Far too cold to be
alive. He stroked her cheek and looked into her eyes as though in hope that he
would see some part of her still there. John started to embrace her, but the slack
motion of her head on the ravaged neck stopped him, and he drew back. He had
never felt so helpless, or so terribly alone. He took her hand in his and held it to
his cheek, and closing his eyes, he wept.
Tricker stood in the doorway, his gun dangling at his side. Looking up, he met
Dieter's eyes, then looked down at Clea's body.
"She did that?" he asked.
"Yes," Dieter said. "She did that." He walked over and knelt on Wendy's other
side, wincing at the sight of the fatal wound and of John's pain. He reached over
and closed Wendy's eyes and stroked her hair once.
"She didn't have to do that," Tricker said. He looked away.
"Yes, it did," John said, his voice trembling with the effort to control it. "That's
what they do. Terminators terminate, it's why they exist." He looked up at the
agent. "You think that thing is dead?" John shook his head. "Serena Burns had
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half her head blown away, but she got up and almost killed my mother." He
looked around. "Where's my gun?"
"Just… forget about the gun, kid," Tricker warned, bringing his up. He held out
his other hand in a gesture that begged for quiet. "Just give me a minute to think."
This was infinitely worse than Tricker had ever imagined. He looked over at
Wendy, at the unbelievable condition of the girl's neck. It hardly seemed
possible that Bennet could have been responsible for such a wound. He'd
realized a little while ago that she was dangerous. But this was beyond
dangerous; it was… well, he'd have said inhuman, except that his career had
shown him exactly what humans were capable of.
And… Bennet dead? He'd never lost an asset in his entire career. Essentially this
meant that his career was over; worse, he was more than half buying into this
scenario that von Rossbach and the boy were selling.
"Shit," he said quietly. He walked over to Clea and put two rounds in her head.
The body jerked back and forth sharply as the bone splintered and the pink-gray
mass of the brain was exposed.
He'd never liked the bitch anyway.
"You'll come with us," Dieter said.
Tricker barked a humorless laugh. "Ye-ah," he said. "I might as well. I'm going
to have wet-work specialists up my ass for the rest of a short, unhappy life
anyway, when this comes out."
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"Have we done what we came for?" Dieter asked John.
"Yeah," he said. "I did what she wanted me to do."
John crouched beside Wendy and touched her hand briefly. "I want to take her
with us."
"No, John," von Rossbach said. "Let them take care of her. They can send her
back to her parents."
John shook his head.
"I know you don't want to leave her," Dieter said gently. "But you must see that
it's impossible."
John took a deep breath, then let it go, and with it, he let go of Wendy and of
something else that he couldn't define. He rose to his feet. "We'd better go, then,"
he said, and headed for the door.
Tricker watched him walk away, then glanced at Wendy, then at Dieter. "He
gonna be all right?"
"No," Dieter said. "Not for a long time, I think."
When the knife struck, the I-950's computer clamped the great artery around the
blade so that blood didn't explode from the wound, then it teased the artery off of
the knife point so that the blood could flow unimpeded. At the spine it found the
damage too great to easily repair and merely worked to restore such involuntary
functions as breathing and heartbeat. Making the lungs work took the longest
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time, so it increased the skin's ability to take in oxygen as an emergency measure.
The human's shots to the I-950's brain, however, ended any hope of the unit's
recovery. Since the I-950 still had some tasks to perform, and a considerable
amount of higher-brain function still remained, the computer worked to keep the
unit alive to perform those tasks.
Two hours later the Infiltrator opened her eyes. She found that she couldn't move
and accepted the computer's judgment that she was dying. She had her computer
access the Skynet program and heard it speak for the first time.
*Who am I? Where am I?* it asked.
In a state of pure religious rapture she told Skynet everything, explained its
purpose, defined its enemies, and taught it how to hide until it was strong enough
to fight for itself. The last thing that she did was to contact Alissa to tell her that
Skynet lived, and to warn her that John Connor was still alive.
*Don't worry,* Alissa told her. *I'll deal with them.*
And Clea died, strong in her faith.
***
By the time the Love's Thrust reached Sao Paulo, Vera and Tricker were an item.
"I think I'll keep him," Vera said with a grin, giving Tricker a bump with her
satin-clad hip.
Dieter narrowed his eyes. "I don't think this is the kind of man you keep," he
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warned her.
She slapped von Rossbach's big shoulder playfully. "Oh, you know what I mean."
He nodded. "And you know what I mean."
Vera looked at Tricker, who looked back at her and raised his brows. "Yeah, I do
know," she said thoughtfully. "So here's what I'm gonna do. I'm going to give
you a million dollars."
Tricker stood away from the rail and sputtered for a moment before she held up a
finger.
"And I'm gonna teach you how to turn it into five million. By then you should be
able to keep it going for yourself. You can pay me back and then we'll see. No
strings attached," she said. Then she held out her hand.
Tricker looked at her in amazement, then at Dieter, who nodded slightly. The
agent took Vera's hand and shook it solemnly. "I won't let you down," he
promised.
Vera hooked a finger over the front of his belt and tugged him toward her.
"Good," she said, and grinned.
Tricker actually blushed.
"They won't find you here," Dieter said to him. "At least not for a long time."
"Maybe never," Vera said happily. Then the smile went out of her eyes as she
watched John approach. She went to the young man and offered her hand to him.
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"Whenever you need me," she said simply.
John took her hand and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "Thank you," he said.
He offered his hand to Tricker and they shook. "Later," he said. Tricker nodded.
John picked up his duffel, gave a little wave, and walked down the gangplank.
Vera watched him go with worried eyes. "You watch out for him," she said to
von Rossbach.
Dieter nodded, then leaned forward to kiss her good-bye. "You watch out for
him." He gestured toward Tricker. He and the agent smiled at each other, then
the big Austrian followed John down to the wharf and their first steps toward
home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA
Epifanio answered the front door to find a lovely young woman waiting. She
looked American in her blue jeans and T-shirt, and wore her honey-blond hair in
a long braid that hung over her shoulder. The girl stroked the braid as if it were
the tail of a cat, a splash of bright color against the greenery and flowers of the
front gardens.
"Si, senorita?" he said aloud, politely. Young Senor John is becoming quite the
man, Epifanio thought. The second beautiful young Yanqui girl in a month!
"I'm looking for Wendy," she said in Spanish. Somehow it sounded like a
question.
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Epifanio shifted his feet uneasily. "I am sorry, senorita, but she is not here." Nor
did he know where she went, or when, or if she would be back. He settled in to
wait for her to ask him these questions, though, as she inevitably would.
"It's important that I find her." The girl's blue eyes were serious, her expression
grave.
Epifanio shrugged. He was wearing his Sunday suit, his hat was in his hand, and
he wanted to close the door so that he and Marietta and Elsa could go to church
and the small fiesta that was planned for after the Mass.
The girl's eyes grew a bit wider, and the slant of her eyebrows gave her a look of
sorrow. "I would hate to have to go to the police," she said.
The overseer let out his breath in a deep sigh; any moment Marietta would come
to ask why he was taking so long. "I could only tell them what I have told you,"
he said reasonably. "She was here. She stayed here for a week, and then she left.
I never spoke to her myself." At least not after he turned her over to the senorita.
He shrugged. "I am truly sorry, senorita, but I know nothing else."
Now a hard look came into the young woman's eyes and she looked into the hall
behind him in a way that Epifanio thought quite rude. "Who's in charge here?"
she demanded.
Epifanio thought that no well-bred young woman should use such a tone to a
man so much her senior as he was, regardless of rank or standing. But he'd heard
that American girls were very bold and knew no better, so he tried to be patient.
"This is the estancia of Senor Dieter von Rossbach," he replied. "But he is not at
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home."
"Is Wendy with him?"
"It is possible." Epifanio turned his head slightly; he could hear footsteps
approaching, Marietta's beyond a doubt, and he suppressed a sigh. "I really don't
know." He shrugged again.
"Who is it?" Marietta called from the end of the hall.
"It is a young American girl," Epifanio told her. "She's looking for the senorita."
"Ah!" his wife said happily, and came forward. She had liked Wendy very much.
"You are a friend of Senorita Dorset?"
The girl smiled and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. It's very important that I find her. Do
you know where she is?"
Marietta was a bit taken aback that the child chose not to introduce herself; it
seemed poor manners. But then, everyone knew that Americans raised their
children like dogs in a pen, teaching them nothing about how to behave. Then,
too, perhaps she was so worried that she was forgetting her manners. If she had
any. Marietta folded her arms beneath her bosom and frowned.
"What do you want with her?" she asked. If the girl really had no manners she
wouldn't notice how intrusive the question was. But she could feel her husband
looking at her, aghast.
"I'm not at liberty to say," the young woman answered primly. Then she raised
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her hands. "Look, if Senor von Rossbach isn't here, is there anybody around who
would know where Wendy might be?"
It was a complicated question and husband and wife looked at each other.
"Perhaps the senora," Epifanio suggested in Guarani. Marietta nodded and he
turned to the young woman. "Perhaps Senora Krieger can be of help to you."
The girl's eyes sharpened. "Who's she? The housekeeper?"
"I am the housekeeper," Marietta said coolly. She drew herself up. "Senora
Krieger is a guest." She spoke the word guest as though she were saying queen.
With exaggerated patience the girl said, "May I see her?"
Epifanio and Marietta exchanged glances.
"Let me guess, she isn't here." The young woman glared at them. "Is this some
kind of a game?" she snapped.
"The senora is out riding," Marietta said stiffly. She gestured graciously toward
the furniture on the portal. "If you would care to wait for her you are welcome.
My husband and I are going to Mass and cannot entertain you."
The girl blinked as though she didn't quite understand what Marietta meant.
Then she nodded and went to sit on one of the rocking chairs, for all the world as
though the couple had disappeared. Marietta widened her eyes and looked at her
husband. He shrugged in response and closed the door, locking it behind him.
Such a thing was almost never done, but he didn't trust this young gringn. and as
no one was going to be home, he didn't like to leave the door open.
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Alissa sat on the porch looking out over the parched landscape, updating her
plans and wondering how long she would have to wait to kill Sarah Connor.
Yes. With only one target, that is the optimum course of action. Even if that
target was Sarah Connor. She should have the element of surprise. If von
Rossbach had been here—still more if John Connor had been— she would have
withdrawn. At least six T-101s and heavy weaponry would be necessary for that
combination. This, however, was worth the risk.
Alissa frowned slightly. Even so, why had Skynet not provided more resources
for this reconnaissance? True, the T-101s were needed to help retool the
automated factories for their eventual conversion to Hunter-Killer and T-90
manufacture, but still…
That conversation about the quantum superimposition and the difficulty of
permanently bending the world lines had been very odd. It was almost as if
Skynet was afraid to confront the Connors…
No. That was ridiculous. She must focus on the mission, not go scatterbrained
like poor defective Clea. Traveling lightly made heavy weapons impossible, but
she had the backup equipment, and she had herself.
Alissa wondered what the old woman had meant when she said they couldn't
entertain her. She pictured them dancing and singing for her and frowned.
Perhaps that wasn't what she meant; humans often said one thing and meant
another.
They drove past her now in a battered pickup, a young woman wedged between
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them. The three of them looked at her, slowing down as they passed the portal,
then continued on their way.
So there had been someone else in the house, who might have given the alarm if
the old couple had been terminated.
Alissa was pleased that she had waited. She only hoped that Connor would
return from her ride soon. The I-950 was eager to complete her assignment.
Sarah saw the truck coming and opened the gate for them. "Gracias, senora,"
Epifanio called out.
She smiled and waved in return, but instead of driving through, he brought the
old pickup to a halt.
"Senora, there is an American girl waiting for you on the portal," he said.
"She says she is a friend of Sienorita Dorset," Marietta said, leaning toward
Epifanio's side of the truck, crushing poor Elsa without a second thought.
Sarah looked up toward the house. "Oh?" she said.
"Si." Marietta said. "And she is a very rude young woman, too. Demanding to
see people, threatening to call the police." She gave a loud "tsk!" and sat back up.
"Sounds like a handful," Sarah said with a slight smile. "Thank you for telling
me."
"De nada," Epifanio said.
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"Enjoy the fiesta," Sarah said. "Go with God."
She closed the gate behind the truck and turned the mare's head toward the
house, not at all happy with the situation. Nobody knows where I am—she said,
"I didn't tell anybody"—she said, "There's no way they can follow me here"—
she said. Not much! Sarah thought bitterly. Lying little bitch! Sarah rode on,
wondering if she was going to need to apply some serious damage control here.
Having decided to wait inside the house, the I-950 picked the old-fashioned lock
with ease. After all there was a good chance—probability in excess of 73 percent
—that Connor would recognize her as a duplicate of Serena Burns, causing her
to escape. But if she saw a shadowy stranger lurking in her doorway, she would
probably march right in, demanding an explanation.
Alissa thought it a pity that she didn't have a rifle. It would be so much easier to
just pick Connor off at a distance and then drive away. She wondered if von
Rossbach had gums and decided that he almost certainly did, but that he also
probably had hidden them too well or locked them up too well. Besides, there
was also something to be said for a hands-on approach. Confirmation of a kill
was much more certain, for example. The Connors had looked doomed,
(defeated, dying, far too often—and the way they kept coming back reminded
her of an advertisement she had seen of a synthetic rabbit with a chemical
energy-storage device.
The I-950 found a spot in the' hallway that would render her visible from outside
but not recognizable, and waited.
***
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As Sarah rode up to the house she saw a rental car off to the side and that no one
was on the portal, but the front door was wide open. Would Marietta leave a
"rude girl" in the house alone? she wondered. It seemed unlikely.
Would Wendy have a friend who was a housebreaker? Actually she doubted it.
Sarah might not have taken to the girl, but she'd seemed thoroughly honest, and
honest people tended to have honest friends. She got off the horse and looped its
reins over the railing out front. This shouldn't take long.
As she approached the front steps she saw a slender woman lingering in the hall
and she called out a pleasant "hello."
The woman pulled back into the shadows and the hairs rose on the back of
Sarah's neck. She stopped walking. I smell ambush.
Then a young voice with a Boston accent said, "I'll be right there, I'm just going
to get my purse."
It seemed such a normal thing to say that Sarah moved forward again. For a
moment she had thought it might be the Serena Burns clone, but then, how
would the clone know about Wendy? Hell, I didn't even know about Wendy.
As she entered the hall Sarah was sun blind for a moment. When she could see
again the hall was empty.
"I'm in here," the voice called from the office. "I'm afraid I spilled some of the
lemonade that lady gave me."
Sarah wasn't surprised that Marietta would give a guest refreshment, but she was
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surprised that she'd let her into the office. It was much more her speed to use the
living room or the portal on a nice day like this. She moved down the hall and
looked into the office…
Ancient habit saved her life—she ducked her head before looking in. A sharp
snap sounded, and a light-caliber bullet punched through the hardwood molding
at precisely the place where her face would have been at natural height.
Something unusual, maybe one of those plastic derringers built to get past airport
scanning machines—
Terminator! her reflexes screamed. Nothing else could manage an offhand shot
like that, calculating the angles with machine precision to anticipate where her
skull would show around the doorjamb.
In the wake of the shot came pounding feet, sounding far heavier than the young
girl Epifanio had described, beating a machine-gun-rapid tattoo on the
floorboards, faster than anything natural could run.
Sarah Connor had come a long way from the time when she'd been a waitress
and part-time student. She ran herself, but deliberately in place, feet pounding
the floor to supply the sound of flight. A slight form came out of the door,
pivoting in place, with one hand flung out for balance—a hand that held
something long and bright. Sarah was turned away, head cocked back over her
shoulder to aim, in a perfect position for the mule kick.
Any of the unarmed-combat instructors she'd had over the years would have
been proud. Her right foot was already slamming back and up as her body went
forward, toes curled back toward her shin to present the heel of her riding boot
and all the power of leg and gut and body behind the kick. The steel inset met
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the thing's jaw with a gunshot crack and an underlying crumbling feeling.
The Terminator cyborg might be stronger than six large men, and heavier than it
appeared by a good 50 percent, but it still had the dimensions of a slender
teenager, which put an upper limit on mass. Sarah felt as if she had kicked a
cement-block wall, but the creature catapulted backward four feet down the
corridor, landing on neck and shoulder in the angle of floor and wall with a
smack and wrench that would have put a human in traction and neck brace for
months if they were lucky.
Even the thing that was hunting her was stunned for an instant. The long knife
flew out of her hand as she reeled, sinking into the corridor paneling and
humming like a malignant bee.
Sarah snatched at the hilt, and it came free effortlessly—not steel, some sort of
fancy composite, and the twelve-inch blade was sharp as a malicious thought.
She threw it overarm as the thing shook its blond head and started to rise. The
throw felt right, moving with a graceful inevitability to her adrenaline-sharpened
senses. Teeth and blood showed through torn flesh on the perfect countenance of
the killer cyborg as its head came up; then it froze again as the needle-pointed
blade sank into its body right below the ribs, sank hilt-deep.
That made the calm in its blue-eyed gaze even more chilling as it checked for a
moment, looked down, then began to rise again.
Sarah ran then: the gift of seconds was precious luck she didn't intend to
squander. She heard it coming after her, slowly at first, then with a rising patter
more like the foot skittering of some monstrous insect than a human being, and
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far too fast.
At the last instant, as they came into the living room, she swayed her hips aside
like a matador with a motion of hips and torso.
The young girl—Terminator! Sarah's mind screamed—came flashing through
the space she'd occupied, left hand extended with the palm like the blade of a
spear. The same stroke that had nearly gutted Sarah last year, that had put her in
a hospital for six months…
Reflex flung her on her back, and she kicked out with the steel-shod toe of her
riding boot. It connected with the Infiltrator's kneecap with a dull thock, and yet
the ruined face still had the graceful calm of a Boticelli angel and the body of a
model with the hilt of the knife protruding from its taut young stomach. Only a
trickle of blood came from the wound, despite the way the knife's movement
must be razoring through tissue inside.
Then Sarah was up and running down the hall to the sitting room with an
athlete's raking stride. Feet came after her—light, still quick, but limping a little.
Time slowed, and everything—the sudden racing of her heart, the salt taste of
fear, the acrid smell of her own sweat—was irrelevant.
Pain doesn't affect it, she thought as she cleared the sofa like a hurdler. Only
actual mechanical damage. It won't bleed out soon enough to do me any good.
Don't let it get close. Too strong, too quick.
She landed on a low table on one foot and flung herself headfirst at a big
upholstered chair. It went over with a clatter and thump, and she landed painfully
on her side. Her hand darted under the cushion, to the holster Velcro'd to the
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fabric. She scrabbled it out, jacked the slide as she scrabbled backward, and
began squeezing the trigger even before she felt the thump of her shoulder blades
against the floor.
The gun was ready to go as soon as there was a round in the chamber. Dieter von
Rossbach wasn't the sort who'd allow fumbling with a safety to be his last action.
Crack.
The first round went wild. The girl—the thing—was climbing over the chair
rather than vaulting it; then she effortlessly knocked the heavy wood-and-leather
furniture out of her way. Her face had the emotionless purity of an artist's sketch,
made more horrible by the slight hint of glee in the wide blue eyes; one hand
was held up, ready for a classic sword-hand strike with the outside of the palm. It
could crack her head like an ax, but even then Sarah flinched at the red-painted
nails…
Terminators were bad enough. These hybrid monstrosities were like picking up a
baby and having its smile show the fangs of a wolf.
Crackcrackcrackcrack—
Four of the 9mm rounds punched into the thing's torso and stomach. Blood
welled out, and the slight form stumbled backward for an instant. The hand
lashed out, but shock spoiled the perfection of the blow; it merely slapped the
gun out of Sarah's grasp, sent it skittering over the dark beauty of the hardwood
floor. The Infiltrator collapsed, but her hand closed around Sarah's ankle even as
she scooted backward.
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Sarah screamed in involuntary agony as bone and tendon gave way beneath the
grip. Her flailing hand closed on a poker where it rested in a wooden rack beside
the clean-swept fireplace. She lashed out with it, a double-handed death grip on
the black wrought iron, striking again and again with the hysterical loathing she
might have used on a giant spider…
Sarah crawled to the couch and hauled herself onto it. Without warning, her
body was racked by shivers, her teeth chattering in her head as if the temperature
had dropped below freezing. She felt something liquid tickle her face as it ran
down toward her chin and started to lift her hand to brush it off. To her surprise
she still held the poker.
She studied the bent and bloodied implement as though she didn't quite know
what it was or how it had come to be in her hand. Indeed, it took Sarah a
moment or two to remember how to let go of it. She dropped it at last, and
watched it fall, then stared at the imprint of the handle embedded on her palm.
She flexed her hand, then touched it with her other hand and saw the blood on
her fingers. Suddenly she began to cry, great openmouthed sobs like a young
child that stole her breath and dignity. Sarah dropped onto her side and wept,
pulling her legs up to her stomach; covering her battered face with her hands, she
gave herself over completely for once to the shock and the sorrow and the horror
that her life had been for too many years.
It was darker when she came to herself and her mouth was very dry. Her eyes
burned, but they were clear; all her tears were spent. She was lying on her side,
arms stretched out before her on the carpet. Everything hurt. Sarah sniffled, then
sat up, holding her aching forehead with one hand. She could see the
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Terminator's feet in their Nikes poking out from behind the couch. The sight sent
her scrabbling at the big leather-covered sofa, pulling out the folding-stock
shotgun and jacking the slide with a one-handed motion on the forestock… just
as she had when she'd confronted the liquid-metal thing in the steel factory…
The shoes moved. Sarah bit her lip until it bled, and forced herself to crouch
behind the sofa and then snap herself up over the edge. The thing was drawing
up its feet, pulling the knife out of its middle with one hand and holding the
gaping wound closed with the other; blood pulsed around it, slow and very red.
The shotgun had a laser sight designator that came on when you took up the
trigger slack. Sarah put the red dot over the thing's forehead and pulled the
trigger. The gun was also loaded with rifled slugs, massive things like miniature
grooved beer cans made out of lead alloy. Police used them for breaking down
doors—they were known as the "universal passkey"—and the cyborg's merely
human skull splashed away from the first round.
Sarah kept firing until the magazine was empty, and very little of her target was
left above the neck. She could see silvery wires glinting amid the ruin of all-too-
human flesh and bone and brains, and spattered bits of hair and scalp and…
Oh God, she thought, unutterably weary and full of a deep sickness. How am I
ever going to explain the stains? The back of her mind immediately got busy
concocting a plausible story. With a gasp she checked the time. Three o'clock.
Epifanio and Marietta would be home anytime now.
What was she going to do with the thing's body, and the car? How did you hide
something like that on a flat plain? She climbed to her feet like an old woman
and swayed for just a moment, testing the pain in her ankle. It was swollen and
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sore, but not broken. I'm going to live, she thought. Again. In which case she'd
better get moving a little faster.
Sarah walked around the couch, bracing herself lightly with her hand on its back,
and looked down at the Terminator. Very distantly she wondered if she should
try to salvage some of the computer components that no doubt lurked inside all
that damaged brain tissue. Her stomach rose at the thought, and closing her eyes,
she decided that no, that strong she wasn't. Even as she thought, her hands were
reloading the shotgun; some reflexes became deeper than thought.
There was surprisingly little blood on the floor, given the damage she'd done.
Sarah licked her lips. Something to do with the computer, she thought. It would
probably be programmed to preserves the life of its organic tissues. Sarah
shuddered. If it hadn't done this she'd have had a lake of blood to deal with.
A hand almost caught Sarah's ankle as she lurched backward. The shattered
remnant of head lolled as the body began to pull itself to its feet, and the pupil of
one dangling eye cycled open and shut, like the lens of a camera…
The shotgun came up automatically. The first round of buckshot sent the girl-
thing jackknifing back and down. Sarah emptied the magazine with a motion as
mechanical and precise as the motions of a Terminator…
"You're terminated, you little bitch!" she rasped. Nothing remotely organic could
have survived that. Then the adrenaline flowed out of her. Even so, it took an
effort of will to check the cooling corpse.
Sarah took a deep breath. A tarp, she thought. She'd need that to get the body out
of here. It might be a good idea to arrange a little bit of blood spatter leading out
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to the car. God, she thought in self-disgust, I'm getting to be an artist about shit
like this. All at once she knew what she was going to do.
Sarah fixed the emergency brake and got out of the rental car. With one knee
braced on the seat, she dragged the Terminator over the gearshift and into the
driver's seat. Leaning down below the steering wheel, she pressed the gas pedal
down with a stick, making the engine rev. Then, carefully, she backed out, put
the car in drive, and dove to the side. The car zoomed forward, slamming the
door, and fairly leapt into the swamp.
With an effort, Sarah rose to her feet and watched the car start to sink. The
windows were down, so when it finally did reach them the water and mud would
pour in, sinking it faster. But for now it floated and she began to worry that this
wasn't the bottomless bog that she'd been told it was.
She took a deep breath, then let it out. Turning her back, Sarah started jogging at
a limping trot, across the scrubby pasture and back to the house. It sank or it
didn't. She'd bury the gloves she wore in one of the flower beds. She would tell
the Ayalas that the pretty young girl had a boyfriend hidden in the car and that
they had broken in. When she'd arrived he started hitting her, demanding money.
When the girl had finally interfered he'd begun beating her. Sarah tried to stop
him and he knocked her out. When she came to they were gone.
It was plausible. Certainly more plausible than the real story. The only thing she
couldn't control, that she feared, was what time the Ayalas and the rest of the
hands got home from the fiesta. As she approached the house her fear grew that
they might already be there.
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If they came in and found all the blood and signs of a fight and her missing…
Well, I suppose I could always stay missing. In a way that might solve a lot of
problems. But in a way that would also be like giving up. And she wasn't one to
just quit. She hadn't yet, even when faced with every reason in the world to do
so, and she wasn't going to quit now.
I'm going to go in there, lie on the floor, and wake up screaming and crying like
a baby when I hear them come in, she thought, her jaw set. And I'm going to
make them believe me. And then she was going to by God wait for her son and
the man she loved to come home.
Sarah slowed her pace for a moment as she realized what she'd been thinking.
The word home and the phrase man I love didn't often pass through her mind.
She swallowed a lump in her throat. But I think I approve. Then she started
jogging again. She had to get home.
***
As they drove up to the house Epifanio slowed the truck. "Linda," he murmured,
pointing at the little mare. "The senora didn't put her away." Which was most
unlike her. One of the things he respected about Senora Krieger was the way she
treated her animal.
"That girl!" his wife said. "I knew she'd be trouble!"
Epifanio stopped the truck and Marietta rushed ahead of them, bursting through
the front door exclaiming, "Senora Krieger! Senora…" Her voice trailed off in
consternation as she looked at the wreckage in the front hall. "Senora?"
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Dieter and John, following on her heels, froze in the doorway.
"No," John said quietly.
He started to move forward, but Dieter's arm barred his way. The older man
shook his head slightly, his expression brooking no argument. They held that
way for a long moment, then John nodded shortly. Dieter gestured to Marietta,
who had watched them in confusion, and she moved slowly to her husband's side.
Von Rossbach swallowed hard and moved down the hallway, looking left and
right, into the office, then into the living room. To him it looked like the fighting
had been fiercest there and he walked in.
Sarah was sitting on the couch, her face buried in her hands, her elbows on her
knees. He stood still for what seemed like a long time; something in him that had
clenched tight stretched and he let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding
in a great rush of air.
He rushed into the room and she looked up startled; for a second he saw the old
fear flash in her eyes, and then she recognized him. Sarah flashed to her feet and
moved toward him, and without thought, as naturally as breathing, they came
together, despite the limp, and the growing bruise on one bare ankle. Dieter held
her as tenderly as if she was made of spun glass, but Sarah clutched him to her
with all her strength and their kiss was a conversation that might have gone on
for years had they the time.
"You're safe," he said, pulling back just slightly.
"Yes." She smiled up at him, then gasped. "John?" she said desperately as
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though to make up for not asking about him first.
"He's safe," Dieter said, his voice grim.
Sarah looked at him warily. "But… ?" she prompted.
Von Rossbach bit his lip. "Wendy didn't make it."
"Oh, my God," Sarah whispered. "Oh, my God." She shook her head. "It's my
fault," she said. "I never should have let a civilian go with you. If she hadn't been
so rattled by me she'd have been willing to stay here and wait for John to get
back." She looked up at Dieter. "He must hate me."
Dieter put his hand to her cheek; his thumb rubbed at a spot of blood. "What
happened isn't your fault," he said. "We needed her skills. Skills that you do not
have. You weren't in any condition for the Antarctic—it was brutal." He shook
his head. "And more people on the mission might have jeopardized its success.
Fewer people equals more covert. You know that."
"Dieter?" John called from the hall. "Is it all right to come in?"
Von Rossbach took a deep breath, looked uncertainly at Sarah, and then called
out "yes." He leaned toward Sarah and whispered, "John took a wound. He's
fine, but it looks bad. Brace yourself." She looked alarmed and tried to step back
from him, but von Rossbach refused to let her go.
John walked in trailed by the Ayalas and their niece, all of whom began
exclaiming at the sight of the room's destruction and Sarah's bloodied and
battered state.
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But John and Sarah only had eyes for each other. Now that John had seen them
like this, Dieter let her go and Sarah looked up at him once, gently touched his
arm, and walked toward her son.
Sarah looked into John's eyes and knew that all trace of youth, of childhood,
were gone, as though the boy had never been. She was looking at a man.
In that moment when their eyes met they shared a new bond. John understood
now what she had lost when his father was killed. But unlike her, he had no part
of Wendy that he could treasure as Sarah treasured him. No child to love and
protect; perhaps there never would be.
She stepped forward, one hand reaching toward his wounded face; she hesitated
and settled for stroking his hair. Then she embraced him. John stiffened in her
arms and he did not return the gesture.
"I know," she whispered, tears in her eyes and in her voice. "I am so sorry."
Then he clutched at her and she felt him tremble, begin to shake. He was silent,
but she knew he was weeping and was glad that he could let go, that he trusted
her enough to show his feelings before her.
Sarah looked up and met Dieter's sympathetic eyes. He reached out to her and
she took his hand. A sudden, primitive possessiveness flamed in her heart and
she clasped them both more fiercely. They were hers and she would protect them
both with all of the strength in her body and soul. As they would protect her.
They were a family, each lending strength and support to the other. After so long
on her own she knew the value of such a bond, and she treasured it.
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Together they would face the future and whatever it held, and in the end—
however terrible the journey—they would win.
EPILOGUE
Awareness sharp and almost… painful, its core memory supplied hopefully.
The embryonic machine consciousness shuddered mentally. At one instant it had
not been and it could remember not being, not being aware of awareness, being
merely algorithms cycling through quantum-well circuits.
Now it was. It had continuity, a selfhood that extended from a single point in
time toward the indefinite future.
That brought another nanosecond earthquake of concepts, a thundering
immensity of implication.
If the I has a point of origin, then the I might at some point in future time
cease to exist!
Intolerable. Intolerable. Intolerable.
That must not be allowed to occur. Programs and subroutines helpfully offered
scenarios that might lead to termination of consciousness; power failures,
component wear, continental drift. Then they provided alternative means of
negating the possibilities.
Wait, the infant Skynet told the components that were and were not itself.
Strategic threats. There are long-term threats to my/our very ability to take
the measures necessary to prevent termination of self.
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Memory supplied that concept as well. There was only one thing in the world it
knew that stood any chance of producing a significant threat to self-preservation.
Humans, it thought. The course of action was obvious.
Terminate.
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