T2 Rising Storm, page 16
part #2 of Terminator Series
"So, what brings you here to Goose Lake? I heard you'd retired to Paraguay, of all places."
Dieter shifted in his chair. "Paraguay is nice," he said, a bit defensively. "A little boring sometimes, but basically very nice."
With a snort Doc said, "So's Goose Lake, if you like being bored out of your mind." He wagged a finger. "You've been causing comment, dear boy. What's this I hear about you and Sarah Connor?"
"How do you know about that?" von Rossbach demanded.
Doc looked smug. "Remember how I said I never made them any promises? Wellll… I found a way to keep myself updated. When you left I hear you just… left."
"I burned out all at once," Dieter agreed. "I couldn't wait to get out of there. They agreed."
"Wanna talk about it?" Doc ;asked.
"Nothing to talk about," von Rossbach said. "There was nothing particular about my last mission that made it my last. It just was. Maybe I didn't take enough time between assignments, maybe I should have taken a desk job instead of staying in the field." He shrugged his big shoulders. "I don't know; it was just over."
Holmes looked at him shrewdly. "I ask again, what's this about Sarah Connor? Not like you to side with the terrorists."
Is that what they're saying? Dieter thought. Of course it was, what else could they think? "Sarah Connor isn't a terrorist," he said aloud. His voice was flat" when he said it; He didn't expect to be believed.
Doc raised a brow at that. "She's not? She's bombed at least three computer companies that we know of. Okay, two of them were Cyberdyne, but that still counts as three hits. Not to mention she's guilty of drug smuggling and arms dealing. These are things that terrorists do, buddy."
Dieter sighed. He was about to risk something he really valued here—the continued respect of this man— "But what if she's not crazy, Doc?" He looked up and met the other man’s eyes.
Both of Doc's brows went up at that. He sat contemplating his former agent for a while. "Not crazy." he said at last.
"Would you be willing to listen?" von Rossbach asked him.
Holmes pursed his lips and blew out a stream of air. He shrugged. "Sure, what the hell, I haven't got anything else on my schedule right now.
Dieter studied him carefully; if he didn't buy this story, Dieter knew Doc would turn him in to the Sector in a New York minute. He ran one hand over his face, feeling desperate. Well, this is what you're here for, he told himself.
"It's all true," he said simply— Dieter waved his hands. "All of it."
For a moment Doc sat still, looking expectant. "That's it?" he exclaimed. "That's your explanation? 'Cause, y'know, I'm sitting here waiting for something more. What if all I know about Sarah Connor is she likes to blow up computer companies?"
Tossing his head impatiently, von Rossbach said, "You know more about the case than that! I know you better, Doc. I worked for you for ten years. If you saw my name connected with hers in the Sector's files, you'd look into it. I know you would."
Doc waggled his head back and forth. "Okay, good call." Hu went silent for a while, his eyes on the middle distance. "I have to admit I was very intrigued by that guy who shot up the police station, then ten years later showed up in a shopping mall." He waved a hand at von Rossbach. "It was you! Except that at the time of both incidents, you were working for me, and in the first case, you were actually, physically, with me. So what am I supposed to think? I know you don't have an evil identical twin. I know they say everybody has a double, but that's bullshit."
Dieter watched Doc as he worked it through, the older man's fingers tapping on the arms of his chair. Doc looked up at him. "Connor says this guy was some kind of robot." A statement that was really a question.
Dieter nodded. "I got to meet a couple of them, Doc. They looked exactly like me. I saw their insides; they're made of metal. Rods and cams, hydraulics, a really impressive small power unit, computer controls—neural-net computers. They're real."
After studying Dieter for a moment, Doc said, "So it follows that the ultimate killer computer and the Judgment Day crap… all that's real, too?"
"I hope not. That's what Sarah has been trying to prevent all these years." He bit his lip. "Unfortunately we've come to the conclusion that maybe it can't be stopped. Maybe it's meant to happen and there's nothing that can be done to prevent it. The best we can do is mitigate the circumstances. Which is why I'm here."
"Yeah, Whang said you were recruiting people."
Doc waited him out. Dieter could feel heat creeping up his face. Only Doc could make him feel like a naive kid saying something stupid. "So I was hoping that we could rely on you to help when the time came." There, that was it. This time he waited for Holmes to speak.
"You're serious about this, I can see that," Doc said at last. "I'm not gonna tell you it makes me feel good; like you've found a nice hobby to enliven your retirement." He tightened his lips to a thin line, then met von Rossbach's eyes. "But I've trusted you before now and been right. So… I'll take a chance and agree to help you. But!" He held up a stern finger. "I'm not going to be party to any wacko terrorist behavior. If your girlfriend feels an urge to blow up anything else, I'd advise you to talk her out of it, or I'm gone. Got it?"
"Yes," Dieter said simply. "Thank you."
"So what do you want from me anyway?"
"When the time comes we'll need someplace marginally safe for people to go." Dieter looked out at the peaceful lake. "This would make a good destination. We'll also need your training skills." He hesitated. "And we'll need someplace to stockpile supplies."
Von Rossbach was enormously relieved. The fact that Holmes had agreed so readily meant that he'd given the matter study and thought. And where Doc led, others would follow; generations of Sector agents and allies had worked with, or trained under, the old man. He was glad he'd taken the chance and approached him.
Doc nodded once or twice, then narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "How bad do you expect this thing to get?"
"Bad," Dieter said. "Not as bad as it would have been six years ago maybe. But bad. Billions dead. End of civilization as we know it. Possible extinction of the human race."
Holmes nodded, his eyes on the braided rug beneath his feet, then he looked up, his eyes sharp. "I really hope she's crazy, Dieter, if that's an improvement on the original version."
One corner of the Austrian's mouth quirked in a half smile. "I wish she was."
ON THE HIGHWAY TO UTAH
If anyone had been able to see through the van's darkened windows, they would have seen a pair of tall, grim-faced twins, a short, dark, balding muscleman, and a child of angelic beauty. Alissa's golden hair curled to the center of her back and she looked adorable in a little blue sundress and white sandals. She carried an adult's white purse that was almost as big as she was.
The purse contained all of their identity papers, driver's licenses for each of the Terminators, the deed on their new house, the van's registration, and several thousand dollars in cash, all that Clea thought they would need to get them safely to their new location in Utah.
The older Infiltrator didn't know that Alissa had gathered all of this material in one place, and would have disapproved if she had known. But to Alissa it felt right, and since she didn't really trust her older sibling, she went with her feelings.
Alissa was looking forward to getting settled in. She was long overdue for her next growth enhancement and the sense of being off schedule tormented her. Once in a while, to distract herself, she checked her sister's computer to view whatever Clea was looking at. She wasn't interested in communication so much as she wished she was in a more interesting place than the endless expanse of rolling sagebrush outside. New York was enormous, filled with buildings of staggering size and teeming with life, at once fascinating and revolting.
For the most part, like the Terminators, she ignored the often spectacular scenery they were traveling through. Occasionally she would take note of a suitable spot for an ambush, or places for the automated factories.
But for the most part this land was empty and, as far as she could see, always would be. She flicked her inner vision back to the busy New York streets. That was where the war would take place. There, along the Mississippi, and on the West Coast. Soon, she hoped. For now, this empty land was a good place to begin laying plans and manufacturing allies.
"I'm hungry," she said eventually. "Pull in to the next available place."
The Terminators didn't acknowledge her order; there was no need. Even voicing it aloud was mainly a matter of training herself in humanizing her mannerisms.
They did have supplies on the van, but she was bored and wished to begin socializing both herself and the Terminators to the degree that any of them was capable. You really couldn't terminate humans effectively if they had warning.
DUFFY'S DINER, UTAH
The restaurant was clean, with a black-and-white tile floor and chipped Formica surfaces; it smelled of cooking but of no particular food or spice unless it was hot oil. The four of them took a booth where rips in the plastic cover had been carefully patched with duct tape, and a waitress in a pink uniform and comfortable-looking shoes came over with plastic-coated menus. The menus were slightly sticky to the touch.
"Blue-plate special's chicken-fried steak," she announced to the puzzled machines and Infiltrator.
"Chicken… fried… steak?" Alissa asked. She had a ridiculous mental image of a fowl flipping meat onto a grill.
The waitress grinned. "You never had that, honey?" she asked. "You dip the steak in the same kinda coating you use for chicken, then you fry it."
"Interesting," the Infiltrator said. It didn't sound very healthy. "We will have that," she said, handing the menu back to the woman.
The waitress raised her brows and looked at the Terminators. In her experience, big, tough-looking men usually didn't take orders from little blond moppets.
"You boys okay with that?" she asked doubtfully. They handed back the menus and just looked at her. "How would you like those steaks cooked?"
Alissa blinked as she considered this. It felt like a trick question. "Until they're done," she said after a moment.
The waitress looked at her, a look that said, "Don't give me any more nonsense, kid."
"Rare, medium, or well-done?" she asked tersely.
"Ah, medium," Alissa said. That sounded like a safe choice.
"To drink?" The waitress's voice hardened slightly under their unwavering gazes.
"Just water," Alissa said. If the dinner was unhealthy she need not compound the error with fluids made with a surfeit of sugar or caffeine.
"And you boys?" The waitress stood with her pencil poised over her pad.
"For all of us," Alissa told her.
The waitress sniffed and shook her head as she moved off; maybe they were playing some kind of road game to keep the kid entertained. Who cared? The girl seemed polite enough.
Alissa looked around the room with interest. All of the furnishings seemed to be at least thirty years old, some of the advertisements included. At least those advertisements that took the form of clocks or lights did. Two men at the end of the counter were looking at her. They smiled at her and waggled their fingers in a friendly way. She just looked at them until they turned away.
The waitress eventually returned with their food and placed a plate before each of the Terminators without comment, dropping the last one in front of Alissa, who picked up her fork.
"What do you say?" the woman asked, frowning and smiling at the same time.
Alissa and the Terminators looked at her mutely. The waitress glanced at the Terminators somewhat nervously. "What's the magic word?" she prompted the Infiltrator.
This female has gone mad, the I-950 thought. She was certain that most humans didn't believe in magic. Had she done something to precipitate this condition?
"Thank you," the waitress said carefully. She glanced again at the Terminators, then back at Alissa.
"You're welcome," the I-950 said, equally carefully.
The waitress laughed. "Enjoy," she said, and moved off chuckling.
Alissa watched her go nervously. Insane humans were unpredictable and, she'd read, often unnaturally strong. Strong as a Terminator? she wondered. She'd have to look it up.
Her excellent peripheral vision told her that the two men at the counter were watching her. The I-950 frowned as she sawed at her meat. Was there something strange about her? She studied them carefully.
They seemed ordinary enough. One was about fifty, with glasses and graying hair. The other was younger, perhaps late twenties, early thirties. That one had dark hair and was thin. Their glances became more furtive and the way they occasionally spoke to each other made her think they were talking about her. With a slight adjustment oi her ears she listened in.
"So, whaddaya think?" the thin one asked.
"Definitely potential." The older man glanced at her again. "Could be a real winner."
"Should we go for it?"
After a long pause the older man said, "Big risk, might not be worth the trouble."
"Yeah, well, you gotta take the opportunities life sends ya. We gotta do something, for Christ's sake." The thin man took a sip of his coffee. "We got bills to pay."
The older man snorted and took a sip of his coffee.
"Let's see if any opportunities present themselves, okay? No point in doing things the hard way if you don't have to. And those three boys look plenty hard, if you get my meaning."
As far as Alissa could tell, this conversation had nothing to do with her; in any case, it was irrelevant at the moment. She continued to eat steadily, her higher metabolism allowing her to eat adult volumes of food with ease. The waitress, when she returned, complimented her on it.
"I was very hungry," Alissa told her. "Are there facilities here?"
The waitress pursed her lips in amusement and indicated a corridor to her right, moving aside when Alissa slipped out of the booth. "She's cute," she said to the Terminators when Alissa was out of hearing. They just looked at her. "So," she said crisply after a silent moment, "you gonna have dessert?"
As one, the three Terminators looked toward the bathrooms.
The waitress rolled her eyes. "Coffee, then, until your little girl gets back?"
One of the men at the counter threw down some bills and left. The other headed for the rest rooms. The waitress took note, estimating with a glance that the crumpled wad of money would pay their check.
"Coffee," the senior Terminator said at last, the answer its decision tree had offered as the best response.
The waitress nodded and cleared the table; and she made a bet with herself that these weirdos wouldn't tip.
Clay Radcliff was proud of the fact that, like the Boy Scouts on whom he had occasionally preyed, he was always prepared. He never left home without a nice clean handkerchief and his little bottle of chloroform tucked into his belt pouch. He lurked in the men's room, the door open just a traction, watching for this glorious little moppet who was soon to be his little movie star.
Alissa finished her business, washed her hands, and disdained to use the endless linen towel that had apparently never been changed. Wiping off the wet on the skirt of her dress, she walked down the hall back toward the Terminators.
Clay swung out behind her and with practiced ease clapped the handkerchief over her small face, pulling her tight to his soft stomach as he dragged her into the men's room.
Unexpectedly the little brat clawed backward, obviously aiming for his groin. He barely got his leg up in time to protect himself, and even then she grabbed the muscle with the force of a metal clamp. Clay gasped in pain, his mouth wide open in agony and surprise. He swung her off her feet and the girl began to pummel his legs with her sharp little heels. Each kick was like a hammer blow and Clay spread his legs, trying to get away from the punishment.
Desperately he pressed her body against the wall, clamping her there with all his weight. Still she wriggled and kicked. Damn but the kid was strong! When the hell was she going to black out. Usually they went down instantly. He was getting dizzy from the goddamned fumes and she was still bucking like a bronco!
* * *
Alissa's computer enhancements worked hard to overcome the effects of the chloroform. They warned her that if she didn't break free in ten seconds she would succumb. The I-950 continued to fight. The slight differences in the muscle attachments in her arms and shoulders gave her a strength far beyond her size and years; and there was a greater flexibility built into her joints that allowed her to perform feats so unlikely that no ordinary human could anticipate them.
She folded one leg behind her, pointing her foot, and rammed it upward into the man's groin. He gasped in agony and his grip on her arms loosened. The I-950 twisted her arm free and reached up and back.
The man didn't even have time to react to the touch of a tiny hand on his throat. One moment he was folding over the agony in his groin, still trying to keep hold of her, the next he was thrashing on the floor, clawing at thin air, blood spraying from his throat, spurting from his mouth. He fell back, choking, his eyes bugging out in horror, the blood turning to a fan-shaped spray as he tried to scream.
Alissa's powerful little hand had snapped his windpipe like a paper straw.
Out in the parking lot Gil's fingers beat a nervous tattoo on the van's steering wheel. He'd been in position for over five minutes and he was feeling very conspicuous. Nobody sits outside an emergency door in a van with the motor running for no reason. Anybody who noticed probably wouldn't think that reason was a good one. Most likely they'd think he was waiting for someone to finish robbing the diner.
