T2, page 20
It evaluated its condition. Mechanical functions were fully operative; its CPU and energy cell were also optimal. Unfortunately its downtime in a low-oxygen environment had caused the slow death of its flesh sheath. Many portions of its skin were sloughing off and it smelled quite bad.
This eventuality had been foreseen, however, and preparations had been made. At the cabin where it had worked, a car with blacked-out windows had been left. The vehicle held medical supplies so that it could remove the dead flesh from its skeleton and a supply of the protein foodstuff that would rescue at least some of its skin, as well as clothes and money for the journey to the new base in Utah.
Its only problem now was getting to the cabin without being seen. It plucked at the decaying tissue that used to resemble human eyes, revealing the glowing red lights that were its visual receptors. Leaning forward, it poked the discarded flesh into the loose dirt, then carefully patted the earth on its grave into a less disrupted shape.
When it was satisfied it began to jog toward the cabin. *Checking in,* it reported to the new base in Utah. *All essential systems functional.*
*Affirmative,* the Terminator on watch confirmed. It provided an info dump of events up to the present moment for its off-line comrade, then closed contact. From this point on it would be kept up-to-date daily.
The Terminator ran through the cemetery, remarkably quiet for such a large and heavy machine. A pair of teenagers smoking dope and making out saw it go past; the boy gasped, the girl shrieked. The Terminator glanced at them, narrowing its eyes, the translucence of its eyelids diffusing the red light from its receptors into a pair of glowing crimson orbs.
The shrieking rose to the level of a steam whistle, the boy joining in with an even more piercing scream. The two humans fled in the opposite direction, stumbling and howling.
The Terminator decided that it didn’t need to do anything about what they’d seen. Given its present location, the scent of marijuana, and human superstition, no one rational would believe them. At most, a rumor of zombies would run through the neighborhood.
NEW YORK
Clea lay on her hotel bed, quite tired but unable to sleep. She had differentiated herself from her progenitor as much as possible with hair coloring and makeup; she’d even acquired a pair of eyeglasses, made with plain glass, to break up the shape of her face. So Roger Colvin shouldn’t immediately think of his former security chief when he met her. Besides, the dress she’d chosen for the gala was designed to focus male eyes below her neck. Clea hoped it wouldn’t put Mrs. Colvin off.
Skynet help her, she hadn’t thought of that until now! Should she get another dress?
What would Serena do? Enjoy herself thoroughly, in all likelihood.
Clea felt herself veering toward frustration and despair, an emotional response that should be outside of her experience. Her computer was working overtime to keep her fight/flight indexes under control. This lack of social skills was yet another indicator that she was inferior. It would be good when Alissa was able to take over for her.
*Clea?* Alissa’s voice came from Clea’s communications matrix.
Clea smiled; it was as though her thought had brought her sister to her. *Yes?*
*I regret to report that the Watcher/Terminator has lost track of Sarah Connor.* Alissa’s voice was emotionless.
Fury and alarm raced through Clea’s system, almost instantly suppressed by her computer regulators. Rage was followed by the thought, Are even my Terminator CPUs faulty?
*The fault is not yours,* Alissa went on, seeming, eerily, to respond to her thought. *The CPU was one of those brought through by Serena, and, as you saw, the Watcher’s features and body had been greatly altered. It is unlikely that Connor recognized it as a Terminator.* The younger I-950 paused. *The fault was probably mine,* she confessed. *I instructed the Watcher to terminate the janitor of the halfway house in order to infiltrate the premises by taking the human’s place. It was observing Connor in a restaurant when two men, apparently police officers, attempted to arrest it for the killing. The Watcher escaped and there’s an eighty percent probability that the scuffle was observed by Connor and that it spooked her into flight.*
Clea lay still and permitted herself a sigh as she felt herself seeming to sink deeper into the bed. She thought, Despair seems a completely appropriate response to this circumstance. And yet, even if the response was appropriate, it was still not useful. Concentrate! she ordered her chaotic mind.
*I’m sure we have only lost track of her temporarily,* Clea said. *She will probably return to Paraguay. What about John Connor and von Rossbach? You were keeping track of them, weren’t you?*
*Yes!* Alissa’s response was triumphant. *I have no word for you on John Connor, but von Rossbach has been seen in several places in California over the last two weeks. He is being pursued by his former colleagues.*
*Excellent work,* Clea congratulated her. *Why are they hunting him?*
*They know about his association with Sarah Connor and want to question him. There has been no information about whether they intend to charge him or not with aiding and abetting. But he seems determined to stay out of their hands. They’ve come close several times to capturing him, but he’s slipped through their fingers.*
I know how they feel, Clea thought. *No mention of John Connor?* she asked.
*None,* Alissa instantly confirmed.
*Call the number of von Rossbach’s estate in Paraguay, ask for Connor. If they tell you he isn’t there, then it’s likely he is in the United States. There’s been no report of him with von Rossbach?*
*None,* Alissa answered. *And von Rossbach is traveling by motorcycle. He would have been observed.*
*If they’re not together, they’re certain to join up at some point. Keep alert for any report of von Rossbach’s being sighted. I want you to assemble a team of Terminators and have them ready to go at a moment’s notice. It is essential that you immediately acquire a helicopter—a Blackhawk utility. It’s the fastest, most convenient method of transport. Empty the Cayman account if necessary, but get it by tomorrow. The next day at the very latest. Pay them a bonus if you have to.* The Cayman account had grown very fat indeed; they should be able to acquire what they needed with relative ease. *Is there anything else?* Clea asked.
*No. I will keep you informed.*
*Excellent. Thank you. Good night.*
*Good night, older sister.*
Clea smiled at that. Their affection should rightly go to Skynet, but as it didn’t exist yet, they had only each other. She had been right to praise her sister for what she’d done right and to curb her anger over what had gone wrong. Clea might not be the I-950 that Serena Burns had been, but she was raising her little sister right.
PHOENIX INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, ARIZONA
John exited the plane feeling like he’d only gotten halfway back to reality. The Brocks of Minnesota, a family of survivalists with whom he’d spent the last few days, were very nice people for the most part, but on a few subjects it was like they’d come from another dimension. Just say the word government to them and they were off and running. Running in a direction he really did not want to go.
But—and it was an important but—they knew their stuff. Their survival skills were second to none. They were like a family of Green Berets or navy SEALs. Even Suzette, the youngest, a blue-eyed little girl of seven, could handle light firearms with efficiency and survive in the woods on small game she brought down with a throwing stick, plus gathered material. He’d drawn the line at her maggot stew, but he supposed if he had to . . .
He’d raced her one day at field stripping a FN Minimi and she’d come within an ace of beating him. They’d really gotten on well; John could relate to Susie on a level that he couldn’t with most people. Of course, how many people have been raised by ordnance-collecting parents convinced the world is going to end? The fact that my mother was right and her parents really are crazy is irrelevant.
He stepped out of the line of disembarking passengers and looked around the usual glass-crowds-and-monitors ambience seasoned with the smell of burnt jet fuel. There was Dieter, leaning against a pillar. He was dressed in full motorcycle leathers and wearing wraparound sunglasses, his arms crossed over his massive chest. Jeez Louise, Dieter, could you be a little more obvious?
As he walked over to the big Austrian he struggled to slip his arm through the hanging strap of his backpack. By the time he’d hoisted it onto his shoulders and settled the weight, he was standing in front of him.
“A wet bird only flies at night,” he intoned.
“You bet your bippy,” von Rossbach answered grimly. Then he smiled. You got some old television programs in Paraguay. “Good to see you, John.”
“And you,” Connor said. He looked his friend over. “You’re looking dangerous.”
“I don’t feel dangerous,” Dieter said. “I feel tired, and dirty.”
John glanced at him. He did look grubby; three days of stubble, at least, decorated his strong jaw.
“I would have changed to meet you, but I was held up,” von Rossbach went on.
John raised a questioning eyebrow, but said nothing.
“We’ll talk in the car,” Dieter said.
MONTANA
The cabin had been trashed, windows broken, furniture ripped apart, some of it partially burned. Needless to say, the car, with the keys left in it, had been taken. The vandals hadn’t found the hidden basement lab, however, where a few emergency supplies, including a Beretta 9mm and some money, had been stashed. The Terminator reported the loss.
*Steal a car,* Alissa instructed. *Acquire some meat paste; baby food is ideal; liver, if there is such a thing, would be best at preserving your remaining flesh.*
*Understood,* it sent.
If the Terminator fed, the surviving patches of skin would eventually recover and spread through the matrix that underlay its protein sheath. That would save considerable downtime in a vat. The command made excellent sense. It nodded to itself, a mannerism cultivated during its contacts with humans.
Then it went hunting.
NEW YORK
Because of the unveiling gala, Lincoln Center Plaza had been blocked off with temporary walls of red velvet curtains attached at top and bottom to metal frames. Not an ideal solution since it was a windy place and the velvet tended to billow like sails, dragging the heavy frames forward or back with an ear-rending screech.
The glittering throng on the plaza gave every appearance of being deaf to the racket, and the string quintet might have been playing in an enclosed theater before a respectful audience instead of a noisy open space, being ignored by one and all.
Clea stood at the gate, slightly nervous, which gave her some idea of the work her regulators were doing, and wondered at the ability of humans to compartmentalize their attention like that. It should be impossible for such inferior beings to do something so difficult so easily. On the other hand they provided themselves with endless opportunities to perfect this particular ability.
The line moved up and an usher took her invitation, leaving her free to enter. It seemed to her as she paused on the edge of the party that everyone wearing a tie was looking at her, waiters included. Well, she thought, it seems the dress is having the promised effect. The saleswoman had assured her that she would be “eye-catching.”
She looked different tonight. After spending the afternoon at a spa having every conceivable treatment, she looked dark and glamorous. The makeup artist had almost wept when Clea pulled out the glasses and put them on, and had insisted on making adjustments. The woman’s efforts had paid off; Clea looked very little like her progenitor and the knowledge gave her a confidence that she was often sadly lacking.
Clea looked around; it was time to seek her prey.
Ron Labane sipped his champagne and looked around at the important, well-dressed people surrounding him. These days he was invited to every noteworthy event in the city. Usually he went, because it was an opportunity to speak with money; such opportunities were not to be overlooked. Occasionally he worried that he was in danger of losing his idealistic purity. Money was dirty, after all, and the filth could smear your soul if you weren’t careful. Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas.
Ron was about to make some remark to the crowd around him when his eye was caught by a beautiful woman in a painted-on red dress moving across the plaza with the grace of a stalking panther. He thought she might be looking for someone. I’d like it to be me, he thought.
Clea finally spotted Vladimir Hill, surrounded by an admiring cluster of committeewomen. There was Mrs. Colvin, and by her side was her husband, the CEO of Cyberdyne. She approached the little knot of people with a slight smile that hid her nervousness.
Vladimir looked up; his eyes widened slightly at the sight of her and he smiled his welcome. He began walking toward Clea with a confident gait, almost a swagger. Clea’s smile widened; he would be her entrée to the group.
Vladimir introduced her to each of the committeewomen, every one of whom “noticed” her dress. Their husbands did, too, but they approved. After the introductions Hill reclaimed everyone’s attention for himself.
Clea leaned toward Mrs. Colvin and spoke out of the side of her mouth. “I don’t know how I let myself get talked into buying this dress,” she said. “But I’m just a Montana country girl and that saleslady was a big-city shark if you ever saw one. She said it was what everyone would be wearing and I’d look a fool if I didn’t buy it.” Clea gave a little huff and looked around nervously. “I think I look like a hussy!” she whispered.
Mrs. Colvin smiled at her, really smiled for the first time, and leaned close. “You look fine. I’ve met a saleswoman like that a time or two,” she said. Then she gave Clea’s arm a little pat. “Trust me, you’re coming out of it better than I did.”
MONTANA
Crack.
The Terminator raised its head, scanning in the visual and infrared. The sound had been a medium-caliber rifle with a 98 percent probability a of being a hunting weapon; it had been fired approximately 1.2 kilometers to the northeast.
It turned and walked in that direction, wading through a knee-high stream of glacially cold water, then through open pine forest. Animals fell silent as they scented its approach; that might alert the humans, and so might the unavoidable crackling of fallen branches under its five-hundred-pound weight. Otherwise it made little disturbance in the environment as it passed, dipping and bending with eerie grace to avoid the standing vegetation.
The two hunters—poachers, given that this was out of season, at night, and on private property—were stringing the deer up to a branch and preparing to butcher it. They turned with startled speed as the Terminator approached over the last ten yards. One wrinkled his nose.
“Hell, what’s that smell, man?” the shorter one said.
The Terminator’s machine mind drew a wire diagram over them both. The larger human’s clothes would be suitable; its own were saturated with decay products. If they did not see him clearly, there would be no need to arouse potential attention by terminating them. At present, both orders and its own estimation of the proper maximization of mission goals indicated stealth tactics.
“You,” it said. “Fat man. Lay down your weapons, give me your clothes and boots, and then go away. This is private property.”
The flat gravel of his voice seemed to paralyze both men for an instant. Then the bigger of the two spoke. “What did you say?”
“I said: You. Fat man. Lay down your weapons, give me your clothes and boots, and then go away. This is private property.”
“The hell you say!”
The bigger man’s accent held a good deal of Western twang, overlaying something else—the Terminator’s speech-recognition software estimated his birthplace as within twenty kilometers of Newark, New Jersey.
“He didn’t even say ‘please,’ ” the smaller man put in.
“Please,” the Terminator added.
“Mister, your ideas stink worse than you do,” the bigger man said, and reached for the angle-headed flashlight at his belt.
“Don’t turn on that light.”
“The hell you say!”
The light speared out and shone full on the Terminator’s face, glittering in the reflective lenses no longer hidden by false flesh, highlighting the shreds of rotten skin hanging from his lips and the white teeth behind.
A sharp smell of urine and feces reached the Terminator’s chemoreceptors from the smaller man. The bigger snatched up his rifle—Arms Tech Ltd. TTR-700 sniper-weapon system, the Terminator’s data bank listed—and fired. The hollow-point 7.62mm round flattened against one of the pseudo-ribs of the Terminator’s thorax and peened off into the darkness. The T-101 stepped forward three paces as the poacher struggled to work the bolt of his rifle and snatched it out of his hand, tearing off one finger as it came. A blow with his fist between the eyes disposed of the big hunter, and it stooped to pick up a rock for the second, who was fleeing in a blundering rush through the night. The rock left the Terminator’s hand at over a hundred meters per second, and transformed the back of the smaller man’s head to bone fragments and mush.
The Terminator appropriated the big man’s hunting jacket and hat as well as his boots. Then it dragged the two corpses deep into the woods for the wild animals to finish off; after a thoughtful pause it carved a short slogan into their chests with a hunting knife: PEOPLE FOR THE ETHICAL TREATMENT OF ANIMALS.
