T2 Rising Storm, page 28
part #2 of Terminator Series
Gibson and Massey scrambled to follow him, but Clea lingered, taking a last sip of her coffee. Then she gave Viemeister a conspiratorial smile, rose, folded her napkin, and slowly sauntered after the men.
Her walk gave the scientist something to watch if he was so inclined.
Kurt watched the young woman walk away. It looked as though the long dry spell was about to end. And to end very pleasantly indeed. As the girl followed Tricker and his chumps out the door, she glanced at him over her shoulder and gave him a delightful little smile. If only she were a blonde, she'd be a perfect Aryan.
Yes, definitely, things were looking up.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CYBERDYNE, LOS ANGELES
Meg Horton, secretary to Roger Colvin, CEO of Cyberdyne, sighed as she looked at the tower of mail on her desk. It seemed the stack got bigger every day.
Taking her seat, she began sorting the mail into separate piles. Most of it was junk, and could be disposed of without opening. But one large envelope had a note written on the front.
Here's the material you requested.
Thank you for your interest
Jesse Hooper
Inside was a stack of brochures from the Utah Tourist Bureau. Meg frowned, checking the address on 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.
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 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 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 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."
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.
"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.
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 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 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 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. 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.
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.
