T2, page 44
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.”
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 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 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.”
“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.
“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 show, 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 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.
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.”
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; but if they did, they might make the difference between Skynet’s survival or John Connor’s.
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.
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.
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 free. 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 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 dummkopf and left the tent alone. He knew better than to do a thing like that and he’d 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.
