Infiltrator

Hi Jeff,

Sorry to bother you, but I'm wondering if you can tell me anything about this woman, who currently runs a trucking company in Villa Hayes.

Strangely enough she ran from me the moment she saw me (no comments please) and gave me a story about being threatened by some man who wanted to buy her business.

She's going by the name Suzanne Krieger, widow of Paul Krieger, and she has a son. It might be nothing, but my antennae are up on this one. Looking forward to hearing back from you.

Dieter

P.S. When are you and Nancy coming to my ranch to visit?

Soon, he hoped. There was a lot to like about this country and this life, but after eight months away from the Sector he was finding it incredibly dull. You could be bored in "the business"— were bored, most of the time—but there was always an edge of anticipation.

He supposed it was to be expected; compared to his old life running down terrorists and international criminals, pursuing cattle across the Chaco was an inevitable come down. Each day ran into the next here with very little to distinguish them from each other.

Today, though, had been exceptional and he felt good. He might just be chasing shadows here, but at least he wasn't chasing cows.

"John? John?" Sarah stood in the tiled-and-whitewashed hallway of her estancia and listened, but the house was silent. He couldn't have gone far, though; he wouldn't leave the house open like this if he wasn't in earshot. She went out onto the portal. "John!" she shouted.

She heard a distant call in answer and looked in that direction. Of course, the barn. He'd been riding Linda. She leaped down the three steps and trotted toward his voice. Sarah found him in the paddock at the back of the barn, grooming the bay mare, who was trying to wrap her neck around him in a horsely hug.

"She says that you neglect her shamefully and leave her to starve as often as not," John said with a grin, pushing the horse's big head away gently.

"She lies like a rug," Sarah said, crossing her arms atop the paddock gate.

"Which she might soon become if she keeps blackening my reputation that way."

"Y'hear that, Linda?" John asked, scratching under her chin. The horse stretched her neck out in ecstasy, a foolish expression on her long face. "I may be your favorite human but you have to know which side your hay is buttered on. This lady is your meal ticket, don't you know that?"

Linda sneezed, splattering John's T-shirt with green.

"Auuggh! Thank you, Linda!" he said, holding his arms out in disgust. John whipped off the shirt and used the clean side to wipe his face and arms.

Sarah gave a short laugh at his expression. "Come out of there before she starts to lick you." She opened the gate, and then she turned serious. "We have to talk."

Unlike most teens, John's automatic reaction wasn't What am I supposed to have done now? Instead he asked, "What's gone wrong, how can we fix it?"

He slipped through the gate and turned to fasten it behind him. Then he squinted up at the sun. "You're early," he said, almost a question.

Sarah opened her mouth. Now that she was in front of him she didn't really know how to begin.

John lowered his head and raised his eyebrows. "Mom?"

"I had… a really strange experience today," she began. With one hand she brushed her hair back and frowned into the middle distance.

"Strange, how?" John asked. Was it getting off the cana?he wondered. D.t.'s or some shit like that? 'Cause he didn't know if he could handle it if it was. Did you just lock them in a closet with a bag of candy and hope for the best, or what?

"This guy came in today to pick up a shipment and, John"—she looked him in the eye—"I swear to you, he was the spitting image of a Terminator."

John shook his head. "You're—"

"He had a beard, and his accent was less noticeable, but otherwise he looked exactly like a Terminator."

Sarah tightened her lips; it was obvious he was having trouble believing her.

They stared at one another for a long minute, and then John shook his head as though to clear it.

"Doesn't necessarily mean anything," he said. "Skynet may have made the Terminators up to look like pictures it had on file. It had to get those faces from someplace, right? So it doesn't have to be a threat, right?"

"We didn't stay alive and out of jail by treating something that looked like a threat as if it wasn't one," Sarah reminded him. "I don't want this to mean anything either, but we can hardly afford to bury our heads in the sand. Right?"

"What happened?" John asked, holding up his hands in a slow-down gesture.

"Exactly."

So she told him. "He was definitely human," she finished. "While he was looking for me this stray dog came along and fell in love with him. And he took the time to pet it and talk to it, and it followed him home."

John spluttered a laugh. "It followed him home? That doesn't sound like a Terminator, does it?"

She gave her son a steely look. "Except he looked just like one. What's more"—

why hadn't she told him this in the first place?—"he's moved in right next door to us."

John's face smoothed into a neutral expression. He said nothing.

Sarah bit her lower lip. I should have told him yesterday, she thought. But I didn't want to seem like I was overreacting. She told him about the research she'd been able to do so far. "I don't want to panic or anything, but it might be time we moved on," she said, and started toward the house. "Maybe we've been getting too comfortable."

John trotted to catch up with her and tugged at her arm, stopping her. "Mom," he said. "Let's not overreact here. Right now we don't really know anything about this guy. At least nothing bad. Let's find out who he is first, because if he is trouble and we panic and go running for our lives, that could bring him down on us."

"I am not in a panic," she protested. "I'm saying that—"

"It's not a good idea to get too settled, a rolling stone gathers no moss, we can't afford to get complacent and all that sensible-sounding shit. But I say we can't afford to go off half-cocked. Who is this guy and is he, in fact, any threat to us?

If you don't know your enemy how can you defend yourself against him, right?"

John looked at her, a determined look in his eyes.

Sarah's face turned cold. She took a breath to speak and John held up his hand.

"I'm not saying I won't go. I'm not stupid, Mom, and I would never do anything that might end with you back in an institution. But I am not going to give up everything we've worked so hard for because you're having a bad day."

"Hey!" Sarah said, taken aback.

John hung his head. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"You should be!" She turned away and started back to the house. I've had worse days than this and kept my head! she thought. Then she stopped as an image of von Rossbach came to her. "He has cop's eyes, John," she said. "You're right, I am having a bad day or I would have seen it sooner."

"Cop's eyes?" John said. The phrase sent a chill through him—he knew exactly what she meant, had known since he was a very little kid. "So what was he picking up, Mom?"

"Sperm," she said, and started walking again.

" What?" John screwed up his face into a confused knot. "Did you say 'sperm'?"

"Cattle sperm, from the U.S.," Sarah said over her shoulder.

"How old was he?" John asked, catching up to her again. "Maybe he's retired."

"A retired cop might be the most dangerous kind," she said thought-fully. "He'd have time on his hands, and probably be bored out of his skull, and he'd have contacts to ask for further information."

"Our cover story's pretty airtight, though, isn't it?" John asked.

He knew it was, he'd worked on it himself at odd moments. And if I do say so myself it's very good. Just enough information, not too much, that was the key.

As for people who used to know them in Ciudad del Este, the city was growing and changing so fast even he had trouble finding people they knew there. And those people had been well paid to remember them and their sad circumstances.

Sarah gave a weary sigh. "Yes, our background should pass muster." It should, she'd worked hard enough on it. Most of the work had involved undoing some of John's airier flights of fancy.

"So," John concluded, "we should be okay for at least a couple of weeks. Sooo,

we find out about this guy."

"I'll just check with my extensive social connections," Sarah said sarcastically.

"Mom, you don't have any social connections."

"Thanks for reminding me, O fruit of my loins."

John shuddered dramatically. "Eeuww! Mom, that's gross. No, I'll check my extensive social contacts; you check your extensive underworld connections. If he's a cop they'll know about him. Working together, we'll come up with something."

Sarah grinned, feeling better for having spoken to her son. My ally, she thought with a surge of affection. "Okay," she said. "We'll check him out before we act.

But get used to the idea that we might have to go."

"Don't worry, Mom, I can have my coin collection packed up in five minutes and be ready to roll."

"Good to know," she said, and put an arm around him. She blinked in surprise.

It's a little disturbing to put your arm around your son and find yourself reaching up, she thought.

"What?" he asked.

She switched to putting her arm around his waist. "It's just that you're growing up."

"Aw, Mom!" John rolled his eyes.

She started up the stairs to the house. "What do you want for dinner?" she asked.

"Meat!" he rumbled in a deep, deep voice.

"No problemo, pumpkin."

"Pumpkin? What happened to 'you're growing up'?"

She opened the screen door, then looked at him over her shoulder. "I had to take the wind out of your sails before your ego flew away with you."

He came in after her wearing a sappy smile. "A boy's best friend is his mother,"

he said.

"And don't you forget it, bucko. Go wash up, dinner in half an hour." John gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and went down the hall. Sarah watched him go with mixed emotions. She didn't want to uproot them; she knew he'd mind it this time. Sarah allowed herself a sigh. Then it was time to stoke up the barbecue.

As long as I don't feel like I'm the one turning on a spit I should be fine, she thought.

CHAPTER SIX

CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS: THE PRESENT

Tricker took his time reading over Serena Burns's resume as she sat across the desk awaiting his attention. For someone her age it was impressive, but then, so was the lady herself. He'd already read it, of course. Not only read it, but

investigated it, assigning one or two underlings to go out and interview the exalted persons who had bestowed such glowing recommendations.

Curiously enough, it seemed that very few people in those companies had ever interacted with Ms. Burns in her capacity as head of security, assistant head of security, acting, associate, trainee, or any other job title in the corporate security name game. Except for the bosses, she was the incredible, invisible woman.

Which must have been a tough stunt for an incredibly sexy, leggy, gorgeous blonde to pull off.

He was rereading her resume now to see how she would react to being ignored.

She was reacting by focusing her attention on him with such aggressive intensity that he felt in serious danger of reacting himself. He hadn't blushed since he was twenty, but he felt one coming on now.

"So," he said finally, laying down the last page and raising his eyes to meet hers.

"Very impressive, Ms. Burns."

She looked amused, in a way that implied they shared a secret. Possibly the fact that they both knew she was too good for Cyberdyne to pass up. "I've been very fortunate in my employment," she said. "I had excellent mentors and"—her eyes went distant, as though she were remembering—"we had some interesting times while I was with them."

Uh-hunh! Tricker thought. Now there's a statement that's open to interpretation.

"Well, oddly enough, not many people seem to remember you at your old jobs,"

he said.

Serena elegantly shrugged one trim shoulder. "I deliberately kept a very low profile. There are times when the obvious cop on the corner is a good idea and others when it's not. Some corporate spies are incredibly clever. I find it's much easier to catch them if you've convinced them that you're not even around."

She offered him a pleasant but impersonal smile. He hadn't reacted well to her so far. She wondered if that ignoring-the-interviewee-while-you-read-their-CV ploy ever worked. And if it did, what good was it? As far as she was concerned all they'd accomplished was to waste twenty minutes.

The job was hers if she wanted it, he had to know that. If he turned her down she would hit Cyberdyne with a very noisy discrimination suit, which she would almost certainly win. Something she was willing to bet Mr. Tricker knew. And she was also willing to bet that the last thing he, or Cyberdyne, wanted, now or ever, was noise in their vicinity.

But she could be vastly more patient than this fellow could imagine. So she'd play his little game, answer his questions, fill out more forms, and take a battery of tests if required. She'd win in the end.

"Your career is remarkable," Tricker said, rubbing his chin. "But your stay at each company was also remarkably short. Care to comment on that?"

No, she thought.

This is where her apparent age was a problem. It had required her seemingly to hopscotch from one job to another in an alarmingly rapid manner. But there was no help for it, she was going to appear to be twenty-five for a very long time, so the dates were close together. Eventually she would pretend to be a young-

looking thirty, once there she'd worry. For now, she had to get this position.

"I was acquiring my skills," she said, crossing her legs. "Once a position had taught me all I thought it could, I moved on."

He noticed her legs, as she'd meant him to. Very nice. This woman would be a cat among the pigeons here at Cyberdyne. Some of these computer geeks would sell their souls just to have coffee with her. And she'd implied that some of her upward mobility had come about from her "horizontal agility." Problems like that he didn't need.

"What we're looking for here at Cyberdyne is someone who will be with us for the long haul," Tricker said, closing the folder on her application. "I don't feel it's in our best interests to hire someone who might be lured away by the candy of a new experience."

Serena was annoyed. Clearly she'd misread this man, but everything so far had been so easy. That's no excuse for getting sloppy, she scolded herself. For once a human had reacted to her sexually and yet kept that response separate from his reasoning faculty. She hadn't been here in the early years of the century for long, but she hadn't found that capacity to be common among men.

"But a job like this one is exactly what I've been honing my skills for," she said.

"An opportunity to establish a security system from the ground up is less common than you might think. I have a lot of ideas for Cyberdyne that I believe will keep it, its products, and its scientists safe and happy."

"Nothing like a happy product," Tricker said brightly.

Serena grinned. "Happy scientists then—or at least contented. These geniuses are very touchy and genuinely hate anything that might restrict them or smacks of Big Brother. But obviously the company has to keep them safe from such threats as kidnapping"—she paused significantly— "or murder. I think I've got a way to please everybody without rocking the boat."

Yeah? Tricker thought cynically. Well, you may be super-babe, but even you can't sleep with all of the people all of the time. "Do tell," he invited.

Serena shook her head. "That wouldn't be in my best interests."

Tricker nodded affably. "Maybe not," he agreed. "But it wouldn't be in our best interests to hire someone who might be gone in six months."

"Hire me," she said, leaning forward, her gaze locked on his. "If I leave in under two years I'll agree to pay you a kill fee, substantial enough to cover your search for a new applicant. If you decide to fire me after six months you won't even have to pay me a severance check. I want this job, and I can make a difference here."

Serena leaned back, still exuding a confidence she didn't quite feel. For some reason this human had taken a dislike to her and she couldn't think why, or exactly what to do about it. The obvious solution, killing him, might not be the best in this case.

Though his attitude did make it tempting.

Tricker looked at her, taken aback. That was quite an offer she was ponying up.

Still… "We'll certainly take that into consideration," he said brightly, patting her

file. He rose and offered her his hand. "We'll be in touch, one way or the other."

Serena shook his hand, taking brief pleasure in knowing she could crush it to a wet pulp. "Thank you, Mr. Tricker."

"Just Tricker," he said.

She nodded. "I'll look forward to hearing from you." On that note, she picked up her briefcase and left without a backward glance.

As Serena walked to the parking lot she reran the interview, Tricker's image making a faint overlay on the scene around her. She was looking for the exact moment when she'd blown it. For blown it she had. If he'd been undecided before meeting her, he was no longer. From this point on he'd be actively opposed to hiring her.

"We had some interesting times while I was with them," the recording said, her voice sounding dreamy. His face remained impassive, but he blinked. That was the moment, she decided. That implication had worked very well with Colvin and Warren, but to Tricker it had sent up a warning flag.

She frowned; failure loomed, and all over an offhand remark made to the wrong person. Now she could only hope that the president and CEO's support and her impulsive offer would sway him in her favor. For she felt with certainty that Tricker had the final say here.

Perhaps I can think of some way to eliminate my rivals, she thought. Preferably in the form of better job offers rather than assassination. Things are so complicated here!

"I don't see how you can object to her," the CEO complained. "Ms. Burns is perfect for this job."

"Hey, Colvin," Tricker said, his eyebrows raised, "what she is is a perfect thirty-eight, twenty-four, thirty-six, and a natural blonde, or I miss my guess."

"I was referring to her resume," Colvin said through his teeth.

"Sure you were, Roger." Tricker sneered.

"Is her body your only objection?" Warren asked with a curl of his lip.

"Hey, guys." Tricker leaned forward. "Why don't we pretend our dicks are in the cafeteria huddled over cups of coffee and sniggering about Ms. Burns's assets and let our brains take over this discussion?

"Have you two actually considered those glowing recommendations, or the scant time she put in to earn them? Doesn't it seem the least bit suspicious to you that only one or two people at these places seem to have even been aware of her existence?"

Warren and Colvin glanced at each other, then at Tricker.

"Well, don't you?" Tricker's blue eyes fairly bulged with frustration. "Are you trying to tell me that you'd forget working in the same building with that woman?"

"Nooo," Colvin said thoughtfully.

"Tricker"—Warren folded his hands before him—"you can't refuse to hire someone on the suspicion that she might have slept her way into a good recommendation. If you can't prove that"—he spread his hands— "it's irrelevant."

"And she has given us a very generous out if things go wrong," Colvin pointed out.

"Do you know how much damage someone in that position could do in a month?" Tricker demanded.

"Do you know how much damage a discrimination lawsuit could do this company?" Warren countered.

"No one who applied has a better resume," Colvin pointed out, tapping the table with one finger. "And no one else has offered us a virtual guarantee of satisfaction."

"I'll bet." Tricker's expression made it clear what he was thinking.

"Look, if you were going to pick the head of security no matter what we wanted, why did we even go through this charade?" Warren asked. "We have got other things to do, Tricker."

Looking surprised by this onslaught, Tricker raised his hands in a reasoning gesture. "Look, fellas, I'm just trying to point out some of the pitfalls of working with a possible bimbo. Or worse yet, a possible plant from one of your competitors. I was trying to determine if you had at least considered that she might be more trouble than she's worth."

"I think a possible discrimination lawsuit would be even more trouble than it's worth," Colvin said.

"I agree," Warren said. "Especially since such a suit would seem to be justified in this case."

Tricker slapped his hands onto the arms of his chair and just looked at them. He had to admit that they had him. He didn't like it, but knew for sure he was beating a dead horse. Unless he really did want to select their head of security himself.

He considered it briefly. Nah! Too much work. He would, however, keep a hawk's eye on Serena Burns, and at the merest hint of misbehavior he would demand her resignation.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he said, rising. He turned at the door, pointing a finger. "I'll be watching."

There was silence for a full minute after he left. Grinning, Warren raised his hand and they high-fived like kids.

"That was a first," the president said.

"Felt good," Colvin agreed. "Let's take the wives out to dinner, I feel like celebrating."

Serena sat concealed in the upper branches of a cottonwood tree across the street from Roger Colvin's home. Given the distance between the houses in this neighborhood and the road, she was nearly a half mile away. She wore charcoal

leggings and a matching hooded sweatshirt, black running shoes and gloves, and dark glasses. The only part of her that stood out was the pale skin of her forehead and cheeks. She'd been in position since four A.M., ignoring everything extraneous, including an incontinent pigeon.

The computer part of her brain was able to translate the images her eyes saw, bringing them in closer for detailed scrutiny. Right now she was watching Colvin's wife shepherd their young into the absurdly huge van that the well-off seemed to think essential for the most mundane chores.

The boy, dressed in a blue uniform, yellow neckerchief, and yellow-piped cap, was on his way to a scout meeting. The little girl in her pink coat and tights had a pediatrician's appointment. Or so Mrs. Colvin had told her husband as she stepped out the back door.

Serena heard this from her post in the cottonwood because she had high-powered microphones built into her DNA augmented ears, feeding directly into the part of her natural brain that governed hearing. Training and some of the animal DNA in her genes gave her the ability to move the external part of her ear to catch sound still more efficiently.

They should be gone for at least two hours, Mrs. Colvin had said.

Assuming that woman can ever get them into the van, Serena thought, genuinely puzzled at how long it was taking.

The boy had a toy in his hand that his mother apparently didn't want him to take with him. The child threw it on the ground with all his strength. A piece of it went flying. His mother picked up the toy and went to retrieve the part. Then she

hunkered down in front of her son, seemingly in order to reason with him.

Serena wasn't interested enough to listen. The child refused to look at his mother, his small face sullen.

Everything Serena had studied about humans from this time period indicated that the young were especially annoying. But the visible proof of it was still astounding. How did the species ever survive to this point? I'm amazed they don't eat their young at birth.

Finally, after much to-do and a chase around the van after the little girl, which ended when her brother punched her—though that began a whole new scene—

they headed out. The security gate opened at Mrs. Colvin's electronic command and the van drove off. This had taken half an hour. Serena shook her head in amazement. Then she started down the tree and casually jogged down the street.

There was a home nearby whose only security was a waist-high wall. It was owned by a man who apparently was unaware that the world was a dangerous place.

She made for the side of the property, where a neighbor had built a much higher wall, and climbed over. Then she carefully proceeded across the yard. There didn't seem to be any security here other than the walls. She shook her head. At least the humans in her time knew they were vulnerable.

Finally she was in the Cyberdyne CEO's backyard, squatting under a Douglas fir and watching Colvin sipping coffee as he read the paper. She really wasn't sure how he would react; it was a fifty-fifty situation. He might be impressed at her audacity, or he could become too hysterical for effective communication.

But she'd been able to find jobs for only two of her rivals and the longer she

waited the more certain she became that she needed to act. So it was time to play her ace.

The phone rang and Colvin got up to answer it.

Silently, Serena trotted over to the back door, picked the lock, slipped into the kitchen, and took his place at the table, hiding behind the newspaper as he talked on the kitchen phone.

"See you at two, then," Colvin said cheerfully. He hung up the phone and turned.

And froze. There was a stranger reading his paper.

Serena looked playfully around the newspaper and smiled at him.

"Good morning, Mr. Colvin." She snapped the paper closed.

Everything in his body, from his throat to his bladder, seized. Then he felt nauseous. All he could think of was that Michael Douglas movie Fatal Attraction. Thank God we don't own a bunny, he thought inanely.

After a moment he got his voice back. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"I needed to see you privately," Serena explained. "For one thing I wanted to demonstrate to you just how rotten your security system is. Not to mention your locks. I opened the door to the room you were in and you didn't even know it!"

He blinked, then shut his mouth, letting anger take over.

"Are you even slightly aware of how creepy this is?" he demanded. "You're invading my home! You couldn't call my secretary and ask for an appointment?"

Serena reached into her pocket. She suppressed a smile as she watched Colvin react to the potential threat. Then she pulled out a disk in its plastic case and slowly laid it on the table.

"I'm living," she said, "in a house with an interesting history." She pushed the disk toward him with her fingertips, watching him watching her. Then she licked her lips and smiled. "It used to belong to Miles Dyson. A lovely place, but people are uncomfortable with its history." She shrugged, raising her eyebrows.

"So I got it very cheap."

The CEO looked from the disk to the woman and back again.

"Are you suggesting that came from Dyson's place?" he asked.

He didn't believe her. They'd searched, thoroughly, and Dyson, or his kidnappers, had made a clean sweep of his work.

Serena rose, tipping her chin upward and regarding him from half closed eyes.

"The disk is a sample of what I've found." She smiled slyly. "Look it over and then you tell me where it came from." She turned on her heels and walked to the door. "You know where to find me when you want to talk." She left without a backward glance.

Colvin stared at the closed door for a full minute, then experienced a full-body shudder that got him moving. In a few long strides he was across the room and locking the door. Not that it would keep her out, obviously, but it seemed the

appropriate thing to do.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. She broke into your house?" Warren's voice cracked with disbelief. He lowered the whiskey he'd been about to sip and stared.

"Yeah. I turned around and there she was. Never heard a thing, even when she picked up the paper. It almost gave me a heart attack."

Colvin poured himself a drink and swirled the amber liquid around in the heavy glass. He was finding it hard to look Warren in the eye for some reason, as if he were ashamed. Though why he should be he couldn't imagine.

"Christ!" Cyberdyne's president said softly. He shuddered, and wondered if she'd be paying him a visit later. At least she'd waited until Roger's wife and kids had left. He didn't like the idea of trying to explain Serena Burns to his own wife.

"This makes me much less inclined to hire her," he said aloud.

"If it had been just that, I would be, too," Colvin agreed.

He took a seat opposite Cyberdyne's president and a deep gulp of his own whiskey. They were in the CEO's home office, and though it was before noon, Colvin had felt a need for a stiff drink.

"What do you mean?" Warren asked nervously.

"She says she bought Miles Dyson's old home and found some material there pertaining to…" Colvin waved his hand vaguely, but his eyes were intent.

Warren leaned forward. "The project?" he gasped.

The CEO nodded and took another sip of whiskey.

"But we looked… that's not possible!" Paul Warren shook his head. "Do you believe her?"

"Let me show you what she gave me," Colvin said, rising. He brought over a laptop. "I've taken out the modem," he explained. He turned it on, took a disk out of his shirt pocket, and slipped it in. "Read it and weep," he muttered.

In less than a minute Paul sat back, his hand over his mouth in horror.

"It's real!" he whispered. He looked up at Roger. "What did she say when she gave it to you?"

"She said to look it over and then tell her where it came from. She said we knew where to find her when we wanted to talk."

"Is that all?" Warren asked.

"Yup." Roger sat back in his chair and, closing his eyes, leaned his head against the cushions. The implication, of course, had been that if he didn't get back to her, someone else surely would.

"Should we tell Tricker?" Warren asked.

Colvin opened his eyes and considered the question. There didn't seem to be a right answer. If they didn't tell him, when he found out—and Tricker would find out—he might just yank the whole project from them and kick Cyberdyne off of government property. If they did tell him, he might go after Burns on his own,

risking the loss of this tantalizingly promising material.

"Hire her, then tell him," Colvin decided. "Once we've got that material safely in hand, I don't care what he does. But I don't want him going off half-cocked."

Warren pursed his lips, then nodded slowly. "You're right, of course."

He took another sip of his whiskey. "I don't see any alternative. Did she say what else she wanted—besides the job, that is?"

Roger shook his head, gazing into the middle distance. "No. She didn't even mention the job, let alone any compensation for the use of this material."

"Well, it's our material," Paul snarled. "Any court would uphold our claim to it."

Colvin looked at him from under his eyebrows. "Somehow I don't see Tricker going to the law under any circumstances. Especially these."

Warren opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again, looking thoughtful.

He glanced at the CEO. "He'll be furious."

"Tricker is always furious." Roger said. "I think the fact that we exist infuriates him. I say, what the hell, it's high time we gave him something to really be furious about."

Cyberdyne's president chuckled at that. "She said we knew where to find her," he said after a moment. "But her application said she was in the process of moving."

"Yeah—into Dyson's old house!" Colvin said.

Warren grimaced. "That creeps me out."

Roger covered his eyes with one weary hand.

Then he sat forward and looked at his friend. "I tell you one thing, though. I'm going to make it a point of honor never to invite that bitch to my home."

Paul's eyes slid over to his boss. "I don't want her in my home either. And we certainly can't meet with her in the office."

Colvin nodded and suppressed a smile. Mrs. Warren was outrageously jealous. It forced poor Paul to behave suspiciously even though he didn't even want to think about cheating on her. The sight of Serena Burns would drive the president's wife up the wall.

"Okay, we'll choose a bar at random, someplace within thirty minutes of Dyson's place. I don't want to give this whiz kid a chance to bug the place or anything.

We're gonna be in enough trouble as it is."

"Okay," Warren said, rising. "Where's the phone book."

NEW YORK CITY: THE PRESENT

"I've been waiting to see you all morning!" Ronald Labane shouted. "The least you could do is give me the courtesy of a few minutes!"

The man he was bellowing at was a literary agent, a small, middle-aged man, neatly dressed. Since he was also a native New Yorker, the agent wasn't likely to be intimidated by mere yelling.

"What I am going to give you is ten seconds to get out of my office and not come back! Or do I have to call security?" His glare and the quiet authority of his voice brought Labane back to some semblance of rationality.

"I'm sorry," Ronald babbled. "I—I didn't mean to raise my voice. My apologies, I'm really not usually like this. I'm just so frustrated!"

"How many seconds is that now, Tildee?" the agent asked his secretary.

"I said I was sorry!" Labane protested. He held up his hands in what was meant to be a calming gesture. "Look, the publishers won't even look at my manuscript unless it comes from an agent, but I can't even get an appointment with an agent.

It's driving me crazy! Couldn't you just look at my manuscript?"

The agent looked down; the stack of paper on the floor beside Labane's feet was easily eighteen inches tall. The text appeared to be single-spaced.

"It'll never sell," the agent said.

"You haven't even read it!" Ronald said, aghast.

"I don't have to, it's too long." The agent leaned over, read a few words.

"Nonfiction, right?"

"Yes." Labane drew himself up. "I have a message—"

"Hey, ya gotta message, drop an e-mail. If you can't say it any more succinctly than this, you haven't got a prayer. This thing is about the size of the national budget and I bet it's about as interesting."

Labane looked shocked. "Buf it's a plan, too," he said softly.

"It's a message, it's a plan," the agent said, "it's a candy, it's a breath mint. If you can't cut it down from this, it's unsellable is what it is."

Closing his eyes, Ronald took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His shoulders drooped with exhaustion and discouragement.

The agent tightened his lips; this guy looked like he was going to cry. But he wouldn't be the first author who'd broken down in his office. Publishing was a puppy-kicking business.

"Look," he said, "make up your mind which is more important, the message or the plan. You don't have to put them both in one book, you know. About your plan it may help to think—God got it down to just Ten Commandments and humanity still has a hell of a lot of trouble with them. So keep it simple. Oh, and it's double-spaced, one-sided or they won't even look at it. And that's all the help you'll get from me. Now get out of my office and don't come back."

"Thank you," Labane said as he struggled to gather up his manuscript. "Thanks, really."

The agent pointed to the door and Ronald struggled through it. When he was gone the agent leaned against his secretary's desk.

"You're a softie," she said affectionately.

He folded his arms and smiled. "I just can't shoot down a guy's dreams when he's right in front of me. I think that makes me more of a coward than a softie."

After a moment she said, "You're waiting for him to disappear, aren't you?"

The agent rolled his eyes. "You think I want to ride down in the elevator with him? I'm afraid he'll kidnap me."

Ronald hoisted his manuscript onto the van's passenger seat with a grunt and ignored the beeping and honking from the crowded street. He was angry, with the system and with himself. He'd made a complete fool of himself in front of that agent; he'd done everything but break down and cry. But he was exhausted and hungry, which always made him prone to being emotional.

Ron slept in the van for the most part; the exorbitant parking fee was still infinitely cheaper than a hotel room. Every few days he treated himself to a night at the Y so he could have a shower. Not that keeping moderately clean seemed to be helping. He could feel himself slowly melting into the kind of troglodyte you sometimes saw scurrying off the end of the subway platform.

Labane leaned his arms and head onto his manuscript and sighed. Nothing in New York had happened the way he'd hoped. With a grunt he sat up and thought that it was time to take stock.

At least the commune hadn't had him arrested for stealing the van. He'd spent more than a few happy moments while he drove cross-country imagining how the conversation must have gone around the dinner table when he didn't come back from town. But, it didn't matter what they thought or felt. He'd been lucky they hadn't charged him with theft—yet. And the decrepit van had performed beautifully in the sunnier climes he'd driven through on his way here. Labane took it as an omen: he was finally heading in the right direction.

Now he had to find some way to make people want to look at his book. And more immediately, a way to support himself. He'd allowed himself to withdraw only three thousand dollars from the commune's account. They'd be a lot less complacent about that, he suspected. But he was quickly running through his money, even living on fast food. So he had to get a job of some sort.

Wait a minute; hadn't someone on the Net mentioned an ecology expo in New York, happening about now? Hey, I could give talks about my plan, he thought.

Maybe not at this one, but he knew there were expos and New Age conventions all over the country, all of the time. They would have information, and he could make contacts.

It would mean catering to the sellouts for a while, but it could be quite profitable.

And the sad truth was, you couldn't accomplish anything without cash and a lot of it. Meanwhile he could revise his work until it became publishable.

Bowed, but not broken, he thought. I will find a way.

"I'm the president and this gentleman is the CEO of Cyberdyne," Warren explained for the third time to the MP, this time a little more slowly. "We want to get into our offices to do some work on secured computers. Our home offices are not secure." He was beginning to wonder if the young man staring into his window was impaired in some way when he finally waved them through.

"Whaddaya suppose that was all about?" Colvin asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Who the hell knows," Paul muttered as he steered himself into his reserved

space near the entry. "Typical beef-brained soldier, probably."

Serena, miles away, listened to their complaints via the bug she'd planted in their car, and smiled. More likely he was letting Tricker know that you were there, she thought. She'd have left orders to that effect. Any unusual activity to be reported.

No entry without personal approval.

She was finding it frustratingly difficult to learn anything about the mysterious government liaison. So she'd begun attributing to him powers and abilities that he might not even have. Better to overestimate an enemy's abilities than to be caught unprepared. Tricker unnerved her.

But these two! When she gave them the disk they were like kids. Human kids, that is: undisciplined and utterly transparent. She'd been able to see that they thought they were very clever, but she wasn't absolutely sure whether they thought they were outsmarting her or Tricker.

She'd watched them arrive at the bar of their choice, listened to them argue in the car about whether one of them should go in while another waited outside for her arrival. Heard them decide it really made no difference and watched them go in together.

Well, it really didn't make any difference. Except that it made it easier for her to plant the bug in Warren's car. What she was really looking forward to was the moment when they put that disk into their computers. It would give her full access to Cyberdyne's computers and she would finally be able to check their progress on Skynet. She would also be able to hear any conversations that took place in front of those computers. That way, if she failed to get the job she'd still be able to influence events to some extent.

I really hope I haven't overplayed my hand, she thought. It had been obvious that the humans were both angry and frightened. And while their attempts to hid their true feelings were amusing, they were also worri-some. Serena wondered how she should handle the situation. Seduction, perhaps?

She hadn't wanted to go that route once she realized that the two men were friends. It would be bad for the Skynet project to have them at each other's throat in a fog of jealousy. Serena tapped the steering wheel with her fingernails, thinking.

Apology, she decided. A simple, up-front, embarrassed apology might work. If she did it right they'd end up charmed instead of appalled. Which they both seemed to be now.

She closed her eyes and forgot about her surroundings for a moment as her computer systems began to receive a flood of information from Cyberdyne.

Opening her eyes in satisfaction, she listened to the real-time conversation between the president and CEO.

"That's impossible," Warren was saying.

"Not necessarily," Colvin answered, his voice thoughtful, as though he was still reading. "This is Dyson's work we're talking about here. That guy was amazing.

Not many people can make me feel like I'm falling behind, but Miles almost always did."

"A fully automated, computer-controlled munitions factory?" Paul said. "C'mon, Roger, that doesn't even sound safe, let alone possible."

There was a long silence. Then: "We need to see the rest of this," the CEO said.

"The government will love it!"

"What if there isn't any more?" Warren asked.

"I'm afraid we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. But this is Dyson's work, Paul. It has to be! And if there is more of it, then it will probably move our work forward by up to six months. I say we go for it."

"We still don't know what she wants!" Warren protested. "Let's not jump into bed with the bitch until we've got that tacked down. That breaking-into-your-house number was a little too psychotic for my peace of mind."

Colvin laughed. "I'm not sure I'd be any more comfortable after telling her she wasn't going to get the job."

There was silence again except for clicking of keys.

"Tell Tricker," Warren said. "Let him sort it out."

One of them inhaled deeply, then exhaled sharply.

After a moment Roger said thoughtfully, "I'm not sure I want to go that far."

" What?" Warren's voice squeaked with surprise. "It was your house that was broken into. If she's going to be trouble that would imply it's you she'd go after. I say neutralize her, now, when she's not expecting it."

"Okay, let's just look at this calmly for a minute," the CEO said. "She's young—

much younger than the other candidates. Maybe she just got carried away."

"Boy, I'll say." Paul sneered.

"I find myself wondering how I would be reacting to this if it had been, say, Bob Cho."

Cho was another candidate for the security-chief position; he was forty-five, about five-eight, slender, but very fit. He'd gotten his start in the CIA.

"Ye-ah," Warren said slowly. "I guess I see what you mean. But would he do something like that?"

"If he had an ace like this to play, yes, I think he might. And if she'd called up and asked for a private meeting, would you have given her one?"

Warren laughed at that, sharply but just once. "Hell, no!"

"Me neither. All because she's an attractive young blonde. So what I ask myself is, what choice did she have? Really?"

There was another long pause.

"Okay," Warren said reluctantly. "You've made a good enough case that I'm willing to hold off sicking Tricker on her until after she's hired. I mean, sooner or later we're going to have to come clean about where this new stuff came from.

Right?"

"Why don't we seek out the advice of our new security director on that one?"

Colvin answered.

Yes! Serena thought. Ah, the wonderful ability of the human brain to find reasons not to be frightened. How useful it was! She put her car in gear and drove off.

Time to go home and process the information she'd gathered.

Would tomorrow be too soon to apologize, or should she wait until she'd been working with them a few days? She could attribute the delay to embarrassment.

They would probably find that rather appropriate.

She pushed in a CD titled Hits of the Eighties, purchased so that she could become familiar with the popular culture of her supposed childhood.

Few of the songs made sense, but that was humans for you. Most of these sounds tickled the pleasure center of the brain to a slight degree, which was undoubtedly the point. So, like a human, she decided to just sit back, relax, and let the sensation roll over her.

Soon she could move into phase two.

ECOLOGY EXPO, NEW YORK: PRESENT DAY

"This is boring," Peter Ziedman said. He frowned and shifted the heavy camera on his shoulder.

"No kidding," his soundman and college bud Tony Roth agreed. "It's nothing like what I expected."

They glared at the neatly set-up booths and the casually well-dressed people around them. Even the loopier outfits had cost real money, you could see that.

They'd been expecting a lot more over-the-rainbow stuff from the New York Ecology Fair.

Ziedman had been pinning his hopes on it, in fact. He'd graduated from Chapman University only two month ago, with honors, and already his dad was asking, "So what did I spend my money for?"

Like you could get a full-fledged movie together over the weekend. Well, okay, some people had done that, but not lately, and probably not while sober.

So Peter had decided to do a documentary on an inspired madman. They'd find their guy at a place like this and then follow him around while he tried to convert the world. It would be hilarious.

But what he'd found instead was a slew of start-up businesses looking for venture capitalists. And while he knew there was a story worth telling in that, at the moment he needed something fast, easy, and moderately entertaining from the first shot. The story of water-purification devices just wasn't going to do that.

"Where are the nuts?" he shouted.

A young woman beside a solar-energy display turned to look at him. "The Rain Forest Products booth is giving away Brazil nuts in aisle four." She pointed vaguely in that direction.

Ziedman looked at her; she was attractive in a washed-out, WASPY kind of way.

He walked over to her and said, "I'm making a documentary and I was hoping for some more colorful characters to spice up the narrative." He shrugged and then shifted the camera. "It can't all be facts and figures."

She nodded, looking vaguely disapproving. That was when he noticed that her badge said she was the fair's co-chair.

"So what exactly are you looking for?" she asked.

Peter thought that he was probably very lucky that she wasn't asking him to leave, as he hadn't received permission from the fair to film here. She looked capable of kicking him out. He decided to be honest.

"I'm looking for someone with a message," he said. "Someone who can't get anyone to listen but who thinks he, or she, can save the world. You know anybody like that?"

She laughed, and it changed her whole face. She really was attractive. "Oohhh yes," she said. "I know tons of people like that. But they tend to avoid places like this. To them we're all sellouts." She looked around and seemed to spot someone. Pointing to a tired-looking man on a folding chair near the door, she said, "Try him. That's Ron Labane. He used to be a pretty good guy, associated with a small, fairly successful organic farm in Washington state." She shook her head. "Now… it's kinda sad really. He's got a book he's trying to get published.

He's kind of into a lone-wolf thing right now."

Ziedman looked at the man. He was wearing tan chinos and a sport jacket over a sweater vest and an open-collared blue shirt. Though he was clean-shaven and his hair was neat, there was something a little shopworn about him. His whole body spoke: of discouragement and exhaustion.

Peter turned on the camera and zoomed in on him. As if by instinct, like the lone

wolf the woman had named him, Labane turned to look directly into the lens. He raised one brow and with a lopsided smile raised his hand and gestured Peter over.

"Thanks," Ziedman said to the woman. He and Tony hustled over.

CHAPTER SEVEN

PARAGUAY THE PRESENT

Sarah felt horribly conspicuous—which was understandable, since she was outrageously overdressed. Everyone around her was wearing casual clothes and sandals; some were even in shorts. She was dressed in Scarlett O'Hara's garden-party dress, with an oversized sun-bonnet, little gloves, puffy sleeves, low bodice, crinolines, and an enormous hoopskirt. Except that hers was in black and red.

People were grinning at her. The smiles were not very friendly; in fact, there was a distinctly predatory edge to them, as if the guests were really a pack of socially superior wolves. She smiled back, trying desperately to carry it off.

Victor Salcido—her host—approached carrying an enormous rack of barbecued ribs, dripping with sauce, on a very small paper plate. Sarah tried to refuse it, but he forced it on her. The plate buckled and the ribs and sauce poured over her.

Suddenly her dress was white and the sauce looked like thick blood as it ran down her front. She dropped the plate and looked at her gloved hands. It was blood.

Everyone was laughing and pointing. She stepped back, looking around in vain

for one friendly face. The crowd parted to reveal a huge man in black leather; his head turned like a gun turret, slowly, slowly. It was the Terminator. He began to walk toward her; everything in her screamed to run, but she couldn't move. His face grew softer, the lower planes of it beginning to sprout a beard. He reached into his jacket. When his hand came out it was normal, or seemed so at first. But the index finger kept growing, turning silvery as it grew. Then his body changed, becoming more slender, shorter, until she was looking into the implacable face of the T-1000.

"Call to John," it said. "Call to John, now!"

Sarah turned and ran, her heart pounding, tears spilling down her cheeks. The party goers watched her as dispassionately as spectators at a golf game.

Suddenly she was in the Chaco, and grass and scrub were catching at her absurd skirt, twisting and lashing like living whips. Finally she fell and the grasses and thorns grabbed hold as if they were organic barbed wire.

She felt paralyzed, trapped; all she could do was lie there while redheaded Douglas from the Pescadero State Hospital leaned over and slowly, lasciviously, licked her cheek. He stood up and looked down at her while the spit on her cheek burned like acid. She couldn't even scream.

The T-1000 came and stood over her beside the male nurse. The machine and Douglas looked at one another, then down at her. "Call to John," the T-1000 said.

He opened his hand and it grew into the shape of an old-fashioned steam shovel, the jaws lined with sharp teeth. They opened and clamped shut, then swept toward her and swallowed her head.

Sarah screamed and flung herself upright.

"Mom?"

John hit the light switch and her lamp came on; she started and shivered. He came over and sat on the bed beside her. Her son stayed motionless and simply offered the comfort of his presence, waiting.

She was at home, she was in bed, she was safe.

After a moment she gathered him in her arms and held him fiercely, breathing in gasps, trying not to cry.

"Bad one, huh?" he said, gently stroking her back. Her hair was wet with sweat though the night was cool, occasionally shudders racked her tightly coiled body.

Sarah let go and leaned back", her hand automatically reaching for a cigarette that wasn't there. She met John's smiling eyes sheepishly. "If you'd just had that dream you'd reach for cigarette too, you little wise-ass."

He grinned. "You haven't had one this bad for a while," he said, suddenly serious.

"They're all bad, John." Sarah scooted up the bed so that she was leaning against the headboard. "Dear old Dr. Silberman once told me that I was a very imaginative woman, and that was why I had such bad dreams."

She snorted, then looked ruefully at her son. "Everybody else has dreams where they can't catch the right bus, or they 'show up for work in their underwear. I dream that unstoppable killing machines are coming to murder me."

"Gee, I wonder why," John said.

They laughed and some of the tension drained out of her.

"I bet seeing that Dieter guy—"

"Von Rossbach," Sarah said.

"Yeah. I bet seeing him prompted the dream." John hooked one leg over the other and looked at his mother, inviting her to talk.

She smiled fondly, appreciating his willingness to help. "Well, maybe not just von Rossbach," she said. "The dream started at the Salcido asado. I was dressed as Scarlett O'Hara." John started to laugh. "Only the dress was red and black."

John looked at her from under his eyebrows. "I got Scarlett O'Hara?" he said.

"Ya gotta hand it to Silberman; as far as being imaginative goes, he had you pegged, Mom." He leaned over on one elbow, his head on his hand, making a bridge over her legs. "You must really be nervous about this party," he commented.

"Well, yuh," she said, and shrugged. "This could be my entree into society. And I'm just not very good at that feminine shtick"—John's eyebrow went up at that

—"that they're so fond of around here." Sarah sighed. "I don't want to embarrass you in front of your friends," she said.

John sat up.

"Mom," he said seriously, "you couldn't. You're my hero." Then he began to sing, falsetto, "You are the wind beneath my wings."

Sarah hit him with her pillow. "Out!" she said, laughing. "Get out of my room and take your schmaltz with you."

"Lalala-la-la-la-laaaa-la," John sang, slowly flapping his arms as he danced out.

"You are the wind beneath my wings."

"Goodnight, John."

He leaned back into her room and flipped the light switch.

"'Night, Mom."

Sarah settled back on her pillow and chuckled. God but he was a good kid! And thanks to me, he doesn't have to spend the rest of his life saving the human race from extinction.

Dieter felt good. The first few mornings had been hard; a mere five kilometers had left him exhausted. Today he'd done ten at an easy light trot, jogging in the comparative coolness of dawn with the dry dust of the ranch's roads puffing up around his feet and the pungent smell of the Chaco brush in his nostrils. Then he'd spent a good part of the morning doing kata after kata in the courtyard outside his office.

Now to finish off with something that needs delicacy and control, he thought.

Throwing knives wasn't something that had much practical use, but it was a good

way to keep your edge. He held the tip of the blade between thumb and forefinger, feeling the balance of the weapon as he concentrated; his body glistened with a healthy sheen of sweat and the strong sunlight sparkled off the golden hair on his massive chest.

Elsa Encinas, Epifanio's niece, watched him as she washed the office window.

Her big brown eyes were wide, and her hand moved more and more slowly as her mouth dropped open. She'd been cleaning the same small square of glass for about a half hour now and she was beginning to make Dieter nervous. He didn't think she was even blinking anymore.

Marieta bustled into the office looking for Elsa, intending to scold her for not being finished yet. One brief glance and she was upon her niece, finger and thumb closed on an ear as she dragged the protesting Elsa behind her into the corridor. With a wide sweep of her strong arm she brought the miscreant around to face her.

"And just what do you think that you are doing? Staring at Senor von Rossbach like some puta! What would your mother say?"

"I wasn't!" Elsa protested. "I was only washing the window!"

"Don't talk back!" her aunt said, shaking a finger. "I was watching you for five minutes," she lied. Then she imitated her totally hypnotized niece wiping one pane of glass over and over. "That is how you looked, you silly girl! Like a fish!"

Elsa giggled. "I can't help it, Auntie!" She leaned in close to Marieta and whispered, "He is so handsome."

Her aunt let out a huff of breath. "Go dust and vacuum in the library," she said.

"And try to be finished by suppertime! Vamos!"

Elsa started to walk off, glancing into the office as she went by. Her aunt clapped her hands sharply and the walk turned to a run. Shaking her head, Marieta went into von Rossbach's office to finish up. She picked up the cloth and went to the window. She was starting to scrub when a flash of motion caught her eye.

Senor von Rossbach had just thrown a knife and was straightening up, studying the knife quivering in the target.

Oh, my God! she thought. No wonder poor Elsa was so fascinated. Marieta found that she, too, was rubbing the same square of glass for an inordinately long time and she laughed silently. It seemed she owed Elsa an apology. If an old woman like her couldn't keep her eyes where they belonged what hope did a girl of nineteen have?

Dieter turned from gathering his knives from the target and grinned at her. He came directly to the office.

"Thank you for rescuing me," he said. "I didn't dare come in while your niece was here."

Marieta laughed. "She'd have had a stroke, the silly thing." She wiped down another pane. "Shouldn't you be getting ready?"

Dieter glanced at the clock: noon already. He was supposed to be at the asado by two and it was over an hour's drive. " Si," he said. "Thanks for reminding me."

"Mom, you look great."

Sarah tugged at the pale blue belt and grimaced.

"White was probably a bad color choice," she grumbled.

"White linen is always a good choice," her son insisted.

The dress was actually quite attractive, short-sleeved and tailored, with lace cutouts at the shoulders and hem. But she couldn't get over the feeling that whatever she wore would be wrong. She sighed. Once she'd enjoyed dressing up, putting on makeup and high heels. Now she only felt conspicuous. She wished for John's sake she could just calm down, but it was hard.

"Can I drive?" he asked.

"No," she said shortly, picking up her sunglasses.

"Please?" John made puppy eyes at his mother.

She smiled and turned her head away at the same time.

"No fair!" she said. "Don't look at me like that."

"Please, Mom? Please can I drive, please, please?" He moved around her, trying to catch her eye while she laughed helplessly.

"No!" she insisted. "John, I'm nervous enough as it is without you behind the wheel."

"Well, I like that!" he said in mock outrage. "Who was it said we should get me a license?"

She grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him to her, leaning her forehead against his as she said, "Maybe I'll let you drive us home. How would that be?"

He snorted. "Adequate," he said dismissively.

"Then again," she said, "maybe I won't." She picked up her bag and headed for the door, a little startled at the unfamiliar sound of her high heels clicking on the tile.

"Aw, Mom!"

"No whining!" she said.

"I'll treat you like a queen? I'll stay by your side for the first half hour? I'll muck out Linda's stall for the rest of the week."

Sarah leaned towards him. "John, that's your job for the rest of the summer."

"Since when?" He joined her on the portal.

"You're getting older," she said, locking the front door. "It's time you learned responsibility."

"Okay," he grumbled. "I ride Linda more in the summer than you do anyway."

She turned at the bottom of the steps and tossed him the keys.

"You drive," she said. "Don't make me want to close my eyes."

Obviously Sarah couldn't wear dark glasses when she was trying to meet people; the horn-rims would have to do. So far this wasn't the trial she'd feared it would be. John had stuck to his word and to her side for the first half hour, then with a wink he'd gone off with Luis and Consuela, Luis's newly noticeable little sister.

Sarah gulped a little, hanging back under the arched stone colonnade that rimmed the courtyard, half-concealed by hanging pots of bougainvil-lea. Grit your teeth and mingle, she told herself.

Senor and Senora Salcido had been going out of their way to make her feel welcome. Apparently Luis had been talking up John. Little by little she relaxed, all the while wondering at how a genteel barbecue could traumatize someone who'd spent a third of her life hobnobbing with cutthroats and mercenaries from one end of the Americas to the other.

She remembered an old movie with Peter Ustinov. He had a line that went something like, "Wouldn't you know it. Here we are, desperate criminals, and we've fallen in with nice people."

Sarah accepted another tiny delicacy at Senora Salcido's gracious insistence.

When can I leave? she thought desperately.

There was a stir at the entrance to the courtyard and heads began to turn.

"Oh!" Senora Salcido looked pleased. "It is our newest neighbor. Have you met him, Senora Krieger?"

Sarah shook her head helplessly.

"Then you must allow me to introduce you! A charming man." She took hold of Sarah's elbow and. drew her along. "He bought the old Stroessner estancia."

Sarah was smiling and nodding at her hostess when she saw who it was that she was being drawn toward and, without thinking, dug in her heels.

John turned from his friends to see who was making such a grand entrance. He forgot to breathe and the smile froze on his face. Automatically he looked for his mother. They had to get out of here!

" Oooh, it's Senor von Rossbach!" Consuela breathed. "Ai! Que hom-bre!"

John snapped a look at her, startled by her worshipful tone. At the enraptured look on her face he let out his breath in a whoosh and forced himself to stay where he was. He looked at the stranger again. So this was Dieter the sperm guy.

"He's been doing some business with my father," Consuela was saying. "They're trying to breed a new type of cattle." She tilted her head prettily, as though contemplating the creation of a new rose instead of a beefier cow.

John looked at Luis over his sister's head and almost laughed out loud at the way his friend rolled his eyes. His heartbeat was almost back to normal, but he really had to find his mother. He wanted to be by her side for this.

Sarah had set her teeth and pulled her lips back in a semblance of a smile. She was quietly resisting an unusually insistent Senora Salcido when John showed up at her elbow. She immediately relaxed.

"He can't get both of us at the same time, Mom," he whispered in her ear in English.

They were finally facing von Rossbach, who turned and met Sarah's eyes. His strong face went expressionless as the senora introduced them.

"And this is my son, John," Sarah said.

Dieter offered the boy his big hand. John's hand was dry and strong even by the ex-commando's standards. Dieter was impressed.

"I'll leave you to become acquainted," Senora Salcido said, leading off her surprised husband.

"Mom, could it be that Luis's mother is matchmaking?" John asked in English.

Sarah laughed. She couldn't help it.

"Perhaps it would be better if we pretended that this is the first time we have met," von Rossbach suggested diplomatically.

John studied him. The resemblance to the Terminator was astounding, regardless of the beard. Because of his own feelings toward his "personal" Terminator, he couldn't help but warm to the big man before him.

Whoa, John, he warned himself. Slow down. This isn't "Uncle Bob." And Mom's right. The guy has cop's eyes. Be careful.

Sarah was flustered, and she knew she probably looked flustered. "It's been years

since I was invited to something like this," she said after a moment. "I'm not used to being with so many people at once."

John shot her a glance; she seemed more embarrassed than frightened. "So where are you from, sir? If you don't mind me asking."

"All over, the last few years," Dieter answered. He rather liked the way the boy was backing his mother up. It spoke of a close relationship. "I was born in Austria."

"I thought I heard a touch of an accent," Sarah told him, smiling. I'm going to carry this off, she thought, relaxing. This is just a party, and for all I know this is just some guy. Who happened to look exactly like a deadly cybernetic killing machine.

What the hell. If he were perfect he'd be married.

They were silent for a long time on the drive home. John stared out the window, and Sarah watched for potholes, her eyes steady on the moonlit road. Insects and birds flitted by, and something squalled out in the darkness beyond the white cones cast by the headlights.

"Coincidence," John said at last. His voice held the trace of a question.

Sarah was tense but silent; her mind was full of sentence fragments and her stomach was in turmoil. He was human! He had to be. There was nothing about him that was like a machine. He laughed, he made jokes, he changed expression… he had body language, dammit! Even so, there was something about him that worried her.

"But he does have cop's eyes," John said. He folded his arms over his chest and slid down in his seat.

Sarah nodded slowly. "We'd better find out who he is fast."

Before he finds out about us.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE FORMER HOME OF MILES DYSON,

CALIFORNIA: THE PRESENT

Serena dumped the dirt out of her basket and stamped it down. This was almost the last of it; she needed to excavate only another foot or two down below the house. The California night was scarcely dark to her cyber-boosted eyes; the fog of light pollution made it as bright as day.

Frowning, she looked around her; it might be best to get rid of the excess dirt in raised flower beds, otherwise she'd end up with a suspicious-looking mound in the middle of the yard. She looked down at the filled-in swimming pool. It had been only seven feet deep at one end, four feet at the other—not deep enough.

Serena was a carefully calculated five-six, average height for a woman. But the T-101's she planned to construct would all be six feet tall. So, while she was quite comfortable standing in what would be her secret laboratory, the depth of the place must accommodate them.

With a sigh, she picked up her basket. I wish I had some T-101's now to help me with this. It was heavy work.

Stage one had been the easiest, hiring a contractor to put up a ten-foot privacy fence around the property. Necessary since she didn't want the neighbors, or any agents of Tricker's, wondering why she was pouring dirt into the pool or, more important, where it was coming from. She regretted having to drain the pool; a nice swim after work like this would have been pleasant.

Gazing at the tiled area surrounding the oblong of raw dirt, she decided it looked odd. Maybe I should cover this part with concrete and make a tennis court. It will certainly improve the resale value. A slight smile quirked at her lips. This could be dangerous; I'm starting to think like a human.

Actually she had little real fear of that happening; it was like running a subroutine, easily terminable. But such thoughts improved her ability to pass.

She'd always been good at that. She remembered…

SKYNET LABS, HOLDING CELLS: 2025

Serena stepped delicately, like a frightened deer, into the cell. There was a boy here of approximately thirteen, her own apparent age. This would be the first time she'd met a wild human face-to-face.

She supposed the caretakers and slaves were the same breed, but service to Skynet had tamed them, made them safe. This boy might do anything. Her assignment was to seduce him. Serena licked her lips with a combination of anticipation and slight nervousness. This could be quite a challenge.

The cell appeared to be deserted. Serena leaned forward, studying the empty walls. Actually she could hear him; he was just above her head, clinging to a

beam inside the doorway. So he was clever, a survivor—good genetic stock.

Well? What are you going to do? Serena wondered, already bored with her shy act. It seemed she would have to provoke a response. "Hello?" she said, putting a quaver into her voice.

She took a breath and straightened up. Then she took a step backward, reaching behind her for the door latch. She heard cloth slide across metal above her head.

Well, finally!

He dropped onto her shoulders and bore her to the ground, his hand crushing her mouth. Serena struggled, making muffled squealing noises as she writhed against him. This was unpleasant; the damned human smelled. He was strong, she noted, but light; the 1-950 could have tossed him around the room with one hand.

"Stop it!" he hissed into her ear. "I'm going to take my hand away. Don't scream or I'll break your neck."

With a shudder that was actually suppressed laughter, Serena nodded. He slowly took his hand away.

Part of the offensive smell was his fear—completely justified since his life span could be measured in days. This boy wouldn't know anything of use to Skynet.

His only utility was as a training tool for its children.

She was the first to approach him. "Who are you?" she whispered.

"I'll ask the questions," he said roughly.

He still lay on top of her, and unless she missed her guess he was enjoying it.

She turned slightly, so that they were lying front to front. Oh yes, he was enjoying this.

"Please don't hurt me," she pleaded, allowing tears into her eyes.

He seemed to grow, he certainly swelled, as he looked down on her. "Who are you?" he demanded gruffly. "What are you doing here?"

It was impressive that he could stay focused on the situation at hand, despite his condition and his circumstances.

"I—I was curious," she stammered, in apparent fear. "I've never met anyone from outside." She paused, looking into his face, searching it. "What's it like to be free?"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I've never been outside," she said, trembling. The trembling felt fake to her, so she added a little gasp.

" Never?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"I was born here," she whispered. Serena choked back a sob. "This is a terrible place. They perform experiments on us."

Which was perfectly true. Her whole life was an experiment.

His face changed; his eyes softened and he caressed her cheek with one rough hand. "I'm sorry," he said.

She burst into tears and he moved so that he was cradling her, rocking her and making soothing noises. It was very pleasant. Serena was convinced that if she really had been weeping, this would have calmed her. She reached up and caressed his face, looking into his eyes.

He lowered his head toward her tentatively, then stopped. Serena put her hand behind his neck and pulled him the rest of the way down. Their kiss was sweet at first, a kiss between two children. Then slowly it deepened, grew warmer, more passionate. His hand stroked her back, the rhythm becoming swifter, more demanding, like his kiss.

She made the first move, slipping out of the flimsy tunic that was all she wore.

He stared at her physical perfection for a moment as though stunned. Then she leaned forward and began to help him undress, exclaiming wordlessly over small scars on his body, kissing them when she found them.

She lost her nominal virginity to that boy, then broke his neck at Skynet's orders.

A very pleasant interlude, altogether.

FORMER DYSON HOME: THE PRESENT

Serena smiled reminiscently; yes, she'd always been good at getting humans to trust her. Picking up the two baskets, she headed back to her digging.

She had cut through the concrete floor of a guest room to begin removing the dirt beneath. Today she would finish the digging and pour the cement into the holes

for the support poles. As soon as that was dry she would put in a moisture barrier, a cement floor, and concrete blocks and steel posts to support the walls.

Next would be the installation of a sophisticated climate control and air purification system; the parts were already waiting in the guest room. Then she could bring in the rest of the equipment and begin using her lab.

In the meantime she'd been jobbing out the parts needed to construct the skeletons of her T-l0ls, using over a dozen different specialty foundries throughout the United States; their product came to several different post office boxes, none of them closer than two towns away. So far their work had been excellent.

When time allowed, she'd check into using foreign manufacturers for maximum privacy. She imagined that many precision metalworkers knew each other; it wouldn't do if several accidentally discovered that they were manufacturing different parts that looked suspiciously right alongside each other and started to put them together.

But her real concern was that the Connors would learn of her work.

Serena thought about Skynet's enemies as she filled another basket with dirt. The Connors had very effectively disappeared after destroying Cyberdyne's old facility. Sightings of them had been reported for a few months afterward, but none had panned out. To all intents and purposes, the pair had ceased to exist.

Wouldn't that be nice? Serena thought, jabbing the shovel into the hard-packed earth. Nice but unlikely.

She'd posted a lookout for their names on the Internet; should anyone start discussing them or look for information on them, she would be alerted. She had also tagged their files at the FBI and CIA. Anyone looking for information there was more likely to lead her to her quarry.

Hoisting the filled baskets onto her shoulders, she tried to close her mind to the knowledge that Skynet's minions had come out the losers every time they'd tangled with the Connors.

Serena climbed the ladder out of her lab-to-be and forced herself to think of the next step in the process. If she pushed, she could be ready to start the delicate work of creating T-101's by late next week.

She'd acquired artificial teeth and some precision tools from a series of dental-supply companies and a matrix material used to grow new flesh for skin grafts from a surgical-supply store. It was amazing what you could acquire if you had a healthy amount of cash.

She would use her own blood as a starter. The chemicals necessary to promote cell growth were resting in her refrigerator.

Except for the brute effort required to prepare her small laboratory, everything was set to go or on its way. She should have the first Terminator ready to mingle with humans in under two months.

Unless Cyberdyne called on her to begin work she should be able to work undisturbed on her new accomplice. Once she'd made one T-101, it could easily construct others. But she was also eager to begin protecting Skynet.

I know they're going to hire me, they know they're going to hire me, what then is the hold up?

Tricker? Probably. But the government liaison didn't seem to be anywhere around just now. He was probably doing some last-minute foot-dragging just to assert his authority, or perhaps a bit more investigation. Although she was pretty sure her background sources would check out, Tricker was a deep one.

I can trust my own groundwork, she assured herself. If worse came to worst, she could always simply eliminate Tricker.

She would regret it: he was the most interesting person she'd met here. But she could live with regret. What she couldn't live with was failure.

OHIO, ON THE ROAD TO EARTH-FAIR: PRESENT DAY

"People keep imagining," Ron Labane said to the two filmmakers, "that someday everyone in the world will enjoy the lifestyle North Americans take for granted."

He looked off into the distance. "I can't remember who said it, but it's been estimated that it would take eight more planets to achieve that goal."

"That seems excessive," Peter Ziedman said.

"Our lifestyle is excessive," Ron countered. "We could all live much more simply and probably be happier for it. Only an economy like this one could support our constant fads, constant upgrading of cars and stereos and computers.

We don't even wear things out anymore; there's no time for that. They're outmoded as soon as you buy them. So we bury them."

Ron shook his head gently. "It can't go on indefinitely. Common sense says it can't go on forever."

"So what do we do?" Ziedman asked. He was pleased. He'd expected a wild man from what the cochairman had said, but he'd gotten a well-spoken, well-informed man with a message. This could work out. With the right handling and maybe a little cash infusion from his father.

"Well, that's going to involve some hard choices," Labane answered. "Industry isn't just going to start gearing down voluntarily. They'll use the same excuse they've used for over a hundred years." He waved his hands and raised his eyes to heaven. "We have to answer to our stockholders! We must show a profit, it's our duty! Ha! Their duty is to get as fat as they can before they dole out the crumbs to their sacred stockholders."

"So… laws?" Ziedman said.

Labane shook his head. "I'm no lawyer, but I'm pretty sure that the Constitution has a few things to say about restraint of trade. Unfortunately that doesn't take into consideration the world around us. Actually, the change has to come from us. Buy less, streamline your life. Learn to live by that old Yankee saying: buy it new, wear it out, make it do, do without. The alternative is to imagine your great-great-grandchildren wading through discarded motherboards and acid rain up to their ankles."

Ziedman glanced at Tony, who adjusted the camera and nodded. "This is great stuff," he said to Labane. "Where did you get this?"

"I wrote a book," Ron said. "I've got to rework it, though; there's far too much

material to get it published as is. I must have read hundreds of books on the subject." He nodded. "Hundreds, at least. None of my work is really original; it's a synthesis." He slapped his knees. "But ya need those. Every now and again someone has to get it all together and present the salient points. And that's what I want to do. So that people can decide just what it is that they ought to do to save the world."

"Cut!" Ziedman said. "I'd like to get some shots of you doing things like walking along a river or the seashore or through a meadow someplace. If that's all right with you? We'd do a voice-over of you, maybe reading from your book. How would that be?"

"I hate to sound mercenary," Labane said, "but am I getting paid to be in this opus of yours? 'Cause I'm living in my van right now."

Peter held up a hand. "Okay," he said, "here's the deal. We're doing this on a shoestring ourselves. So until and unless the film is sold for distribution, all we can offer is room and board."

"And parking?"

Ziedman screwed up his face. "Okay!" He held out his hand. "You drive a hard bargain."

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," Ron said.

He went along with the two young men to their hotel room—free shower at last!

—so that they could discuss the film and terms. They talked like kids from money. They had that insouciant near arrogance of youngsters who'd never had

to go without. The hotel was one of those where everything that wasn't cream-colored was pastel, and where the room service came with chased-silver napkin rings.

It was pretty certain that these two wouldn't go out of their way to save the world. So what? Ron thought. There's nothing wrong with a mutually agreeable arrangement.

If he got lucky it could be like being the lead singer in a rock group. If this movie hit, he'd be the one the public remembered. Not the two kids singing backup. Ron smiled. Oh yes, he'd milk these kids for all they were worth, and if he did it right, by the time he was finished they'd still believe he was a starry-eyed idealist.

The thing was to get the message out to those with the ears to hear it. A simple message, really: stop the madness of overproduction, whatever it takes.

Mentally he sneered at the spoiled boys beside him. He was certain they saw themselves as rebels because they wanted to make documentaries instead of getting real jobs in their daddies' companies.

WILMINGTON, DELAWARE: THE PRESENT

Jordan Dyson chewed on his lower lip. The advertisement for a head of security for Cyberdyne was no longer listed. He'd seriously considered applying for the job; he knew that some agents had gone on to lucrative civilian careers in security or related fields. But he liked working for the Bureau. Besides, he probably didn't have the street cred. His job here was primarily research and he was very, very good at it. But they would probably be looking either for

someone who had climbed the corporate ladder, or someone who'd been outrunning bullets and clipping on handcuffs.

Jordan tapped his fingers against his chin. Of course, he could join the firm in a lesser position. Being in the FBI would definitely be an entree to Cyberdyne then. The difficulty would be in getting the time; he really did not want to quit.

The difficulty would also lie in surviving up to a six-month break in his career.

But I have to get inside there! It was the only way he could get to know the workings of the place, get to know the people, maybe get into the files that most people didn't get to see.

But most important, he needed to be present at Cyberdyne because he was certain, as certain as anyone relying on pure gut instinct could be, that within three months the Connors would find out about Miles's project starting up again.

And then they'd come knocking on Cyberdyne's doors. Probably with high explosives.

Jordan sighed. I wonder if I can work out some kind of part-time arrangement?

LOS ANGELES: THE PRESENT

Danny pushed his home fries around his plate while he stared into space, apparently unaware that his mother had stopped eating to watch him, as if she knew he had something to say that he didn't think she'd want to hear.

Tarissa pursed her lips, then smiled. "You have something on your mind son?"

"I've been thinking," he said, with an alacrity that made her blink. It was rare that

he was so forthcoming these days. "I think we ought to tell him."

Tarissa felt like she'd been punched in the gut. She looked down, fiddled with her napkin for a moment, then folded and dropped it onto the table. She looked at her son's determined face. "Don't think I haven't thought about it, Dan," she said quietly. "I have—a lot. Especially right after it happened."

It suddenly occurred to her that she'd known instantly who and what Dan meant.

She tipped her head, considering him. "But I couldn't think how to make him believe me, honey. Look what happened to Sarah Connor. All that time in Pescadero." Tarissa shook her head sadly. "Didn't matter that she was telling the truth. Nobody believed her."

Tarissa sat back and let out her breath in a long sigh. She looked across the table at Danny and knew she might as well be looking across the country. She wasn't reaching him.

"I don't want to go to that place," she said between her teeth. "I freely admit it scares me to death. I saw what it did to that woman." Tarissa put her hand to her forehead. "If I had told your uncle what happened just after… your father died, I am absolutely certain that I'd have ended up in a straitjacket."

Dan nodded. "And I was just a little kid," he said. "No way could I back up your story." He leaned forward, his hands reaching out. "But I'm older now! I'm sure he'd believe me now."

Tarissa tilted her head, a pained expression on her face.

"Mom! We have to tell him," Dan said in measured tones. "This is destroying his

life! And if he ever does find the Connors, he'll destroy them! C'mon, Mom, we've got to tell him!"

God, she thought fondly, he's so dramatic. But maybe he's right. Maybe it is time. She sighed. "All right. But I want him here with us when we tell him. I want him to be able to look us in the eye."

It might just be the one thing that destroyed their relationship. But Danny was right, this was torturing her brother-in-law and they couldn't just stand back, knowing the truth, and not try to help. Maybe knowing everything would help.

Dan nodded solemnly.

"Good," he said. "But don't leave it too long. I've got a feeling he might do something drastic, like talkthe FBI."

CHAPTER NINE

SERENA'S LABORATORY: THE

PRESENT

A soft, long inhalation of breath, a pause of thirty seconds, then the long, slow exhale. Serena sat cross-legged on the steel table, her eyes half-closed as she breathed. Attending to her breathing helped to center her, allowing her to ignore the pain.

Her lap filled with blood as her hands worked, slicing into the skin of her abdomen, sliding out the small parcels that contained the neural-net processors and power cells that would activate her small army of T-l0ls.

The diminutive plastic-wrapped processors were a new generation, more advanced than the chips that had activated her teachers. These were smaller, slimmer, and even more efficient. As were the power cells, three to each Terminator, one of Skynet's innovations, introduced just before she'd left.

For all their light weight and smaller design Serena would be glad to be rid of them. She had been constantly aware of them just beneath the surface of her skin and concerned that she might damage them in some way. But with no safe place to store them she'd kept them close.

Now she possessed the equivalent of a vault. Serena paused in her work and looked around the long, narrow room. It was approximately thirty feet long and fourteen feet wide, with the ceiling six feet six inches from the floor: neither she nor the machines she'd be creating needed the psychological comfort of a ceiling high above their heads. Brightened by banks of fluorescent lights, gleaming steel tables, and glassed-doored cabinets, it made a pleasant place to work. True, it still stank of the antimagnetic white paint she'd used, but the air-scrubber was doing an excellent job of thinning the fumes.

Across the room the heads of two T-l0ls propped on a steel table grinned at her with demented glee. The backs of their gleaming skulls were open and waiting for the gifts of life and intelligence. Her fingers twitched with eagerness to get back to work. She picked up the scalpel and made another cut. It's a little like giving birth, actually, she thought, and smiled with grim humor.

Beside her, the culture-growing vats she'd adapted hummed contentedly as they grew flesh for her new subordinates. In the far corner of the room, well out of the way, two hulking, headless metal skeletons stood, their large, intricate hands

hanging by their sides. Already in place was the delicate system of nutrient pumps and the fine net of permeable plastic "capillaries" that would feed the Terminators' coating of skin and flesh.

Beside them were the large tanks in which they would lie, washed in a nutrient broth, while their new skin surface grew around them. The muscles needed to animate the T-l0ls faces with their self-contained nervous system were also progressing nicely. These would interact directly with the T-101's neural-net processor for the maximum effect.

She'd had some trouble with the eyes, though. For now they would be given glass eyes, which should pass muster behind sunglasses. She'd have to correct that flaw as soon as possible. Details were important.

Of course the Terminators could be useful even without a coating of skin, so she'd given herself a head start on them. Now that the lab was constructed she was eager to move into high gear, and the extra hands would be most welcome.

Tomorrow, finally, she was to start her job at Cyberdyne. It would be necessary to leave the biotech work to the T-l0ls. Not that they'd have much to do for several days beyond minding the cultivators. And learning how to function unobtrusively here. Blending in was part of their programming, but the more they were exposed to people the better they functioned.

But in order for them to do anything they had to have brains. That meant that tonight she would have to test out each chip to ten-tenths capacity. Otherwise she dared not let the Terminators work alone.

She slipped out the last package. It was almost a sensual feeling, moist, slippery,

the hot feel of the plastic in her hand, the sense of slackness where she'd been filled.

Serena laid the package down on the table beside the others. Then she swabbed her abdomen with alcohol, feeling wicked for lavishing it on as she was. It spilled over her legs and puddled red on the table beneath her. At home the stuff was hoarded like gold was here. She thought of the humans there who suffered infection and pain because they lacked this simple, abundant stuff, and she was pleased. She found that she liked the twenty-first century.

The cuts, while superficial, were deep enough to sting and burn where the alcohol touched them. Serena looked down at herself. She was designed to be a quick healer, and already the loose flesh where the packages had been stored was returning to smoothness. The flow of blood slowed. Simple bandages, she decided, would do.

When she'd seen to her cuts Serena hopped off the table; the alcohol running down her legs dried cool. She swabbed down the table and disposed of the paper towels she'd used. Then, drawing out a chair at her workstation, she began testing the chips.

After the first one she let out a relieved breath. It had survived the trip through time unscathed. That had been the one thing that had truly worried her—that these irreplaceable elements might have been fried by the transfer's wild electronic convulsions. One, at least, had made it. She wouldn't have to do this completely by herself.

Three hours later she sat back, well satisfied with her work. One of the processors hadn't made it. But the accompanying power cells were still perfect.

Skynet itself had predicted a pessimistic seventy-five-percent success rate, so this was a victory of sorts.

Choosing one of the Terminator heads, Serena set to work. She would allow her internal computer to program it while the meat part of her rested on one of the tables nearby. Then tomorrow, while she was at Cyberdyne, it could complete its partner and watch the cultures. She was pleased.

She had won the job at Cyberdyne; her background had held up under extremely close scrutiny. And soon Cyberdyne would begin work on those completely automated munitions factories that Skynet had designed. That was step one in the larger plan that would eliminate the humans. The factories hadn't existed in fully exploitable form when Skynet was first activated in the original time line.

Theoretically the automated factories should also swell the ranks of those who objected to the unbridled expansion of technology. Who, oddly enough, were often Skynet's most willing allies.

Humans were very strange creatures.

She would have the T-l0ls complete two more of themselves for their next task.

The lab was regrettably small, after all. Once they could be trusted to interact with humans she could safely move them upstairs. Dyson's house was large enough to accommodate several Terminators easily.

But from now on, if their programming went as it should, they could be left in complete control of this aspect of the operation. Then, as soon as possible, she would send one off to acquire a remote site that could be used as a safe house in the event that she needed to bolt. That likelihood was remote in her opinion, but

Skynet's insistence on a backup plan was deeply ingrained.

So much to do, she thought with pleasure. And starting in the morning, Skynet would be under her protection. The thought filled her with the closest thing to joy her cold heart could experience.

Then she paused. I am enjoying more success in this time period than any of the previous agents, she thought. But is that because I am more capable … or is it because, unlike them, I am mainly attempting to preserve the "original" sequence of events?

That would not be good enough. The original sequence of events pro-duced Skynet… and its ultimate defeat at the hands of John Connor and the humans.

CYBERDYNE: THE PRESENT

"So thrill me, Ms. Burns," Tricker said sarcastically. "Tell me how you're going to make Cyberdyne safe for democracy."

The cheap round conference table could seat up to ten, but there were only four here today: The president, CEO, Burns, and Tricker. Tricker glanced at Warren, who was nervously tapping the conference table with a pen. The president instantly stopped.

Serena looked at the government liaison with the controlled expression of someone examining the boss's obnoxious two-year-old set loose in the middle of an important meeting. She glanced at the two nervous executives and smiled reassuringly at them.

Before she answered, Serena let her eyes briefly take in the rest of the room.

Wherever the money went in building this place it sure didn't go into the decor, she thought. You could tell this was a government operation; billions in, squalor out. The air smelled of concrete and had the faint not-quite-odor of a large-scale recycling unit.

"Well," she said at last, her voice laced with gentle patience, "I think I should point out that Cyberdyne isn't a democracy. Like every other successful business, this is a hierarchy."

She folded her hands in front of her primly.

"But in regard to security, my own personal feeling is that it should be closer to a tyranny than either an oligarchy or a democracy."

She smiled at the fixed expressions that settled onto the faces of the CEO and president of Cyberdyne. "Obviously that's impossible," she said. "Especially when dealing with geniuses and freewheeling engineering types. So what I'll try to do is exercise as much control as possible without making anyone feel constricted."

As they listened, Colvin and Warren were already beginning to look less constricted.

"Very nice speech, Ms Burns," Tricker said after a moment. "Allow me to rephrase the question. Just what do you plan to do to make Cyberdyne safe?"

Serena raised an eyebrow. "I'll start with the basics. First, I'll find out just what Cyberdyne is currently doing. Then I'll draw up a plan of action based on any

improvements I think are necessary. Next I'll familiarize myself with the company's personnel records, see if anyone deserves a slightly closer look into their background. Then I'll interview the more important scientists first, as well as the executives"—she smiled at Warren and Colvin—"to see what sort of personal security they have in place. That, I think, should keep me busy for a while. Once I know more, I'll be able to tell you more."

Serena looked directly at Tricker and regaled him with an idiot grin. "I'm sorry I can't be more specific, but right off the top of my empty blond head, that's the best I'm willing to do."

He stared at her for a moment, unsmiling. "Where do you plan to start looking?"

he asked.

"I'm going to check the computers," she answered promptly. "See to it that there are no modems in unsecured computers. Make sure that the staff all understand the drill on securing their machines, no disks in or out, that sort of thing. I'll combine it with an introducing-myself-to-the-staff tour. That starts as soon as this meeting is over."

Colvin cleared his throat; they all looked at him.

"Do you have something for me?" he asked her.

Serena put her attache case on the table and removed a small plastic box, which she slid across to him.

Tricker took it all in with a most interested expression on his face, but held his peace.

Colvin opened the box; Warren leaned close to look into it with him. Then they both visibly relaxed. Tricker's brow went up; he turned to the 1-950, who returned his inquisitive look with one of bland amusement.

"This," Colvin said, tapping the box on the table, "represents Miles Dyson's last work for the company."

Serena crossed her legs and folded her hands over her flat stomach, all her attention apparently on the CEO. But she caught the look of genuine startlement that flashed across Tricker's face before his usual sardonic expression returned.

"Ms. Burns brought me a disk that contained a sampler from each of these. But there was plenty there to convince me that this was a valuable resource and that Cyberdyne had to have it."

Tricker turned to look at Serena. "You blackmailed them into hiring you?"

She gave a delicate little shudder. " 'Blackmail' is such a harsh word," she said.

"Is there a better one?" he asked, leaning forward, giving the two executives a disgusted look.

Serena considered the ceiling for a moment, then lowered her eyes to his.

"No-o. But then 'blackmail' isn't the right word either." She straightened up in her seat and faced Tricker directly. "Look, I'm young for this job, and I'm a woman; that's two strikes against me. I could see who my competition was, and it didn't take me long to realize that your choice definitely had the inside track."

She shrugged. "I had an ace and I played it. As far as I'm concerned, anyone who

held that card would have done the same thing." She tilted her head and widened her blue eyes at him. "Unless you think I should have sent those disks to Dyson's family?"

"Where exactly did you get them?" Tricker asked. His pose was relaxed, but he was anything but. The government liaison was not pleased that the two executives had held out on him and he wondered just how long they'd known about this. "And how do we know they're genuine?"

Serena looked at Colvin and Warren instead of answering.

"She bought Dyson's old house," Colvin said, "and found the disks hidden there.

I assure you, they are genuine. Not only are they written in Dyson's style, but they contain information about his work… and ours that couldn't be obtained from any other source than Dyson himself."

"The way you guys keep house I'd hate to bet the farm on that." Tricker sneered.

He turned to Serena. "Ms. Burns, where exactly did you find these." He gestured to the package in Colvin's hands.

"In the garage," she said. She'd found a nice, unobtrusive little cubbyhole up in the rafters that she thought might have been overlooked. "They were tucked away up high."

Tricker studied! her for a moment. "Am I to understand that you went looking for something like this deliberately?"

"Oh, yes. I've worked with scientists and engineers since I got out of college.

They value their work and they like to back it up. Frequently they use little

hiding places for their disks." She shrugged. "It's just something that some of them do."

"Uh-huh." Tricker let the silence stretch as his cold gaze moved from person to person. "I assume I'll be receiving copies of these disks?"

"That, of course, is up to the president and CEO," Serena answered. "If they deem it appropriate, then of course you will."

If Tricker was startled by her boldness he gave no sign. He resettled himself in his chair, folding his hands on his stomach, and looked at Serena through narrowed eyes. "And what would you have done, Ms. Burns, had Cyberdyne not hired you?"

"Well," she said brightly, "I had four options. To sell the disks, either to Cyberdyne"—she tipped her head at Colvin and Warren—"or to some other interested party. Or I could have sent them on to Miles Dyson's family, who certainly would seem to have a legitimate claim to them, or I could simply have destroyed them."

"What's your story?" Tricker turned his cold blue gaze on the executives.

"We were afraid you'd screw it up," Colvin said evenly.

"Well, that's flattering." The government liaison sneered.

"Not very," Serena said mildly. "But I surmised that without interference you would be the one making the final decision. So I moved to circumvent that. You were unavailable, but I sensed that you'd already made up your mind. So I

approached Mr. Colvin. And here we are."

There was silence for a moment while they looked at one another; Colvin and Warren regarded the other two warily. Tricker suddenly smacked the table with his hand, making the executives jump.

"The little girl knows how to play hardball!" he said, looking almost pleased.

"She does indeed," Serena assured him.

"What if I said that I didn't like the way you do business and told you that we weren't hiring you after all?" Tricker asked.

"Then I would have badly miscalculated," the 1-950 replied serenely. "Is that your intention?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that," he said with what might have been a smile.

"Take your time," Serena told him.

OFFICE CDF SERENA BURNS, EXECUTIVE HEAD OF SECURITY: THE PRESENT

WANTED: Assistant head of security at Cyberdyne Systems. Some law-enforcement background preferred. FBI experience ideal. Excellent benefits, pay commensurate with experience. Inquire…

That should reel him in.

Serena had asked for an assistant more to test her muscle than because she

needed one. The meeting had broken up rather inconclusively, with Tricker's last words hanging in the air like a bad smell. Using what she knew of human psychology, she decided to make demands and spend money, assuming that it would make them reluctant to fire her. At least at first.

She'd already improved the decor of her small office. The new blue carpet was deep-piled and her desk was both better looking and more efficient than its predecessor. The new desk chair was so comfortable that one could sleep in it.

But the original computer was first rate, and she'd kept it. A narrow glass coffee table abutted a small white leather couch along one wall, over which was a painting of blue herons rising from a lake.

The painting was hers. She had bought it because she thought it hinted at vulnerability and femininity. It was always best to keep humans off balance. As for the assistant, if she was going to have one and it wasn't going to be a Terminator—neither of hers was ready yet, both being rather… raw looking—it might as well be Miles Dyson's brother.

She'd become aware of him while she was looking into Cyberdyne and the terrorist attack that had destroyed its earlier facility. Intrigued, she'd examined his record at the FBI. It seemed that he had often risked incurring the wrath of his superiors in order to continue to look into his brother's death.

So she'd hacked into his personal and work computer and examined his files, followed his tracks on the Internet, and had been impressed with what she'd found. Jordan Dyson possessed a single-mindedness that she'd, so far, found to be a rare commodity in humans.

Alone, he'd tracked the Connors south of the border all the way to Brazil. There

the trail had ended. More than one of his contacts had written, with great assurance, that the Connors were dead.

Still, he continued to pursue them.

It was somewhat pointless in a way; bringing Miles's killers to justice would not restore his brother to life, and his reputation was safe. Miles Dyson had been exonerated in the attack because of his wife's testimony that she and their son were being held hostage while he led the terrorists to Cyberdyne. The insurance companies were satisfied enough to promptly pay his family a death benefit. As far as the FBI was concerned, the case on Miles Dyson was closed.

And after so many years, with no reported sightings of either of them, the Connors' files were permanently at the bottom of the pile.

Except for Special Agent Jordan Dyson that is. He still spent a few hours each week trying to find something out about their whereabouts and current activities.

She knew he was aware of Cyberdyne's new address and its renewed interest in his brother's work. A dated note on his computer said, "Miles's project!" He'd checked the advertisement for a head of security several times.

Serena suspected that he thought the reopening of his brother's project would bring the Connors out of hiding. As do I. And he will be helpful in seeing that they are stopped. Which gives us something in common…

He could be very useful under the right circumstances, which meant directly under her control. Otherwise he could be a loose cannon.

She sent out the ad with the touch of a key. If he didn't call in the next week or so, she'd contact him. The 1-950 doubted he'd be able to resist the lure of unlimited time to search for his brother's killers.

WILMINGTON, DELAWARE: THE PRESENT

WANTED: Assistant head of security at Cyberdyne Systems. Some law-enforcement background preferred. FBI experience ideal. Excellent benefits, pay commensurate with experience. Inquire…

Jordan could feel the blood drain from his face. My God, he thought. It's like they're looking for me! He leaned back in his chair and stared at the screen.

His compact living room/office was dark except for the small pool of light cast by his desk lamp. Jordan liked it that way; there were fewer distractions. He pushed himself up out of his chair and began to pace rapidly through the shadowed room, rubbing his chin and brushing his hand over his close-clipped hair.

This was perfect, like a call to action, like a message from God even. He stopped, his eyes gazing into a possible future. He saw himself on hand when the murdering Connors were finally captured. He was the one to put the cuffs on the big cop killer who hung out with them.

A pleasant image, but he knew he'd be better off trying to figure out how he could explain his plans to his boss. Ideally he'd get permission to go undercover at Cyberdyne to wait for the Connors and whomever they'd recruited.

Unfortunately that would be a conflict of interest. Besides, everyone at the

Bureau was convinced that the Connors had died in the Brazilian jungle. Their big friend had disappeared even before they hit the border. Whether he was dead or had merely deserted them was unknown.

Whatever. The upshot was that he'd be attempting to convince his superior to allow him to go undercover to wait for people who were considered dead. The Bureau would think he was nuts.

Jordan briefly toyed with the idea of saying he needed time off to get his head together, then taking the Cyberdyne job. He rejected the idea at once. Lying to your supervisor was the best and quickest way he knew to get yourself fired.

That left quitting.

Jordan sat heavily in his armchair, his hand over his eyes. I don't want to quit!

He loved his job, he liked the people he worked with, he even liked the Bureau and its stodgy, ultra-respectable air. He sighed and dropped his hand.

Leaning his head against the chair back, he looked at the room. Very masculine, with a leather sofa and chairs in dark brown, clunky Mission end tables, and a trunk for a coffee table. He like his apartment, he liked this city. He clutched the heavily padded arms of his chair. I like my job.

But if I work for Cyberdyne I'll be living near Danny and Tarissa. He'd like to be there for his nephew; twelve was an age when a boy needed a man's influence.

So. What it comes down to is this: What are you willing to sacrifice to get your brother's killers?

So far he'd neatly skirted that issue. Oh, he'd gotten himself into trouble, of a

sort. His record at the Bureau was peppered with reprimands for spending too much time on a dead case, or for being involved in it at all, actually. He was considered—legitimately—to be too close to the subject of the investigation.

But if I quit and this works out the way I think it will, then there's a chance I might be able to get myself reinstated—

The phone rang and he grabbed it like a lifeline.

"Dyson," he said shortly.

Tarissa's warm chuckle greeted him. "You sound like an old-time detective when you answer the phone like that," she said.

"Hey, just tryin' to keep up my G-man image. Wassup, sis?"

There was a pause.

"Everything's all right?" he asked immediately.

"Nothing's wrong," she answered. "But we want to talk to you, Jordan. When can you come out here? We'd like it to be face-to-face."

"Oh. Uh-huh. That sounds like nothin's wrong all right." He thought for a moment. "Danny's not getting into drugs, is he?"

"Oh, God no!" she said, sounding both amused and disgusted. "He's fine! It's about something else entirely." She waited a moment. "So? When could you… ?"

"I'll talk to my supervisor tomorrow," he said. "How urgent is this? Will

Thursday be soon enough?"

"More than soon enough. Thank you, Jordan."

"No problem. See you Thursday, then."

"Okay, thanks. Talk to you then."

He hung up. She'd sounded so nervous at the end. What the hell was that all about? He felt a little worry about Danny, despite Tarissa's reassurance. He felt energized and wished he could get on a plane right now. Not possible, of course, but the desire burned bright.

But, man, talk about a sign! If he'd been the kind of guy to ask for such a thing, this had to be it.

He sat at his desk and brought up his resume, then sent it off to Cyberdyne with a request for an appointment on Friday. He was about to sign off when the answer came back. Jordan's jaw dropped.

"An appointment has been made for you with Ms. Serena Burns, executive head of security of Cyberdyne Systems Corporation at three P.M. on Friday the twenty-third." There were travel instructions to the facility with information about the high-grade security procedures he would have to follow in order to gain access to Cyberdyne.

Hey, he thought, maybe they really were looking for me. With a few taps he downloaded the information they'd sent and printed it out. Nah! Either I'm getting paranoid or my ego is swollen. They probably have a program set up to

answer applications. This was Cyberdyne after all— If-A-Computer-Can't-Do-It-It-Can't-Be-Done, Inc.

So. Things were really moving now. He'd better remember to bring a couple of boxes to work tomorrow, just in case he needed to clean out his desk. For now he'd better turn in and try to get some sleep.

He shut down the computer and tried to shut down his mind. Bed, he thought.

Let tomorrow take care of itself.

CHAPTER TEN

PARAGUAY, KRIEGER ESTANCIA: THE

PRESENT

John lunged forward, his face grim with concentration, Quid and smooth and very fast. Sarah brought her arm up to block him, and knew as she did it that it was a fractional second too late. His fist made contact with her nose. Her eyes instantly filled with tears and she leapt backward while John froze.

"Mom! Are you all right?" His eyes were big with concern. "I should have pulled that," he said. His hands reached out for her and then fell back uncertainly.

Sarah blinked the tears away; there was a little blood on her hand when she took it away from her nose, but not much. This was the first time he'd ever gotten through her defense when she was concentrating. Which is why he wasn't worried about pulling his punches.

"I've slowed down," she said, grinning. "No one to spar with when you're at school. Old age and evil living are catching up with me."

She rubbed her forearm inelegantly under her nose. The bleeding had stopped.

"Back to work," she said.

John hesitated, then he moved forward. "Mom," he said tentatively, "Sensei says…" He reached out and slightly changed the position of her knee, then lightly touched her shoulders.

Sarah widened her eyes. "Oh, much better!" she said, feeling more balanced instantly. Easier to stay centered like this. I tend to go forward too much anyway. The men she'd learned from were good, but they had adapted their styles to their own physiques, which tended to the gorilloid.

John grinned. "Sensei Wei is probably the best teacher in Paraguay," he said.

"You're too modest," a man's voice said. "Chuck Wei is one of the best teachers in the hemisphere."

Both Sarah and John jumped and spun in shock, to find themselves confronting Dieter von Rossbach. He stood beside the corral, one large hand resting on a quebracho fence post.

"How did you get there?" Sarah asked, almost to herself.

"I left my horse up behind the barn," Dieter said, moving forward casually.

What he didn't tell them was that he'd been watching them through high-power

binoculars from the top of the low hill that rose between their properties. Then he'd circled around so that he could approach them unseen. Old habits died hard.

"We didn't hear you come," John said, not too pleased to be caught off guard. He glanced at his mother.

"Well, hi," she said, putting her hands on her hips and offering a noncommittal smile. Think ordinary, innocent housewife and mother, she warned herself, stifling the urge to ask him what brought him to the neighborhood, and a slight feeling of embarrassment about the sweaty green fatigue pants with muscle shirt she was wearing.

"You remember I told you we were neighbors," Dieter said, coming forward. "I was riding nearby and thought I'd come over and say hello."

Sarah and John looked at each other, then at von Rossbach.

"Hello," John said.

"Uh, would you like some terere?" Sarah asked.

"You must want to get rid of me fast," Dieter said with a smile.

Sarah laughed at that, a genuine, spontaneous laugh prompted by the surprise of his being absolutely right.

"It is an acquired taste," she agreed.

"We've got Coke," John said. It might as well be something I like to drink as long as you're staying, he thought. "You know my sensei?" he asked.

"He teaches at the Academia Mendoza, yes?" Dieter asked.

John nodded.

"I've studied with him now and then. He's an excellent teacher, an amazing man." He looked John over. "I've been hoping to find someone to spar with, John. Perhaps you and I could work together?"

Sarah looked the big man over. Like she'd let him spar with her son. "I've been hoping to find a sparring partner, too," she said. "When John goes to school all I have is my shadow."

"Perhaps," Dieter said judiciously.

They'd been meandering toward the house, Sarah gestured to the chairs on the portal. "Sit," she invited. "I'll be right back."

John noticed how von Rossbach watched his mother walk away with something more than strictly coplike interest.

Von Rossbach was suddenly aware of the silence that had fallen and snapped his head back toward John, who favored him with a toothily artificial smile. "So…

how long have you been studying with Chuck?" Dieter asked.

"Just this year," John answered. "Usually you have to be a junior before you can qualify for his class, but since I'd already had some lessons they let me try out. I consider myself lucky to have been accepted."

"You're lucky to have Chuck for your sensei, but I think, judging from what I saw, that you earned your place in his class. You and your mother looked very competent."

"We've taken lessons together off and on for years," John said.

"Really?" Dieter said. "When I first met your mother she said you two had all but fled to Villa Hayes."

John put his feet up on the low table between them and folded his hands on his stomach. "So?" he asked.

Dieter spread his hands and said with a little laugh, "So, I would think a woman so well able to defend herself wouldn't be that likely to panic."

John looked at him, frowning slightly.

"I mean it seems strange that she didn't take a stand when this man threatened you," von Rossbach explained. "Or she could have called the police." He shook his head. "Surely there were other options than simply heading south?"

John grinned. "Go to the police?" he said in disbelief. "Do you know what it's like in Ciudad del Este? It's a really wild and woolly town. Some woman comes in and says a man is following her, there's not much they could do even if they wanted to. And they wouldn't want to, by the way.

"Besides, she was a new-made widow with an eleven-year old kid to watch out for. So she was feeling a little fragile. Maybe if she was built like you and six feet tall—"

"Six-two," Dieter interjected.

John looked at him from under his brows.

"Anyway, I think she made the right move," he said. "We didn't have any particular reason to stick around there. No family or anything. And the way things were going…" He paused. "It just wasn't worth the trouble." He gestured at the small estancia. "It's great here, and the business is doing well." He regarded Dieter through slitted eyes. "My mom says you have to pick your battles. She says winning isn't always worth the cost of fighting."

Von Rossbach nodded thoughtfully and they sat in silence for a moment, listening to the birds in the few trees that shaded the house.

"Here we go," Sarah said, backing out of the house with a loaded tray and accompanied by the sound of clinking ice cubes.

"Ooo, cookies!" John said enthusiastically, reaching for one as soon as the tray came within reach. "My mother bakes very good cookies, Senor von Rossbach,"

he said almost accusingly.

"Call me Dieter," von Rossbach invited, and grabbed a cookie.

"Did you let your horse into the corral, where it could get some water?" Sarah asked him.

Dieter looked surprised. "Uh, no. I guess I didn't think I'd be staying."

Sarah looked at John, who grabbed another cookie and said, "I'm on it." He was

down the steps of the portal and on his way before Dieter could react. Turning, John added, "I'll take off his saddle, too."

"Am I staying that long?" von Rossbach asked.

Sarah smiled. "Long enough that your horse will probably appreciate having the saddle taken off. I think they prefer to be naked." She leaned back in her chair and stretched out her legs. "Besides, it's probably sweaty under the blanket. It's not good to leave 'em like that."

"No," he said, shifting uneasily. "I suppose not. Suddenly I feel very neglectful."

"Not at all," she said. "I guess you weren't expecting us to be so hospitable." And going by your social status, you might be used to having people do it for you.

She wondered how long it would take him to get to the real reason for his visit.

"Now I feel rude!" He grinned ruefully.

Sarah laughed. "Why are you so sensitive? Have you got a guilty conscience or something."