Rising Storm

Sarah could almost see Tanya begin to quiver like a Doberman waiting for the attack command.

"I don't like her," Tanya growled.

"C'mon, ladies," Loretta said, placing a hand in the center of both of their backs.

"Sit down and play." She gave them each a little shove, and Sarah, glancing over her shoulder, saw her face change.

This is not good, she thought as she took her chair and looked up at Tanya. Not good at all. She signaled to Elisa to come join them, but the younger woman shook her head, smiling.

Tanya turned at Loretta's shove to glare at her, and Sarah saw Loretta' wink.

Then Tanya looked at Sarah and smiled. Not a nice smile, not one intended to soothe or make friends. It was a smile directed at something nasty going on inside her own head.

Sarah took a deep breath and picked up the cards, shuffling them neatly and then dealing. Tanya watched the pile of cards before her grow without picking them up. When Sarah was finished she placed the deck between them and picked up her own cards. Tanya continued to stare at the pile in front of her.

"Why didn't you ask me to deal?" she demanded. Her eyes rose to meet Sarah's challengingly.

"Did you want to? You can if you like," Sarah said agreeably, putting her hand back onto the deck.

Tanya looked at the deck, then looked at Sarah. "You were awful eager to get rid of that hand," she observed. "Anybody'd think there was something wrong with it."

O-kay, Sarah thought. Looks like I'm going to have a fight whether I start one or not. Still, she'd do her best to avoid it.

"Not at all," she said aloud. "I just honestly don't care who deals. If you don't want to play cards we can play something else, like checkers."

"I don't like checkers," Tanya said as though the mere suggestion were an insult.

Sarah braced herself, certain from the way Tanya was stoking herself up that at

any moment she was going to be attacked. She'd seen this kind of behavior often, years ago, when she'd been here before. If memory served, on occasion she'd done this sort of thing herself.

Tanya grinned. "It's okay, take your cards, I'll deal the next hand."

Sarah reached for the deck, and even though she was expecting it Tanya almost got her. As Sarah's hand touched the cards Tanya's flashed forward to impale the deck with a Bic pen. Connor thrust her chair back and started to rise when Loretta struck her viciously on the side of the head with a sock filled with change or metal washers or some such.

Sarah went down, striking her head on the table—hard, then hit the floor, aware but absolutely helpless.

Tanya looked at Loretta and smiled when the smaller woman gestured at Sarah as though presenting a gift. Tanya climbed up onto the table and crawled across to look down at Sarah, then looked at Loretta, almost coquettishly.

"Do you have a pen?" she asked. "Mine's broken."

Loretta grinned at her fondly. "Honey, I've got two!" She handed them over.

Tanya took one in each hand and began to laugh. Sarah stared up at her, still unable to move; the last thing she clearly remembered seeing was Tanya flowing off the table onto her, the pens poised like daggers. Then the points came down.

Elisa screamed at the sight and jumped up from her chair. The scream came from pure rage prompted by jealousy, but it had the same effect as a cry of horror;

staff came running from all directions. Loretta turned on her with a snarl, then moved as far from Tanya as she could.

At first the orderlies came sprinting toward Elisa, but she quickly pointed toward Tanya. Tanya's hands, bloody almost to the elbows, rose again and plunged down, and a spreading pool of blood beckoned. The orderlies changed direction, one of them yelling into his radio for a doctor. Soon there was a cluster of orderlies hauling Tanya off the unconscious Sarah as Tanya screamed furiously and tried to bite.

"She started it!" Elisa said to the orderly who led her away, pointing at Loretta.

"She put Tanya up to it, then she hit Sarah, and then, and then—"

The orderly shushed her and led her to her room, followed by a nurse carrying a syringe full of neomorph.

"She set it up!" Elisa insisted.

"C'mon, honey," the nurse said, urging Elisa into her room. "We'll make you feel better."

"You're not listening!"

And they wouldn't, she knew. No one believed crazy people.

Dr. Simon Ray ran his fingers through his short blond hair, then rested his elbows on his desk and dropped his face into his hands. This was unbelievable.

You'd think Pescadero was some snake pit! How had this happened? Didn't anyone notice how dysfunctional Loretta was? How dangerous Tanya was? How

could they have allowed her to go to the common room?

This was a disaster! He had one patient, a very famous patient at that, laid out with multiple stab wounds and complications to her liver. One patient was accusing another of setting it up and the board was demanding to know why someone as dangerous as Tanya Firkin was mingling with the other patients.

This was worse than a disaster. This was actionable. He sat back with a heavy sigh, resting his head on the back of his chair.

There was a sharp rap on his door, making him start, then the door opened and a tall, thin, middle-aged man walked in.

"Where's my secretary?" Ray asked.

"I've no idea," the intruder said. "Off photocopying something, I suppose." Or she should be: he'd given her a hundred dollars to find a chore that would take her away from her desk for ten minutes.

Ray stood up, not certain what to do. The man radiated confidence, so he wasn't someone's troubled parent and he wasn't dressed like a patient. Then his heart sank. The stranger looked like a lawyer.

"How can I help you?" the doctor asked.

"First by listening to my suggestions, and then by taking them." The man helped himself to a seat. "My name is Pool."

Ray stood for a moment longer, then sat himself. "Suggestions?" he asked in confusion.

"You've got a disaster on your hands, Doctor," Pool said.

The doctor studied his visitor, weighing his observation and finding it only a statement of fact. "Go on," he invited.

Pool's thin lips quirked in a slight smile. "My suggestion is that you move Sarah Connor to minimum security while she recovers," he said. "And then you should petition to have her moved to a halfway house."

"I've already asked to have her moved to minimum," Ray said. "I don't think it would be good for a patient to be left to recover in the same place where she'd been so badly hurt. Besides, it will be weeks, possibly even months, before she'd be capable of hurting anybody."

"Which is why the board approved the transfer," Pool said.

Ray shook his head. "I haven't heard back yet."

"They've approved it," Pool said.

Surprised, Ray studied him for a moment. "Mr. Pool—

"Just Pool."

"All right, then. Pool. Just what is your interest in the Connor case?"

"My interest is none of your business," Pool said, rising. "And in your own interests I suggest you leave it that way. I do have an interest in seeing to it that a talented physician, such as yourself, achieves the kind of success and recognition

that he deserves. I understand there's going to be an opening at the Glen Ellen Psychiatric Group. I believe you once applied to be an associate there, didn't you?"

The doctor blinked, wondering how this man could know that. "Uh, yes," he said. "It's a very desirable—"

Pool interrupted. "When Ms. Connor is sufficiently recovered, petition to have her transferred to a halfway house."

"I think you have an unrealistic idea of how quickly these things happen," Ray said dismissively.

"Oh, I think you'll find the board most cooperative." Pool gave him that little smile. "You do it. And do submit your application to Glen Ellen. Think of how much it will boost your reputation to bring the mad bomber Sarah Connor from madness to sanity in under two years."

"Do you think she's sane?" Ray asked, genuinely curious.

Pool turned with his hand on the doorknob. "Really, Doctor, how would I know?

I'm not a psychiatrist." Then he left.

"Hunh," Ray said.

Joining the Glen Ellen Group was just one of the goals he needed to achieve according to his personal game plan. Pool had implied… Ray was certain he'd implied that pending his actions regarding Sarah Connor his next application would be accepted. The psychiatrist refused to acknowledge the word bribe

when it floated into his consciousness. Pool had merely pointed out certain obvious facts.

It would do his reputation good to have Connor recover her mental health so quickly. That is, if he was convinced in his own mind that she wasn't a danger to society. But he had been thinking that things were looking good for her. Very good indeed.

Perhaps he should do as Pool suggested.

MONTANA

Clea sat absolutely still; one small part of her consciousness monitored the activity of the Terminator on the roof as it upgraded their solar power system.

The (highly capable) remainder of her mind was learning from the future experiences of Serena Burns.

When she'd been younger Clea had very much enjoyed these lessons, particularly those which allowed her to view Burns's exchanges with Skynet.

Especially those moments when Skynet actually took possession of Serena's implanted computer, essentially becoming Serena.

Now she found that they depressed her, reminding her forcefully of what she would never have, never know. Once she actually took up her assignment, Clea was certain that her emotions would settle down. This tendency to brood might well be a side effect ofher chemically induced rush to maturity.

Certainly she found Serena's lightheartedness inappropriate and her cheerfulness obnoxious. Clea was glad she'd never met her progenitor face-to-face; the I-950

was sure she'd have been unable to avoid terminating Serena.

The memory she was reviewing today was of Serem's time with the soldiers of the future, when she was infiltrating the enemy in the human-Skynet war. She closed her eyes and saw Lieutenant Zeller coming toward her. This was how she saw all of these memories, from behind Serena's eyes, as though they were happening to her.

THE YEAR 2029

"Burns," Zeller said, looking grim. She made a gesture that indicated the Infiltrator should follow and stalked off.

Serena tilted her head, then followed. As she walked she reviewed all of her actions from the past week and found nothing to worry about. Yes, she'd managed to get poor Corpsman Gonzales killed, but there was no way the lieutenant could connect her with it. She'd risked directing a small herd of T-90s to the Corpsman's station behind the lines. Such lines as they had.

True, it had been a calculated risk; there was always the chance that someone, somewhere, might be monitoring in hopes of detecting such signals. But finding the source in the middle of a firefight when the whole episode had lasted mere seconds was remote in the extreme.

Besides, Zeller always looked grim. It was just as likely she wanted to recruit the Infiltrator for some hazardous, secret attack. If so, excellent. She wouldn't be able to return to Zeller's unit, but some other, distant group would take her to their collective bosom.

They made their way to a secluded glen and Zeller turned on her heel to glare at Burns. "I don't know how you did it, but I know you killed him!" she snarled.

Serena blinked. "What?" she said. "Who… ?" It could, after all, have been one of a lot of people.

"Gonzales!" Zeller stepped a little closer, shaking her head, her mouth a bitter line, her shoulders slightly hunched forward. "He liked you! He liked everybody, and all he wanted to do was help people. How could you?"

The Infiltrator allowed her mouth to drop open in feigned astonishment and she couldn't help it—she laughed, trying to make it sound nervous. "What the hell are you talking about, ma'am?" she said. "I wasn't anywhere near Gonzales when those T-90s found him! There's no way I could possibly have had anything to do with his death!"

Serena watched Zeller straighten up, but her glare didn't diminish. Instead, contempt twisted her attractive features into something like a sneer.

"I haven't trusted you from the first moment I saw you," she said. "Sometimes you can just smell trouble, and you, Burns, stank of it from day one. I'm gonna be watching you, bitch! Watching who you team up with, watching who you go off with. I tell you right now"—she shoved her finger in Serena's face—"they'd better come back alive!"

The Infiltrator gave a deep sigh and reached out, intending to break the lieutenant's slender neck. Instead, the sweeping hand met Zeller's knife; Serena clamped down on the pain and clenched the fist, jerking the human's weapon away.

Zeller's eyes went wide as Serena's face stayed mask calm despite the bloody wound. "You're one of them," she gasped, snatching for the plasma rifle slung over her shoulder. "But you can't be—

"Inefficient." Serena batted the muzzle aside as the burst of stripped ions tore past her ear. If you'd just shot, you might have gotten me.

Zeller clubbed her across the side of the face with the butt of the rifle, and Serena caught her in a bear hug and began to squeeze. Knees, fists, and a small holdout knife struck her again and again. With what must have been the last of her strength Zeller plunged the knife into the I-950's side, high up, as though seeking the heart.

Serena felt the knife puncture her lung and gave the lieutenant a fierce, impatient shake. If she couldn't smother the stupid bitch, breaking her spine would do nicely. With a gasp Zeller went limp and the Infiltrator dropped her. Infrared confirmed that the body was losing warmth. Not something the cleverest human could fake.

With a spasm of coughing Serena fell bleeding beside the corpse of Lieutenant Zeller and lay watching the leaf-shadow rustle against the sky while a few hopeful crows looked down and waited. She woke one of the T-90s she'd secreted nearby in a resting state, gave it her location, and ordered it to come to the dell and destroy itself in such a way that it would look as though she had done it.

The T-90 acknowledged the communication and broke off.

Laying her aching head back down and rolling onto her side to avoid drowning in her own blood, Serena ordered her computer to moderate the damage she'd taken so that she wouldn't die before help arrived. She could actually feel the bleeding slow as veins and arteries clamped down, almost stopping the flow.

Without doubt she would need time to recuperate in the base hospital. She licked her lips. Perhaps it was time to move on. Zeller might well have revealed her fears to someone else.

There was a clicking sound. The T-90's approach. Serena saw it come up over the rim of the shallow little dell and closed her eyes, allowing herself to go unconscious, confident that the Terminator would follow her instructions to the letter.

MONTANA, THE PRESENT

Clea frowned. There! That was exactly the sort of thing that annoyed her about her predecessor. Failing to take notice of how those around her might interpret her actions, having no backup plan. What if Zeller had decided to accuse the Infiltrator in front of a crowd? It was obvious that all Serena had planned to do, if she'd even planned anything at all, was to bluff.

Such lax behavior had been a hallmark of all her missions. It was the product of overconfidence, in Clea's opinion. Which, given the many successes that humans were having at the time Serena was sent back, was inexcusable.

Letting out an annoyed breath, Clea bit her lip. She was supposed to be learning from these studies, yet all she seemed to be gleaning from Serena's experiences was how much she disliked her.

With a shake of her head she rose and went to her lab. At least there she could be doing her own work, not imitating her highly unsuccessful "parent."

ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE, LOS

ANGELES, SEPTEMBER

Sarah sat quietly, her hands folded demurely in her lap, looking alert— Hell, I'm feeling alert—as Dr. Ray turned into the driveway of the halfway house.

It had once been a grammar school in the Spanish Mission style, two stories tall with large windows. The land around it had been carved away, probably when it was sold/converted to the halfway house. Where the playground had once been there stood a small and not very attractive office building about four stories tall, built in the seventies from the look of it. Around the halfway house was a chain-link fence that had no gate. A few bushes flanked the foundation, each one standing alone and straggly behind a narrow belt of dying grass.

"Are you sure you're not going to get into trouble for placing me here, Doctor?"

she asked anxiously.

Ray smiled condescendingly. "The board approved your move to minimum security."

Sarah laughed and indicated the barless windows on the house beside them.

"That's pretty darn minimal."

Ray nodded. "My point exactly. I've already told you that I believe the reason your psychosis worsened when you were last at Pescadero was, in part, because you were so restricted, never given any trust." He glanced at the house beside

them. "And, you were severely overmedicated." He turned back to her with a smile. "Ready?"

She took a deep breath and nodded eagerly. My God, this guy is easy to manipulate. Sarah stepped out of the car and Ray courteously took her bag from the trunk. Then he took hold of her upper arm and led her toward the front steps.

Sarah let him, serene in the knowledge that the last time she'd been in the care of a Pescadero doctor she'd have taken him out long before they reached the halfway house. She'd probably have been barreling her way toward the Canadian border for the last half hour.

She knew this was a better plan, more time-consuming perhaps, but better in the long run. Sarah was also pleased that she now had the patience to carry out such a long-range plan. Having Dieter in the picture definitely helped. Not having the unlamented Dr. Silberman stuffing her full of psychotropics and keeping her locked up like an animal also helped…

As they came to the top of the steps, the front door opened and she found herself answering the welcoming smile of Dr. Silberman before each realized who the other was and the smiles disappeared into mutual expressions of dismay.

You.! they mouthed silently at each other.

VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA, PARAGUAY

*Craig Kipfer,* John wrote. *Definitely someone up to something. He's not in science or engineering or computing, at least not that I can discover. His name doesn't appear on any government payroll after his fifth year in the army, when

he was honorably discharged. But his computer is hedged around with more protections than the CIA. Not that they're the very best, but that's beside the point. Just thought you might like to check him out.*

*You found him,* Wendy answered. *Why don't you check him out? He might just be paranoid. Lots of people are. What's he supposed to do for a living?*

*Hell if I know,* he wrote. *Look, if he notices that he's being watched and finds out where I'm from, he's going to think I'm more dangerous to him than I am and probably will act accordingly. If he gets your address he'll think mischievous student with too much time on her hands. Besides, I honestly think you're probably better at this sort of thing than I am.*

*Flatterer,* she wrote. *What do you mean he'll "act accordingly?" Do you think this dude is dangerous or something?*

Do I? John asked himself. Would he put Wendy in danger to satisfy his curiosity about this guy? Dieter didn't recognize the name, though he agreed the guy seemed suspicious. Frankly they didn't know enough to tell if he was dangerous or not.

*I can't answer that,* he admitted. *He's strange enough that I'd advise you to handle him with extreme caution. And if he does seem to become aware of you, lose his address fast. I wouldn't ask you to check him out if I really thought he was trouble, but anytime you do this stuff you're taking a risk.*

*I know,* Wendy agreed. *Okay, I'll look into it. I need to keep my hacking skills sharp anyway. Bye.*

John frowned. Kipfer's files were mysterious enough to raise a warning flag with him. With his experience, though, warning flags meant something very different than they might to Wendy. She could get herself into serious trouble. His mind shied away from the word danger. He felt vaguely guilty about possibly putting her in harm's way.

That's something I'll need to get over before I become the Great Military Dickhead, he thought scornfully. Still… Aw, c'mon! He's probably a lot less dangerous than those Luddites she used to tease. Which was almost certainly true, even if he was simply looking for an easy way out of an unpleasant feeling.

Maybe the reason for this guilt was that he really wanted to get to know Wendy a bit better. He liked her voice. Maybe I could call her again, he thought. Then he remembered that she hadn't been all that impressed with him the first time they'd spoken. Of course this time he'd be calling because he was interested in her rather than in her skills. But I don't think she'd appreciate my letting her know that.

ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE

Sarah walked. All that she could hear was the sound of her booted feet crunching through the short, dry grass. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm. She was walking toward a playground, full of laughing children and their mothers, but they made no noise.

One woman in a pink waitress's uniform was putting her toddler on a rocking horso. Sho turned to look over her shoulder as though she'd heard someone call her name. Sarah saw her own face; this was the woman she might have become without Kyle Reese, without the Terminator.

She walked up to the chain-link fence that separated the playground from the rest of the world and put her hands through the diamond-shaped holes, watching her might-have-been self. That Sarah turned her attention back to her baby.

Sarah knew what was coming; she'd been here before. She screamed for the people in the playground to take cover, but no sound came out of her mouth. She shook the fence, yelling as hard as she could, and no one heard her, and the world went on as though she didn't exist.

Then it came, the blinding flash of light that set her flesh on fire and instantly killed the women and children in the playground, followed by the blast wave that blew them apart like leaves, as she clung to the fence and screamed in agony.

It was dark and a wind moaned softly as it blew through the ruins of buildings.

She shifted her weight and found that she stood on uneven ground. Looking down, she saw that she was standing on bones and caught her breath when she realized they were human.

"Sarah."

She turned at the sound of his voice and smiled to see Kyle standing a little way from her. A sob tangled with a laugh and caught in her throat. She reached toward him, but couldn't move forward.

"Kyle," she said softly.

He stood on a little pile of skulls looking down at her. A feeling of great sadness came over her when she realized he wasn't going to come to her; tears filled her

eyes and her throat tightened painfully.

"It's not over yet, Sarah," he said. His face was sad, his voice gentle. "You have to be strong."

She shook her head, but said, "I know," as tears flowed down her cheeks.

Kyle gave her a look of such love that her heart melted. She took a breath, but before she could speak he began to collapse. Like a house of cards falling, he dropped to his knees, then dropped and folded, dropped and folded, his body turning to bones before her eyes, his face staying the same.

"Be strong," he said.

" Ah!" Sarah shouted, throwing herself upright in bed.

"You okay?" her roommate asked sleepily.

"Bad dream," Sarah answered, her heart pounding. "Sorry. I'm okay."

The woman shifted and seemed to go back to sleep. Sarah wiped tears from her cheeks and waited for her heart to slow. Then she lay back down, turned onto her side, drawing her knees up.

Shit, she thought, one look at Silberman and I'm having nightmares again. She was tougher than this; she knew she was.

Sarah forced her tense muscles to relax. So she'd had an unexpected reaction. It wasn't the first time in her life she'd been taken by surprise. In fact, it was very much normal for her.

Be patient, Kyle. I'm not out of the game yet.

CHAPTER FIVE

MONTANA

Clea studied the gauges; it was almost time to remove the sample from the oven.

She hoped that this batch of chemicals would finally be the right poly-alloy and therefore a proper matrix for the nano-technology that would turn it into a T-1000. The 'craft studio" that was her laboratory had seen far too many failures.

The human emotion hope kept her experimenting long after the machine part of her brain had concluded that her present facilities were hopelessly inadequate for the task at hand. Even simply being here, amid the clean shapes of glass and metal and plastic, the circuits and power shunts, the scents of ozone and synthetics was… restful. Nothing like the messiness of human interactions.

Despite the lab's inadequacies, it was a small taste of a home and time she would never see, of the world of Skynet.

Her facilities were also inadequate to actually create the nano-machines that could permeate and bring to life the liquid metal; but then, no lab on earth was able to do better. Knowing how to do something simply wasn't enough when the materials necessary to do it didn't exist yet, or the tools to make the tools. Which was why she was concentrating on this more achievable goal. Her resources, unlike Skynet's in the future, were severely limited. She could do no more than her best.

It was time; the sample was ready. Clea slid her hands into the gloves of the

waldo controller, remotely pouring the specially compounded metal into another vessel that could be extracted from the oven to cool in the open air. The I-950

wore dark goggles to protect her eyes from the glare of the white-hot mass. She suppressed a surge of hope when she observed that it poured with the correct degree of smoothness.

Once removed from the oven, it quickly cooled to gray. She set it aside to become room temperature, hoping that this batci wouldn't solidify or refuse to form a cohesive substance. The last batch she'd made had been, and remained, liquidly granular.

But that meant that I was close, she reminded herself. Very close. Still, the flesh part of her was frustrated and yearned for a success of some sort. Sometimes it seemed absolutely pointless to continue her assignment. Sometimes she wondered if she shouldn't just self-terminate and leave the whole mess in little Alissa's hands.

She worried about the excess of emotion that plagued her. None of Serena's memories showed her hoping and worrying to the degree that Clea did. But then, Serena was perfect. For all that she was a failure, Serena Burns had been everything that Skynet had designed her to be.

Which is something that I, Clea thought mercilessly, do not seem to be.

Clea was still very unsure of her ability to interact with humans. She'd been fired from her job at the burger place. Which was very disturbing because she had done her job perfectly; her fries were the very best, as were her burgers. She never failed to thank customers for coming, or to greet them with a smile, or to wish them a nice day after delivering every order. She never complained about

cleaning the rest rooms or mopping the floor or even cleaning the grease trap.

Clea's coworkers despised her and the customers gave her wary glances, never lingering over their food while she smiled at them from behind the counter. The other workers called her creepy and the assistant managers got into arguments because nobody wanted her on their shift.

Eventually the manager let her go, claiming a downturn in business. He explained that as the last hired, she was, unfortunately, the first to go. He apologized, looked as though he were going to pat her shoulder comfortingly, then changed his mind. Instead, he handed her a check and wished her well.

I've been too isolated from humans, she had decided then and there.

Regretfully Clea concluded that she was too much like a Terminator in her behavior despite her more flexible intelligence. Her studies of Serena's memories were simply no substitute for actual experience, especially since the I-950

genuinely didn't understand many things about Serena's memories.

Humor, for example, eluded her completely. And while Serena had moved easily among humans, actually enjoying their company, Clea simply didn't like them.

Not least because they confused her.

Sometimes the I-950 worried that certain synapses just hadn't formed in the rush to make her mature enough to carry on Serena's assignment. In personality she and her predecessor were nothing alike, and given their identical genome, implants, and memories, they should have been. For example, Clea often wondered if she was up to the mission, while Serena never had.

The I-950 glanced at the sample and saw that it was finally cool enough to handle. She poured it out, noting with approval that it had a gelid quality to it.

Beneath the scum of ash on top it was a bright and gleaming silver.

Clea picked it up and pulled it into two pieces; she squeezed and they took prints of her hands. Then, as the warmth left the metal, the pieces began to solidify.

With a sigh she dropped them onto the table and turned away to clean up. One piece rolled under the light of a desk lamp, the other to the edge of the table.

While Clea worked, and considered her notes, the heat of the lamp began to affect the sample. Before long a soft point began to form at one end of the lump nearest the lamp, the silvery substance yearning toward the warmth above it. The sample farthest from the warmth also reacted, one side becoming smooth and slightly bowed out while the other retained the imprint of her hand.

The I-950 turned to sweep up the two samples and blinked at what she saw.

Well, she thought, this is something new.

She picked up the pieces and began experimenting with them. The substance showed that it had remarkable qualities. It could be worked into a shape, just as wet clay could, then it would hold an approximation of that shape while reacting to heat and cold. Impressions could be made on it and items could be pushed into it and they would remain there until heat passing over that area wiped the impressions away.

It wasn't what she was looking for, but it had tremendous potential. Her first thought was that it would be usable, just as it was, for an art material. It was attractive in and of itself, and its malleability made it a natural for architectural embellishment and sculpture.

This substance could be my entree to Cyberdyne, she thought. True, they supposedly no longer handled the Skynet project. But someone did, and through their contacts the Cyberdyne people could bring them together.

She began searching the Internet for an appropriate art project. Something high profile, something where the artist would welcome a new, high-tech medium.

LOS ANGELES, SEPTEMBER

Puzzled, Jordan studied the short E-mail. Reading his E-mail was something he did in order to feel at home—which he didn't in the furnished-apartment anonymity of the place he was living.

Good news! Your extra spicy South American beef jerky is on the way!

Your shipment should arrive one week from today!

The tag wasn't one he recognized; it definitely wasn't Dieter's and he sure as hell hadn't ordered beef jerky over the Internet. Let alone the spicy South American kind.

What the hell is this about? he wondered. Could it be a coded message from John or von Rossbach? Actually it kind of sounded like John. Or maybe it was just that he thought it sounded like a seventeen-year-old might if he wanted to send a cryptic message. Admittedly his acquaintance with John was limited, but he hadn't really seemed the cryptic type.

Von Rossbach? he wondered. Maybe. Sector types were the kind of people who'd encrypt their grocery list. And Dieter had been the one to come up with

the weather-report shtick.

Whatever. He decided to take the message both ways. First, Jordan typed a message to the return address stating that he would return their package of spicy beef unopened because he hadn't ordered anything from them. And next I'll start looking out for a big guy and a teenager in about a week.

With a final click he sent off the message, then sighed in disappointment. He had hoped to hear from John or Dieter, in their own persons—not disguised as a spicy-beef company. He had good news for them.

Sarah had been going through her therapy at Pescadero at warp speed. Dr. Ray had, miraculously, transferred her to the Encinas Halfway House, which had a very good reputation. The counselor there, who was none other than Sarah's former doctor, Silberman himself, had indicated that she might be ready to leave in as little as two months. Legitimately! A state that Sarah had experienced only rarely in the last seventeen years and John perhaps never in his life.

Jordan shook his head. To think she'd be going home a little less than eighteen months after blowing up Cyberdyne. Who'd have imagined a year and a half ago that I'd think that was a good thing?

VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA,

PARAGUAY, SEPTEMBER

Dieter made another mark on the map of Mexico and looked over at John, who lounged in an overstuffed chair looking thoughtful. A big corkboard had been one of the things he'd installed in his office in the original modernization when he bought the ranch, and it was perfect for holding big maps. These were

modern, based on commercial satellite imaging, and extremely accurate.

"I think that's about it for Mexico, South, and Central America," John said. "At least the ones I know about. Mom probably could show you a whole lot more."

He grimaced. "There was a weapons cache down by Ciudad del Este, but Mom promised that to Victor Griego so he wouldn't rat on us to you."

"But he did," Dieter rumbled, tapping his pen on the map. "So let's include it. If he doesn't like it he can always complain to the police."

John snorted and gave him the coordinates. "The stuff was mostly junk though.

Maybe we should have a second-tier map, for when we're desperate." He looked pensive as Dieter nodded and made a notation on the map. "In the U.S. I'm not so sure," he continued. "I was pretty young then and after a while I… kinda wasn't interested. Y'know?"

Dieter looked at his young friend. "You mean when you thought your mother was crazy," he said.

"Yeah," John admitted.

"We'll get her out of there, John. And soon, I promise."

With a grimace the younger man sat forward. "If there's one thing I've learned in my life, Dieter, it's don't make promises you might not be able to keep." He looked up from under his eyebrows. "And we have no reason to believe that it might be possible to do that. This move to minimum security that Jordan told you about? It could easily be a trap." He shook his head, his lips lifted in a crooked smile. "It's just the kind of thing they'd do."

Von Rossbach waved a big hand dismissively. "They might. But with the number of things that have happened to your mother while in Pescadero's care, they might just be trying to avoid a lawsuit."

"Okay, whatever you say." John couldn't hide his doubt, somehow it smelled like a setup to him, but dwelling on it wouldn't help anything. He changed the subject with a grin. "Do you think Jordan will think to bring some of that beef jerky to Mom?" he asked. "She absolutely loves that stuff."

"He might," Dieter said mildly. It had been hard on John not to be able to do even the ordinary things one did when one was feeling helpless because a loved one was in the hospital—send flowers, or cards. "Jordan's very bright and it shouldn't be hard to make the connection."

The young man nodded, a little color rising in his face. He clearly didn't want to be thought sentimental.

"Anyway," John said, nodding toward the map, "I can only speak for the condition of the caches we have in Paraguay. We've been checking them every year or so to make sure they were okay. Mostly to keep in practice." He shrugged. "I guess old habits die hard."

"Which is why you're both still alive," Dieter commented. He rapped the map with his pen. "We're going to need a lot more than this."

John looked him in the eye. "I know," he said.

Dieter wondered what that look and that tone of voice meant. He waited a

moment for John to speak. Then, impatiently, he said, "And?"

"And I'm wondering how practical you're prepared to be about it."

Von Rosibach rotated his hands in a bring-it-forth gesture. John's lips thinned for a moment, then he blurted, "Drugs." Dieter threw down his pen and looked away, leaning back in his desk chair. "That'; one of the things I've spent most of my life fighting, John." With a shrug John spread his hands. "Not hard drugs; those guys are crazy. I'm taking about marijuana."

"They're, all crazy!" Dieter interrupted. "Something about millions of untaxed dollars does that to people. Not to mention that it's against the law, and it's wrong."

"So how do you think Mom got these caches we've been mapping all day?

Working in day care? Taking in laundry? Telling fortunes? She'd be the first one to remind you, Dieter, most people are dead. They just don't know it yet."

"You can't get something goad out of something wrong. I know that if I know anything," von Rossbach said. He was getting angry, and to no purpose. "I don't want to discuss this anymore."

"Fine," John said, getting up.' If you can come up with a better way, I am more than open to it." He shook his head. "I've never liked the idea either. But it's the fastest way to do this I can think of and our time is running out."

Dieter lifted his hand to stop him and John raised his and shrugged in surrender.

"I'm hungry," he said. "Think I'll go hit up Marietta for something to eat."

Von Rossbach checked his watch. "Good luck," he said. "Dinner is in a few minutes. You know she won't let you spoil your appetite."

"I don't think it's possible to spoil my appetite, at least not with food," John said.

"Mom says I've got hollow legs."

Dieter sat thinking about what John had said after the boy left him. He picked up the map and looked at the numerous circles denoting arms and food caches.

Well, he'd read her record; he'd known Sarah wasn't a Girl Scout all those years she'd been running with the wild ones. Still…

Drugs.' he thought in disgust. He couldn't—he wouldn't get involved with that.

Flinging the map onto the desk, he leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck. Well, if they needed money he was rich. And if Judgment Day is real, and it appears that it is, then my money won't do me any good afterward.

So. He would dedicate his considerable personal fortune to the cause. And he knew a fair number of moneyed eccentrics he could involve, too.

Meanwhile he would start seeking out arms dealers. Nothing big, at least not at first; he didn't want to come to the Sector's attention. Not yet. It would mean a trip to the U.S.

Maybe we could swing by Pescadero and spring Sarah while we're there.

He spent a few pleasant moments imagining her face when she saw him. Then he sighed. No. Given the move to minimum security, there was a good chance she was going to be released anyway in just a few months; it would be pointless to interfere with the process.

Marietta rang the dinner gong and he got up. I wonder if John managed to weedle any food out of her, he thought.

MONTANA

Clea smiled as she read her E-mail from Vladimir Hill, the artist selected by committee to create a sculpture to be placed in the plaza at Lincoln Center in New York. The committee happened to be headed by a Mrs. Roger Colvin, who just happened to be married to the CEO of Cyberdyne, which just happened to be sponsoring the sculpture.

Vladimir was ecstatic about the new material. It had inspired designs by the hundred, he said, he couldn't get them down on paper fast enough.

Really? Clea thought, impressed. What a shame it's so carcinogenic.

It had completely changed his ideas on the Lincoln Center project, Hill went on.

He'd demanded a special meeting with the committee and shown them both the material and the design he'd created. They, too, were ecstatic. They'd loved the new design, the new material.

They all wanted to meet her, he'd written, so she was to be invited to the gala unveiling. Mrs. Colvin's husband was particularly eager to meet her.

"Yesss!" Clea said, clenching her fist in victory. Skynet would be pleased. If there was a Skynet. But now she had her feet firmly on the path that would lead her to her long-lost, never-known creator. She was on her way home.

CHAPTER SIX

ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE, OCTOBER

After only a scant seven months in maximum, Sarah had been transferred to minimum-security wing at Pescadero. She'd been there an additional six months when Dr. Ray had gotten her transferred to the halfway house. It was rather pleasant here, comparatively speaking. No screaming in the night. Except for herself, of course. No sudden rushes of stink. The place was shabby, but in a comfortable way, sort of like a boardinghouse with a poor but honest clientele, rather than the antiseptics-and-despair atmosphere of a violent ward. And the patients were much safer to be around.

With the possible exception of herself, naturally. Sarah was pleased to think that she was growing more dangerous by the minute. It was good to walk without pain again, though she still felt a peculiar internal pulling in her abdomen that might signal an adhesion. Particularly when she exercised hard, and she did, getting back into fighting trim.

She'd been doing great physically even in maximum, until that crazy bitch Tanya had punctured an artery in an attack she'd been lucky to survive. The attack had set her back physically, but had gained her enough sympathy to get her transferred to minimum.

Unfortunately, there she'd developed a nasty case of jaundice that still had her feeling weak. Hospitals were great places to catch bugs. Between her physical frailty and Ray's silver tongue, she was pretty much where she wanted—but had never really expected—to be.

After the shock of seeing Dr. Silberman again, Sarah had settled into the routine

of the place. But she was still surprised at how deeply upset she had been by coming face-to-face with him unexpectedly. Understandable; her days under his care hadn't been the brightest in her life.

She was happy she'd been left to Dr. Ray and her own devices the last couple of weeks. Sarah knew that eventually she'd have to face up to the good doctor and deal with the complex stew of emotions he evoked, but not yet. Please, God, not yet.

Still, after so many weeks in a hospital bed and in physical as well as mental therapy, she was more than a little bored. She missed John and thought of him constantly. But thanks to Dieter—whom she also missed to the point of being lonely—Sarah wasn't afraid tor him. One corner of her mouth lifted and she told herself that she should be grateful to be bored. It was something of a treat.

She also found herself becoming slowly addicted to television. It couldn't be accounted for by the content; Sarah was convinced it had some soporific effect on the brain. But anything that kept her soothed and even inadequately entertained until they let her go was a tool she'd gladly use.

Sarah walked into the common area to find the nurse resetting the channel and threw herself down on one of the threadbare couches.

"This is a very important program, people," the woman said. "I'm sure you'll all enjoy it." Then she sat down.

Raising an eyebrow at that, Sarah leaned back and crossed her legs. The nurses didn't usually watch TV with the patients. Probably this one should be working or she'd be in the nurses' lounge watching the little portable they had in there.

Maybe this will be interesting, Sarah thought.

OKLAHOMA CITY, OKLAHOMA

Ron Labane watched from the wings as Tony warmed up the crowd for him. It didn't take much; everyone was excited to be here at the opening show. The New Luddite movement's new channel was doing fairly well, despite the fact that it showed mostly nature videos, news, and talk shows about environmental subjects. But his TV show was expected to draw an audience of at least three million or possibly more, two hundred of them right here in the studio. The air was hot with lights, and smelled of ozone and sweat and makeup.

He'd seriously considered moving the whole works out to California, where they had the best facilities and trained personnel. But after a little reflection he'd changed his mind and chosen Oklahoma City. What he wanted was to make the statement that the New Luddites were just that—new. Not part of the establishment, not part of the old-money crowd, in no one's pocket. These days placing your national show away from either coast was like a declaration of independence. That decision alone set them apart.

Ron watched the cameras roam over the smiling, waving, applauding audience; the music was inspiring yet had a good beat, and as he watched, the audience began to clap in time, swaying in their seats until the whole place was in motion.

Choose the moment, he thought, and ran onto the stage with his hands in the air and began clapping in time with them. The audience went wild. The New Day show was primarily a talk show with a little music thrown in for leavening. It just so happened that the singers and musicians they chose to present were those

that Ron had handpicked.

He'd been lucky. There were aways dedicated youngsters out there with talent to burn, but that didn't mean the public would embrace them. To find talented kids who agreed with Labane's philosophy and made it palatable to millions with their music was a miracle. A miracle he'd been able to pull off four times now.

He joked that he was beginning to suspect he was in the wrong business.

Gradually, after a few more jokes, Ron began his speech, adopting the intimate, almost avuncular manner that the polls indicated his audience responded to best.

"Y'know," Ron began, "with the brownouts in California, people are saying that we need to reassess our feelings about nuclear energy." He led them through it step-by-step, pointed out that other resources could be exploited, other plans could be made. "The thing is, nobody is going to invest in those other alternatives if we're all talked into building more nuclear plants. And, no matter what they say, nuclear power isn't clean, it isn't safe. Now the ^resident wants to give them unlimited protection from liability. How safe does that make you feel?"

Ron actually had a guest on the show tonight who held a dissenting view, and the guy had a good case. He also had a temper and a tendency to take things personally, which Ron fully intended to exploit. Waste not want not, was, after all, one of the New Luddites' mottos.

He broke for a commercial, promising a great show when they came back. Then an announcer's voice took over, describing an environmentally friendly array of cleaning products. Ron moved across the stage and took his place behind the desk, smiling out at his audience. He could feel that this was going to work out

well.

MONTANA

Clea tuned out the commercial and thought about what she'd been watching. Ron Labane was one <)f Serena's projects that Clea had taken over with some enthusiasm. She saw potential here to confuse and divide the humans that her predecessor hadn't fully exploited. What better way to keep the humans as weak as possible, to make sure that as little as possible survived Judgment Day to be used against the sudden onslaught of the killer machines, than to encourage a fear of technology?

Labane was making nuclear power the issue du jour on his inaugural program. It was an emotional issue for humans—especially Americans, for some reason.

They were constantly fighting the opening of these highly efficient power plants.

Which was surely in Skynet's interests. Keeping the power-dependent humans from having all the juice they wanted would destabilize things nicely. It would create factions, even among the rich and powerful, and it would drive the proles nuts.

As for their perfectly valid fear of nuclear waste, well, an accident had been arranged.

With part of her mind still on the program, Clea contacted her T-101. Through its eyes she saw that the truck it had stolen was behind the convoy carrying some West Coast nuclear waste to its Southwestern dump site.

She glanced at the television image in the upper corner of her screen. But first she'd wait until Ron's program was over. It seemed the polite thing to do.

NEW MEXICO

The Terminator kept a precise distance between himself and the truck in front of him: exactly one hundred and fifty meters. The unmarked eighteen-wheeler carrying the specially designed cargo container was accompanied by two vans, also unmarked. It was all very discreet. Had they not known exactly what they were looking for, they would never have been able to find this particular truck.

The T-101 glanced at the body beside it. It had entered the propane truck's cab at a truck stop and waited for the driver to return. When he did, it had broken his neck before the human had even been aware of its presence. Soon the I-950

would signal the T-101 to go ahead and the body would be needed to stand in for it when investigators sifted through the wreckage.

*Now,* the Infiltrator sent.

The Terminator pressed its booted foot down and sped toward the truck in front of it. The waste truck's companion van tried to move in front of the propane truck, but the Terminator calculated angles as it manuvered and struck the van at precisely the right point to send it spinning off the road and into the first of the few buildings that had begun to appear by the side of the road. It disappeared into the flimsy structure, sending glass flying.

With nothing in its way, the Terminator pulled up beside the waste truck, swerved into the far lane so that it could aim the propane truck at the carrier's exact center, and rammed it at eighty miles an hour, knocking the carrier onto its side with a screech of metal against pavement. The propane truck climbed on top of the rig and then collapsed slowly onto its side, but didn't rupture.

The Terminator was out of the cab and onto the street in seconds, a grenade launcher in its hands. While the van up ahead was backing up, fast, it took aim and fired. The propane truck burst into magenta flame, the blast picked the van up like a dry leaf and flung it nearly a thousand meters, it ripped and burned every inch of flesh from the front of the Terminator's skeleton, leaving only smoking patches on its back. Briefly the T-101 went off-line.

When it came back to itself, burning debris was still falling and the buildings along the highway had been blown flat all around the explosion. Its internal monitors reported radioactive contamination at a very high level.

*Mission accomplished,* it sent.

*Status?* the I-950 queried.

*External sheath severely compromised, no secondary damage, some nuclear contamination.*

Well, Clea thought, back to the vat for you. Any contamination it had picked up would mostly be rubbed away by its travels. *Return to base. Discreetly,*

* Acknowledged.* It looked around itself. Off in the distance it saw a house, undamaged by the blast. Humans had come outside to gawk at the fire. Where there were humans there would be transportation. It headed for them.

OKLAHOMA CITY, OKLAHOMA

Ron offered the last few energy-saving tips and said good night when Tony came tearing onstage. For a split second he thought he'd made an error in his timing

and had left them with a ridiculous amount of dead air. The audience began to rustle and murmur.

Then Tony slipped him a news report and said, "It's an accident. Maybe. Some asshole in a propane truck rammed into a nuclear-waste carrier right in the middle of a small town in New Mexico. There's a news blackout. Apparently the whole state is out."

Ron turned to the audience and clapped his hands. When they'd quieted down he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I have some terrible news."

He read them the report in his hand, just the bare, unadorned facts. "I'm told there's a news blackout on this incident, which means that this is all we may know for some time. I'd like you all to bow your heads with me and pray for the people of New Mexico." After a moment's silence he lifted his head and looked at them solemnly.

"Now let's all just remain calm," he said. "We'll know more by and by. But when you get home I'd like you to write your congressman or -woman and tell them we don't want any more accidents like this one."

People applauded enthusiastically, rising to their feet and clapping with an energy that spoke of their anger and their horror. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, they stopped and began filing out, murmuring to one another.

Ron watched them go, a little seed of anger burning in his breast. This could have happened at the beginning of the show, and ruined everything.

On the other hand, since they had finished the show, this little incident beautifully underscored what he'd been talking about. He'd have to get to his

publicist on this. He'd work up a statement emphasizing that his show had been talking about the dangers of nuclear power just before the news broke.

Ron smirked; there was nothing quite like being able to say "I told you so!"

ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE

The show ended, and it hadn't been all that bad for blatant propaganda. As the credits began to roll someone came running in from offstage. Sarah got up, not really thinking anything about it except that the New Luddites didn't have top-quality people running their programs. The nurse switched to another channel, where a news anchor was announcing that a fuel truck had crashed into an eighteen-wheeler carrying nuclear waste.

My God! She thought.

The anchor went on to say that background radiation as far away as Albuquerque had jumped by over 700 percent…

I don't think that's even supposed to be possible! Sarah thought. Those containers are supposed to be specially designed to withstand just about anything up to a direct hit with a bomb. Which an exploding propane tank would very closely resemble. Maybe it's just my nasty mind talking, but this sounds deliberate.

The news anchor was saying that possible terrorist activity was being looked into.

Nice to know it isn't just me for a change, Sarah thought. Paranoids had real enemies, too.

MONTANA

Clea smiled. Her timing had been exquisite. She'd found a weakness, exploited it and voila! Panic in the streets. Or there would be after her message on the Net was discovered.

They'd be blathering about it for weeks, maybe months, and spending untold amounts of money studying and correcting the problem. Little knowing that despite their best and most earnest efforts, she'd just do it again.

Actually, next time she thought she'd cause an oil spill. Clea had been exploring the possibilities of hacking into a ship's closed system by satellite. If it proved feasible she was going to try to time the incident so that some enormously popular place was soiled in the most appallingly photogenic manner possible.

Preferably somewhere with otters. Dying otters just drove humans wild.

For a while she'd toyed with the idea of having a Terminator do the job for her, but it would be better to do it by remote if possible. It would be much, much more difficult for the oil companies to explain if they didn't have a convenient scapegoat, such as a mysteriously missing crewman.

Heads will roll, she thought. What a charming image. She began to see why Serena had found such joy in her work.

Clea was busy with her preparations to leave Montana for New York. She had stepped up her production of T-101s using the last few chips that Serena had left her and working overtime manufacturing a close facsimile of her own.

Fortunately she found microlithography a relaxing hobby. It would take years of experimentation before she would have the proper materials to make the true

chip, but what she'd been able to cobble together had 97.3 percent of the efficiency of the real ones, so for the interim they should perform adequately.

Her plan was to place the Terminator that had been established as her relative and guardian in shutdown mode and claim that her "uncle" was dead. Then, once he was buried, she would travel to New York to meet with Cyberdyne's CEO

and obtain a job that would bring her in contact with Skynet at last. Anyone checking into her background would find an empty cabin and an only relative buried in the nearest town's nondenominational cemetery.

Shortly before the funeral and Clea's departure, Alissa and the Terminators would move to a new location in Utah. Her buried "uncle" would switch back to active mode after a set time and join them there; traveling by night since its flesh casing would probably die when it was buried and have to be replaced at the new facility.

With her tracks satisfactorily covered and her equipment and replacement safely hidden in a new location, she would be free to perform her function while Alissa grew up at a more normal, and undoubtedly safer, rate than Clea herself had been allowed. At the same time her little "sister" could obtain a human incubator. There just wasn't time for her to do it herself.

She thought everything was going extremely well when Alissa came to her in the lab. "Where is Sarah Connor?" the unnaturally solemn little girl asked her.

"Where is her son, John, and their ally, von Rossbach?"

Clea looked up from her workstation, stunned. The computer part of her brain had been sending her increasingly testy reminders about this subject, but she'd been shunting them aside, barely paying attention to them. True, she had been

busy, equally true her projects were important and Serena's own mission statement had put Sarah Connor last on the list of priorities, but to ignore something just because it was unpleasant… that was… human. The I-950 felt such a wave of self-disgust that her computer flooded her system with mood elevators.

"I don't know," she said. Clea could feel the blood rising in her face, a human-style signal of shame, one her computer part had apparently decided not to suppress.

Sarah Connor had been in custody in a mental hospital the last time she'd checked. John Connor and his friend had disappeared. She had no idea of the current whereabouts of any of them.

"Do you know?" Clea asked.

"Yes," Alissa said. "And no."

"That is nonsense," Clea said. "Either you know or you don't. If you know, tell me; if you don't know, find out. Either way, stop wasting my time, I have a great deal to do." Her little sister could be very annoying when she wanted to be.

"Sarah Connor is in a halfway house in Los Angeles," Alissa said, as though reciting.

"A what?"

"It is a place for the inmates of mental asylums or prisons to stay while they are eased back into society." Alissa paused. "There is absolutely no security. The

inmates are trusted to obey the house rules, to go and return on some sort of honor system. Should I explain honor system?"

"No, I know what that is. What about John Connor?" Clea asked.

Alissa pursed her lips and raised her brows in an annoyingly superior manner.

"Von Rossbach's servants have been recorded speaking to their relatives. He and Connor returned alone. Now they've disappeared again, no one knows where."

Clea felt a sharp bolt of fear shoot through her, followed by a healthy anger.

"When were you planning to share this information with me?" she demanded.

"And what, if anything, have you done about the situation?"

"I was planning to tell you as soon as I confirmed that von Rossbach and Connor were truly absent from the estancia. Which I have done. Naturally I would not initiate any action against them without consulting you. I have suggestions."

Clea made an encouraging gesture.

"We could send a Terminator after Sarah Connor," Alissa suggested. "Though given our track record to date, I'm reluctant to commit-such a resource unless absolutely necessary."

A valid point, Clea had to concede.

Alissa continued: "I think it's safe to assume that von Rossbach and John Connor are on their way to the United States. Probably with the intention of freeing Sarah Connor. They may also be seeking allies. Logic would seem to suggest that they need them rather badly."

"As do we," Clea admitted. Which was, of course, what their support of the New Luddites and their more fanatical brethren was about. Athough dupes and catspaws would be more accurate terms than ally.

Alissa ignored the comment. "I have hacked into surveillance cameras at all customs checkpoints in the United States," she said. "I've assigned a Terminator to monitor them full-time."

Clea nodded. "Excellent," she said. "I think that I agree with you about sending a Terminator for Sarah Connor as well. Perhaps only to observe and report. If her son and ally show up we can try to get them all at once."

"It might be better if I was the one sent to observe," Alissa suggested. "They wouldn't be expecting a child."

The idea held exciting possibilities, Clea had to admit, and she wanted to take advantage of her younger sister's offer, but…

Shaking her head, Clea said, "No. You're too vulnerable and much too valuable.

As yet there is no one to replace you."

Alissa said nothing, but Clea could almost hear her thinking that if they were short of I-950s to share the work, it certainly wasn't her fault.

With a frown Clea snapped, "I'm working as hard and as fast as I can. Right now is not the time to begin breeding another 950. It is to be hoped that my efforts will give you more leisure in these matters."

The problem was Clea herself felt that her efforts were inferior. Instinct told her

that in a better world she would be culled to prevent expensive errors. But in this time and place she was the best available.

No, that wasn't strictly true. Alissa was the better Infiltrator. Clea wished that she dared to use her. Clea looked at her sister for a long time. Then took a deep breath and plunged in.

"In the rush to bring me to maturity I fear that errors may have been made. But that maturity is still a valuable asset, and so I must continue as leader for now. I rely on you to point out oversights such as this one.

It you continue to do so, then we should be all right. Once you have reached maturity I will become your second."

Alissa gazed back at her with a pretty frown. "If you were to start another 950

what would happen?" she asked.

"I don't know," Clea admitted. "None of us has ever been pushed as I have. It may have affected my eggs, making them either infertile or inferior product. The only way to find out is to use them. Which, as I've pointed out, we don't have the time for right now."

The child's face was implacable and her eyes betrayed her disgust. She, too, had sensed Clea's weakness and yearned to correct it by terminating her. But she was also the ultimate pragmatist. Clea was not so inferior as to be useless and her loyalty to Skynet was strong. Skynet itself would encourage them both to use the tools at hand.

"Very well," Alissa said. "But I think that the Terminator we send to watch

Sarah Connor should be a different type than we usually make. It should be smaller, perhaps older looking. Something nonthreatening."

"Yes," Clea agreed, nodding thoughtfully. "A Watcher rather than a Terminator.

Will you see to it for me?"

Looking annoyed, the small I-950 nodded, her lips tight.

"I would also like to send a Terminator to South America," Alissa said. "It may be possible to find out more from that end. It may even be possible to eliminate one or both of them with fewer complications."

The elder I-950 frowned; her sister had a point. "You don't think that they can be traced by computer?" she asked.

"Yes," Alissa said. "If they use their own names and passports." She knew her sister could calculate the odds of that happening for herself and so didn't bother to offer the figures. "I believe that some investigations are better handled face-to-face."

Clea considered. Her sister hadn't asked to go herself, realizing that the T-101

would be the more logical choice. And it would be helpful to know their enemies' exact locations.

"Very well," she said.

"And if the opportunity presents itself?" Alissa asked.

"Terminate."

The little I-950 actually smiled. "I'll get to work, then."

"Excellent," Clea said, smiling. She went back to her own work feeling more content. They were going to win this time. She could feel it.

Alissa walked away, frowning. She knew very well that her own brain was immature and therefore should have been a tool less keen than her older sister's.

Yet she also knew from several different failures on Clea's part that even with her younger, less developed faculties she saw things more clearly, evaluated outcomes more realistically.

It was troubling, desperately troubling, that Skynet's future was in the hands of an inferior agent.

Alissa tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that even with diminished capacity Clea was still more intelligent than ninety-eight percent of their human enemies. It was the worry that the Connors were among that elite two percent that made her queasy.

She was too young to be in charge. Yet accelerating her maturity might well damage her brain and cognitive function in the same way that Clea's had been.

Skynet would not be better served by two idiots instead of one.

The machine side of her brain decided that panic was imminent and eased back on the production of certain of her brain chemicals, released certain others.

Alissa began to grow calmer, better able to plan.

For now she would have to be the eyes in back of her sister's head, as a human might say. She would have to make up for Clea's lacks. It wouldn't be all that

long before she could take over. At which point she would decide if her sister was useful enough to retain or too dangerous to tolerate. For now, as Clea had said, with the two of them working together, they should be all right.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ASUNCION, PARAGUAY, OCTOBER

John and Dieter, wearing identical sunglasses and solemn expressions, stood beside the grave of Victor Griego amid the scruffy grass, wilted flowers, and pictures of solemn dark faces fixed to the tombstones. With their hands clasped before them, they bowed their heads and read:

VICTOR GRIEGO 1938-2001

SHE WAS HIT BY A BUS

"That'd refer to his mother, I suppose," John said.

Dieter glanced at him. "I was told that she died of a broken heart."

John shrugged. "That's probably why she walked in front of the bus."

"Poor woman." Dieter sighed. "I may not have been an ideal son, but I didn't drive my mother to suicide."

"Bastard," John agreed.

"I guess this means that you still own that cache of weapons," Dieter said, and turned away.

"Yeah." John read the tombstone one more time and shook his head. "What a louse," he muttered, and picking up his backpack, turned to join Dieter. "My flight is at four; guess I'd better get going."

With a knowing smile Dieter asked, "Nervous?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Don't worry, John. It's a good disguise. Your own mother wouldn't recognize you."

John snorted.

"Well, maybe your mother would," von Rossbach conceded. "But that's about it."

John gave him a quick glance. "What about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I've got something in play," Dieter said. He held out his hand and they shook. "I'll see you in New Mexico."

"If they're letting people into the state by then." John hailed a taxi.

"They will be," Dieter said confidently. He opened the door of the cab. "It's a big state."

John flung his backpack in the backseat and got in behind it.

"Be careful," he called out the window to Dieter. Dieter raised one brow.

"Funny, I was just about to say the same thing to you."

RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

John wore a weedy-looking black goatee and mustache and a pair of black, horn-rim glasses. He looked nervous and intellectual and nothing like his usual self.

His body language was deferential as he went through American customs, as though he were leaving home for the first time, like the young man on his way to college that he was.

Of course, he was on his way to college to plot and plan, and recruit minions not to study… but he'd look like he belonged. He was nervous but genuinely happy to be going. He was sooo looking forward to meeting Wendy. She was only eight months older than he was for all she kept calling him kid. He was hoping it wasn't going to be an issue. It was important to keep the recruit's respect.

Yeah, right, he thought, too honest by habit to kid himself for long. She's gorgeous and brilliant and I like her. Consequently he wanted her to like him. It bothered him that he was thinking like his because he knew it was frivolous. He had no time for frivolous.

The guy behind the desk finished looking at John's passport and asked a few questions, obviously pro forma, then waved him on his way. John was pleased, as well as relieved. It was only about a year and a few months since their attack on Cyberdyne after all. There would have been computer-aged photos of himself on every custom officer's desk for a long while.

They must not have been very good, John thought.

He put his carry-on bag on the belt and went through the metal detector, grabbing his bag on the other side. The alarm went off just after him, and the

guards gathered scowling as a middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt, with a gray-and-blond beard, opened his bag.

"It's just diving equipment," the man said in exasperation. "I'm a writer on vacation!"

John smiled. It was convenient, having a fuss right after he went through; that would fix itself in people's memories, and he'd be less than a shadow. In a few hours he'd be a guest at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and he was really looking forward to it.

John didn't think that even if it had been an option, he would have ended up at MIT. He'd heard about New England winters and wasn't all that interested in experiencing one for himself.

When he thought of himself as an American, he thought of California; Brie nibbling, skateboarding, sun and surfing, indulging political absurdities at Berkeley, or engineering-department practical jokes at UCLA.

While he was heading for Massachusetts Dieter was on his way by more devious routes to California. They'd both felt it was time to meet some of the people they'd been talking to on the Internet to see if they could be turned into more serious recruits.

It was John's idea to offer the MIT folk some proof about Skynet. Some of them were asking difficult questions about what they were doing. He understood the risk he was taking, but he also knew that sooner or later they were going to have to know. Now was as good a time as any.

It wasn't going to be enough to have scattered individuals gathering information.

After Judgment Day, he was going to need trained, educated people in key positions or they were never going to be able to defeat Skynet. He'd have to pick and train them now to make sure they lived through the first volleys of nuclear missiles.

His father hadn't given details as to how the humans had managed to shatter Skynet's defense grid, but it couldn't have been plain old brute strength. There had to have been scientists, engineers, planners. Now, if ever, was the time to find them.

John had the Terminator's CPU in his pocket, disguised as a chocolate bar. He and Dieter had retrieved it before returning to Paraguay. Handling it reminded him of the Terminator's head trying to bite him. He had a brief flash of that Terminator attacking their plane as they left the Caymans, of how, even with its body blown away, the head had kept trying to fight.

But the brains at MIT would know it for what it was, a technology far beyond anything available today. At least he hoped they would; it was all the proof he had.

Although, as proof goes, it's pretty damned amazing, he thought.

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA

Vera Philmore glanced at the brief resume in her hand and then looked over the top of the page at the divine creature standing before her desk. Wulf Ingolfson, the resume said his name was; it suited him. True, he was no spring chicken, but in her experience the young ones were boring. And those shoulders! Ai,

carambal. They made a wonderful silhouette against the broad windows and the thronging masts of the yacht basin.

Vera enjoyed traveling the world with a boatload of handsome, charming young men. But these days it was mostly look and don't touch. This big fella might be a different case. He was certainly old enough to have been around the block a few times. So flirting, at least, could be added to the program.

Dieter looked at her with a blandly pleasant expression on his face. There were no chairs before Ms. Philmore's desk, indicating that she didn't like her employees to get too comfortable in her presence. On the other hand, the way she kept running her eyes up and down his body suggested that she might make an exception in select cases.

About fifty, Vera was very trim and well groomed. The color of her hair, the pale gold froth of champagne, was not found in nature, but it suited her, as did the expensive baubles she wore and the bright red silk shirt and black toreador pants. Some women had the personality to carry off almost anything.

"You don't seem to have had much experience as a deckhand," she commented.

"Not as an employee," he agreed. "But I have been on boats of all kinds since I was a boy."

"Ahhh," Vera said coyly, "your daddy was rich, was he?"

"No, he was a fisherman. But when I was a teenager I often got day jobs on some of the yachts along the Cote d'Azur. My friends and I would work for free, just to get on board." He smiled reminiscently. "I love the sea."

Vera gave him her most charming smile and reflected that no one worked for free. Somehow, she thought he was familiar. Not as though she'd met him, but as though she'd seen him somewhere. Well, if she did decide to hire him she'd have him investigated, as always. Despite his references being in order.

Ah, but she certainly hoped he checked out. The man was intriguing, and she was perennially bored.

"Well, then," she said, rising. "We'll be in touch."

He looked a little uncertain as he gently took her hand. "I'm staying at the Sailor's Rest," he said.

She nodded, still smiling. "You'll be hearing from us."

He turned and walked out, and she enjoyed the view. The guy had a great butt.

Vera sighed appreciatively. I hope he isn't shy.

Dieter fully expected to be hired. It had been several years since he'd last used this persona, but he'd updated it a bit before leaving home. He'd applied with several skippers, but he was banking on Philmore. So much so that he'd bribed one of her hands to jump ship.

She was perfect tor his purposes. Her itinerary would take her through the Panama Canal and up to San Diego within the next ten days. Shielded by her prestige and money, he would be able to slip into the U.S. without the more stringent customs scrutiny he might get at an airport. Like it or not, he was fairly distinctive looking.

Besides, he honestly thought Vera Philmore was just the sort of rich eccentric he might be able to recruit for their project. She had a sense of adventure and independence that was rare, and money to burn. It would be nice not to have to rely completely on his underworld contacts.

The only thing that worried him was the light in her eyes when she looked at him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

"John had never been to Boston before that he could remember— his mother had dragged him through some amazing places when he was a toddler, but most of them had involved tropical climates and high ammunition expenditures. You couldn't tell much about Boston from the airport, which was another suburban village in the international city of airports, pretty well interchangeable with any other in the Western world. It wasn't until he got a cab to Cambridge on his way to MIT that he began to appreciate the difference.

This was an old city. The way the streets were laid out like crazy string, the smaller buildings with their tiny bricks and wavy-glassed windows, each with a character all its own, the occasional surprise of modernist steel, concrete, and glass thrown in… it all said "this place is different." About as different in spirit as you could get from L.A., where he'd lived as a kid.

The cab took Massachusetts Avenue by the winding river Charles, and John enjoyed the view, spying the huge dome of one of MIT's buildings long before they arrived at the campus. He asked to be dropped at the admissions office, where he would get a campus map and ask a few questions.

As the cab drove off John shrugged into his backpack, his only luggage, and looked around—taking a deep breath. He liked it here. There was an energy about the place; you could almost feel brains percolating with ideas. He was going to enjoy this.

MIT CAMPUS, CAMBRIDGE,

MASSACHUSETTS

John slipped into the auditorium/classroom quietly and sat down in the last row at the back. Very nearly every seat was filled for this class and he swept the rows with his gaze, looking for Wendy. He thought he saw her in the center of the middle row. Just a sense he had, since he'd never seen her in the flesh, let alone from the back. He settled in to listen. You never knew what knowledge might come in handy.

Too soon the class was over, leaving John hungry for more. Some of it had been a bit esoteric, but what he had gotten was presented in such an interesting way that he envied the students. Good teachers definitely made a world of difference; it was just more fun than doing everything on your own or on the Net.

The girl in the middle row was Wendy. She turned and began to slip out behind the other students, a thoughtful expression on her even features. The others all seemed to be chattering to one another in couples and groups, while she walked slowly and alone toward him.

John felt a nervous electricity in his middle as he looked at her. Slender and graceful, she moved like a dreamer through the stream of students. He stood up as she drew near and fell in directly behind her, waiting until they were outside

to speak.

"Watcher," he said.

She spun on her heel, her eyes wide and her head at a stiff, almost challenging angle. "Who the hell are you?" she snapped, a slight frown marring her smooth brow.

He smiled slowly. "You don't recognize my voice?"

She looked him over, dark eyes assessing. "You're younger than you look, even with that beard." Taking a step closer, she narrowed her eyes. "A fake beard?"

She raised a hand and backed off a step. "I don't know you."

"Sure you do," he said, grinning. "You've just never met me."

"Yeah, right. Ciao, kid." She started to walk away.

Rolling his eyes, John fell into step beside her. "You know me as AM, we've spoken on the phone. You've done a little Web surfing for me."

Wendy stopped short and studied him again. "So what are you doing here?" she asked suspiciously.

With a shrug he said, "I felt it was time I met you and your team in person. I have some information I'd like to share with you and an artifact to show you, and that couldn't be done by phone or via the Net." His lips quirked up at the corners.

"So I'm here."

She looked at him for a long time. "Hmm!" she said, and started off again. John

watched her walk away, then jogged to catch up with her, walking silently by her side as she thought. Lifting her head suddenly, as though just waking up, she glanced around.

"Um. That was my last class," she said, giving him a sidelong glance. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not about to introduce you to my 'team' as you call them until I know a little bit more about you. So, why don't we go have a coffee at the student union and talk?"

"Sure. So how's the coffee at the student union?"

"Compared to what?" she growled.

He looked at her wide-eyed. Wow, she's a fierce little thing.

"Uh, compared to the tea?"

A slight smile touched her lips. "They're both pretty bad, to be honest. Maybe we should stick to soda."

"Do you drink Jolt?" he asked.

"No! I know all us geeks are supposed to thrive on the stuff, but I do not." She pushed open a door and led him into a place teeming with students.

"Uh"—he touched her arm, then removed his hand when she glared at it—"it's a little crowded in here for the kind of conversation I had in mind."

Wendy raised a skeptical brow. "Nobody here knows you," she pointed out. "/

don't know you. Which means there's no reason to think anybody is going to eavesdrop." She shrugged. "Sometimes the most private place you can find is in a crowd."

"Yo! Wen-dy!" a large, bearded student bellowed. She grinned and waved.

"And sometimes not," John said quietly.

"Meeting tonight at eight in Snog's room," the beard said, leaning close. He grinned at John and moved on.

Wendy gave John a look and went over to a machine, getting herself a diet drink.

John pushed a dollar into the machine and got a Coke, then followed her to an empty table wondering if he should have bought hers. Probably not; buying her a drink might have some significance in the U.S. that a guy who went to an all-male school in South America was unaware of.

Wendy shrugged off her knapsack and sat down, then took a sip of her drink.

John divested himself of his own and sat across from her wondering how to begin. He'd rehearsed things to say, naturally, but felt that he'd somehow gotten off on the wrong foot here. Clearly their Internet acquaintance and one phone call didn't mean that they knew each other as far as she was concerned.

I should have let her know I was coming, he thought. Of course then she could have said don't come and probably would have. And he would have come anyway, in which case she'd be even more hostile than she presently was. Still, showing up unexpectedly and in disguise … He winced inwardly. He'd actually forgotten about it. That's the kind of thing stalkers do, I guess. The last thing he wanted to do was make her think he was crazy. Oh, c'mon, John, she's gonna

think you're crazy anyway. Just a different kind of crazy.

"Well!" she snapped. "You wanted to talk? Presumably during my lifetime?"

He cupped his chin on his hand and said, "There's no need to get snippy."

"Well, what do you expect when you show up like this? In a take beard no less!

I've felt a little weird about you right from the start and I've gotta tell you"—she gave her head a little shake—"I'm really not feeling very good about this." She flicked a hand at him. "Not good at all."

John allowed himself to show some temper. "Well, Wendy, I find it interesting that you're perfectly comfortable invading the privacy of people you don't know at the behest of someone else you don't know for reasons that you don't know.

But when I attempt to meet you face-to-face to explain it all, you give me this rather obnoxious attitude that screams 'hey, my space is being invaded."

Her mouth dropped open and she straightened in her seat. Then she let out a little bark of a laugh and opened her mouth to speak.

Before she could get out a word John said, "Has it ever occurred to you that, never mind that it's unethical, what you're doing might be dangerous, or illegal?"

"No," she said instantly. "I'm not that clumsy and I'm not doing anything but looking. Information should be free."

It was John's turn to stare. God! She's so innocent! What must it be like to feel so invincible. He had at one time, but that was before the T-1000 and he couldn't remember what it had been like.

"Well, ideally we all should be free, and well fed and have a comfortable, safe place to sleep at night. But I don't think that's the way things are. Do you?"

She gave a "hunh!" and glared at him.

"Don't let your pride get in the way of your considerable intelligence," he said.

"You know you never should have gotten involved in this without checking into it further, don't you?"

With a shrug she said, "I checked you out. As far as I could. Your Web address belongs to a guy named Dieter von Rossbach and he isn't you. But why you're using his computer, I couldn't find out. I also couldn't find any reference to an AM anywhere. Which indicates that it's a new name. So, either you've never done anything like this yourself, or you've screwed it up so badly that you needed a new handle."

He considered her answer. Not bad for what was mostly guesswork. He scrubbed his face with his hands, being careful not to dislodge his facial hair, and looked at her.

"Well?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

"It is a new name. Spur-of-the-moment thing," he admitted. "I've done research on the Net before and I've lurked around a bit. But this sort of thing, getting other people involved…" He turned down the corners of his mouth and shook his head. "Yeah. This is new."

Wendy huffed a little and leaned back in her chair, studying him. He was young, probably younger than she was, but he felt older, and she instinctively knew she

could trust him. Maybe she was being snippy.

"So what's this about?" she asked. "I guess you didn't come all the way from South America because you thought I was cute or something."

"Sure I did," he said, grinning. Then held up his hand to ward off her response.

"Well, maybe it helped. I came up here because it would be irresponsible to let you keep doing this research without having some idea of why and what you're doing. I am not lying when I tell you it could be dangerous. Now I'm not talking gun battles on the quad here." At least I hope like hell I'm not. "Maybe a better word would be risk."

"Risk?" she said. Wendy took a sip of her soda, watching him.

"Yeah. You're taking a risk on your future here. Which is why I believe you need more information."

Biting her lips, she nodded slowly, meeting his dark-eyed gaze. He had a point.

The powers that be might, at the very least, think that what she'd been doing was unethical, if not uncommon. And that could impact her career path.

"All right," she said. "Enlighten me."

Okay, here goes. "What you've been working on is an attempt to locate a very dangerous military AI project."

After a moment's pause she asked, "A U.S. government project?"

"Ye-ah." Who else? he wondered.

"Because, you're from Paraguay, aren't you?"

"I'm from the U.S., I live in Paraguay," he said impatiently. "What's your point?"

"I dunno. I guess"—she shrugged—"I wondered why you'd be interested."

People are right, John thought, Americans are self-centered. If you're not from here what do you care what we do? Naive and unconsciously arrogant, to say the least.

"My interest is in stopping this project, at the very least slowing it down."

Suddenly mindful of where their acquaintance had begun, Wendy asked suspiciously, "Are you some kind of a Luddite?"

" Now you ask me?" John favored her with an exasperated look. "No, I'm not a Luddite. I'm willing to admit that they have a few good ideas, but by and large I don't think their ideology is applicable to real life. And I don't like terrorists; they're all self-centered, mean-spirited nutcakes, if you ask me. Me, I just have this one lousy project that needs to be stopped. I have my reasons, which I'll explain to you someplace less public. But I'm not here to hurt you, Wendy, far from it."

Wendy considered that. "Have you read Labane's book?" she asked.

John shook his head. "I haven't had time."

"So you really can't say whether their ideology is, in fact, applicable." She crossed her arms and watched him for his reaction.

John was a bit confused. Suddenly she wanted to play debating team? To him the question and its follow-up had come out of left field. Maybe it's like a time-out, he thought. She's trying to get some space to think about me being here so she's distracting me with this nonsense.

"You know what?" he said. "You're right. I can't speak to the Luddite ideology with any authority because I haven't made a minute study of their position. I think they bear watching, but frankly"—he flattened his hand on his chest—"I'm not that interested. I have this one thing I have to do and it takes all my time and concentration. I'm hoping that once you've heard what I have to say, you and your friends will want to continue helping me. And if you don't I'm trusting you to keep quiet about it. Everything else is irrelevant to me. Okay?"

She kind of lifted her head and pursed her lips. "Sure, whatever." Wendy took another sip of her drink, annoyed and slightly embarrassed. "So. Have you got a place to stay?"

"Uh, actually I was kind of hoping you might have a suggestion about that."

She gave him a cool, level look that went on long enough to see that he understood he wasn't staying with her.

"A motel, a bed-and-breakfast maybe?" he quickly suggested.

"Hotels in Boston and Cambridge, if you can find one with a room, tend to be expensive, and B-and-Bs are even more so. I'll see if I can find someone to put you up in their room." She took up her backpack. "You can eat here if you like."

She shrugged. "It's not very good, but it is cheap. Or there are restaurants all

around the campus that have reasonable prices and fairly good food."

John stood up to follow her, but she held up her hand.

"I'm going to talk to my friends about you and I don't think you should be there.

Be back here by seven-thirty and I'll bring you to the meeting." She started off, then said "bye" over her shoulder with a vague sort of wave.

John was left standing there, feeling a little foolish, and a lot uncertain about how this was going to work out. He wanted Wendy to like him and he'd really come on strong, which he could tell she didn't like. Wait till she found out what he was talking about. He blew out his breath.

No wonder Mom flipped out for a while, he thought. Being right doesn't help much when you're right about something this weird.

He slipped on his backpack and looked around the busy room. He sure hoped Dieter was having a better time than he was.

I'm beginning to look forward to meeting with those arms dealers. A sure sign that things weren't going all that well here.

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA

Alissa had cast a broad net when she went looking for von Rossbach and Connor. The boy had slipped through, but the former Sector agent had used one of his old aliases. So when Vera Philmore sent out queries on the Net with that name attached, the I-950 had immediately purchased a one-way ticket to the woman's present location.

The Terminator had arrived at the dock to find that Philmore's yacht had sailed.

It wasn't difficult to get a copy of the yacht's itinerary, and the T-101 bought a ticket on a small plane bound for Macapa, Brazil, the next afternoon.

CHAPTER NINE

MACAPA, BRAZIL

Vera couldn't resist; she moved up behind the big Austrian where he stood checking gauges in the wheelhouse and ran her hand lightly across his firm buttocks. It went with the warm breeze, the clear blue water, the salty air and diesel oil…

"Can't I help you, Ms. Philmore?" Dieter asked without turning around.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked, sounding mildly surprised.

"I don't think it's something Arnie or Joe would do, ma'am." She laughed and he continued, "Besides, I recognized your perfume."

"I hope you like it, Wulf," she said, moving around him to look at his face. "I have it made specially for myself."

"Very pretty," he said. She caught a glint of blue from his sidelong glance. "Very feminine."

Vera preened. She hadn't made as much progress with him as she'd hoped to, and by the end of next week or sooner they'd be in San Diego. "I didn't think you'd noticed," she said with a pout.

He turned to smile at her. "Of course I did."

Vera felt her heart flip-flop. Something that happened more rarely now, but was very welcome when it did. It was time to move into high gear.

"I've been meaning to find the time to get acquainted with you," she said. "I like to know my crew, since we're under one another's feet all the time. If you're free I'd love for you to have dinner with me tonight."

Dieter's face showed his surprise when he turned to her. "I'd be honored."

What else could he say? He'd wanted to get some time to talk to her alone, see if she was a suitable recruit. He just didn't want things to get… personal.

Unfortunately Vera Philmore was the kind of woman who liked to take things personally. Suddenly, and unusually, von Rossbach had the feeling he was in over his head.

"Eight o'clock, then," Vera said happily. Then, with an alarmingly direct look, she added, "Try to be very hungry."

"Oh, God," Dieter muttered as she sauntered off.

***

"That was wonderful," Dieter said. "Even better than in the crew's galley."

Vera chuckled and gestured to her maid, who brought her a mahogany box.

Pursing her lips judiciously, Vera chose a cigar, neatly trimmed the end with a cutter she took from the box, and lit it with a candle. She indicated Dieter with a nod of her head and the maid brought the box to him.

"Cuban," his boss said, exhaling a fragrant cloud of smoke. "And the best of the best at that. Do you enjoy a good cigar, Wulf?"

"When it's something this special, yes." Dieter selected and trimmed a cigar for himself. Took a long, deep drag and leaned back, letting the smoke out in a long plume.

The lighting was intimate and the windows wrapped around the seating area at the stern showed a view of a nearly full moon over the ocean.

Vera rose and Dieter stood with her. "Let's have our brandy in the lounge," she suggested. "Why don't you pour, dear?"

Uh-oh. We're up to endearments already. It wasn't that he would object to having sex with her, it was that he thought sex might screw things up. He wanted to recruit Philmore, to use her money to lay by the caches of food and weapons they'd need after Judgment Day, and her influence in high places and her mobility. For this to work right it needed to be a genuine commitment to the cause on her part, not something she was doing for romantic reasons. There were no reasons in the world more likely to cause vicious feelings once the bloom was off the rose.

He brought the brandy to her, pleased that she hadn't asked him to warm it for her. There was a contraption on the bar, but he wasn't in the mood to mess around with something flammable right now. Dieter handed her the balloon goblet and took a seat on the couch opposite.

She gave him a rueful smile and said, "I know who you are, you know."

Dieter froze. "Pardon me?"

Tossing her head back, she giggled like a girl. "You're Dieter von Rossbach. We have friends in common. Though you've been off the scene for a very long time now. Actually"—she put her drink down on the side table—"I only recall seeing you in the society column or Town & Country. There are several events that we both are supposed to have attended; only… you weren't there. I assure you, I would have noticed if you were."

She sucked delicately at her cigar, waiting for his reaction, but von Kossbach just sat there, wearing a grim expression, ignoring the brandy in his hand.

"So why," she continued, "are you playing deckhand on my little boat?" Vera settled back, taking another puff of her cigar, and watched him through the smoke.

Taking a puff of his own cigar, Dieter regarded her. It was easy to forget that Vera wasn't just a bubbleheaded blonde. She liked to laugh, disdained formality, and had an earthy sense of humor. But she'd also made most of her fortune herself and was utterly independent.

"I wasn't actually ready to talk to you about that," he admitted. Not least because he wasn't sure how to go about convincing her that what he said was true.

"Well, I am." Vera shrugged and looked away. "You're hardly the first good-looking guy to get aboard my yacht under an assumed name. You're just the first one that was rich. You could have your own yacht, you could have your own deckhands, you don't have to be one. So. What's your story, von Rossbach?"

"What do you think it is?" he countered.

She tapped her cigar into a crystal ashtray, watching the rich ash flake off as she spoke. "Well, I think that you want to sneak into the U.S., and for some reason you expect to be stopped at the border." She looked up at him, smiling. "How'd I do?"

He pulled the corners of his mouth down and shrugged.

"You're dead on, Vera. I have to admit I'm impressed."

"I had Arnie check your stuff, so I know you're not carrying contraband. And I may be kidding myself, but I don't think any of my regular guys is being your mule. So, why do you need to go sneaking around. Can we get to the point here?"

"Well, here's the problem." He paused, wincing. "My story is so unbelievable I'm kind of afraid you'll throw me overboard when I'm through."

"Oh, don't worry, honey," she assured him. "If I don't like your story, Mexico beckons." She took a sip of her brandy. "Start talking. Where were you all those years we were supposed to be partying together?"

"I was doing something else." Dieter began to unbutton his shirt and Vera's eyebrows shot up, her eyes widening and a little smile unconsciously curving her lips.

When he slipped off his shirt the first thing she noticed was how muscular his torso was, although not quite the standard gym-muscleman type. More functional, graceful despite its thick-muscled solidity. A thrill shot through her

as she wondered if he meant to seduce her.

Then she saw the scars.

"Ho-ly shit!" she whispered. "What the hell happened to you?"

Dieter smiled; he couldn't help but be pleased by her reaction. In a distant corner of his mind he wondered how Sarah would react. "This one"—he pointed to what looked like a second navel placed four inches to the side of his real one

—"is a bullet wound. I got that in Beirut. This"—his finger touched a crescent-shaped scar on his arm—"was a knife, one of those curved Arab jobs. Here"—he finally got to the one that really intrigued her—"is where a guy named Abdul el-Rahman tried to carve his initials. I killed him before he could finish. Sometimes these guys get so involved they forget they're not immortal."

"So, what? You were some kind of soldier of fortune?" Vera shifted a little nervously; this was not the way she'd imagined this conversation going.

"No." Dieter took a sip of brandy. "I was a covert antiterrorist operative. Now I'm a soldier of fortune." He smiled at her. "A very romantic designation, don't you think?"

She smiled in answer, a slight blush painting her cheek. Blinking rapidly, she took another sip of brandy herself.

"So, what do you want?" she asked.

Dieter took a deep breath and her eyes fastened on his chest.

She forced herself to look him in the eye. "Maybe you should…" She gestured vaguely.

He knew what she meant and was happy to oblige, putting his shirt back on.

"Right now I want to get into the U.S." He tipped a hand left and right. "Under the wire, so to speak. I had hoped to perhaps gain your sponsorship of a mission of some importance."

Secretly Vera had always daydreamed about someone coming into her life and tapping her for some desperate mission. Of course she was no fool. From time to time people had tried to manipulate her, tried to get her to support some drug deal or vicious tyrant-in-the-making. But she had resources that the average millionaire didn't have. Over the years she'd built up a network of friends and information gatherers who could give her the inside story on almost anyone.

Von Rossbach, oddly enough, was pretty much a mystery to them. Though they all said he had a rep as a stand-up guy.

Vera sat forward slowly, her eyes glowing with excitement.

"Tell me," she demanded.

When he was finished Vera looked away, her eyes thoughtful, then her glance went back to him. "So, all you want is to stop this one project?"

He nodded. "But there are forces at work here that really believe in this project, and they have friends at the highest level."

"I have friends at the highest level," she said confidently. She smiled. "I could

have a talk with them."

Dieter shook his head, his face sad. "No. This project is so black that the people you know probably aren't yet aware of it."

A look of impatience crossed her still-pretty face. "So how much do you want?"

How much will you give me? "Two million," he said aloud. For a start.

"Whoa! You don't want much, do you?" she said. "You're rich, why don't you kick in?"

"My entire fortune is dedicated to stopping this project." He shrugged self-deprecatingly. "All I ask is that you consider it."

Vera took a deep drag on her cigar, studying him with narrowed eyes through the smoke. She tightened her lips.

"All I have is your word on this."

"That's right," he agreed. "And you don't know me very well, so you don't know that my word is good. But I don't know you very well either. And these are very secret matters. Until and unless you commit to this project; I'm not at liberty to tell you more. As I said, think about it. Consult with your friends about me. I only ask that you not mention what I've told you. It could be dangerous, for you and for them."

"What about you?" she asked, arching a well-shaped brow.

Smiling ruefully, he shook his head. "I'm in so deep I consider myself lost at sea."

Vera snorted, then bit her lip. "All right," she said at last. "I'll consider it." She raised a finger. "No promises. Understand?"

He raised his glass in salute. "I've asked for nothing more."

Vera returned from her business appointment feeling depressed and thoughtful.

The South American side of her affairs was doing all right, but hardly spectacularly well, and she was disappointed. Maybe it was time to do some pruning of her investments.

She leaned against the yacht's railing and sighed. It wasn't just business that had her down. This whole thing with von Rossbach/Ingolfson certainly hadn't lived up to her daydreams. She got so sick of people hitting her up for cash for this or that project.

Though with his money von Rossbach hardly needed to do that. Which made his appeal for money somewhat puzzling.

Though the appeal of those shoulders and that chest… Vera sighed again, this time in pleasure at the memory. Two million, hmm? That was a lot to pay for just a peek. She could tell by the way she was thinking that he was going to have to go begging for his money to somebody else. I do so hate being used, she thought, pouting.

On the deck below, a pair of hands grasped the railing, followed by von Rossbach. Vera stood back and stayed very still, watching as he came over the rail, soaking wet and… He's naked! Vera thought in disbelief.

She suppressed a laugh, watching as he looked all around, confident that he couldn't see her. She'd had this balcony at the back of her private quarters constructed so that she could see the deck below while being hidden herself.

There was something odd about von Rossbach, besides his being stark naked, but she couldn't put her finger on it. He finally moved off.

I have got to call him on this! she thought. If they were going to be cited for public nudity by the local police, she'd be the one blamed, and ticketed. She had some standards after all, the last thing she wanted was the reputation of running a floating brothel. She hurried out of her quarters, meaning to catch up with him.

Vera smiled as she imagined the expression on his face as she gave him a dressing-down while he stood there beautifully undressed.

The Terminator moved down the short, narrow corridor on its way to the crew quarters. The design of this yacht, with the exception of the owner's quarters, which were customized, had been on the builder's Web site, so it knew the layout of the ship. After observing the boat for two days it could also identify everyone on it. One of those humans was Dieter von Rossbach. The I-950 had affirmed the request to terminate.

Hearing voices coming from the stairway leading to the engine room, it pushed the volume on its microphones to high and hastened to the end of the corridor.

The T-101 flattened itself against the bulkhead and peered around the corner, looking down the stairs. A man turned at the door of the engine room and leaned in.

"I'll be back," the one called Arnie shouted.

"Don't be too long."

Voice-recognition software confirmed that the second speaker was von Rossbach. This was excellent. As it listened to Arnie's footsteps moving down the corridor, it could hear only one other set of footsteps within the engine room.

Its quarry was alone. There was a violent clash of machinery from the engine room and it lowered its volume to protect the sensitive auditory device. Then it moved quickly down the stairs.

***

Dieter was wishing the engine room were air-conditioned; his body was covered in oil and sweat and only a drenched headband kept it from stinging his eyes.

The captain had decided that while they had a few days they should perform basic maintenance on the yacht's engines. Essentially a tune-up with an oil change on a massive scale. Von Rossbach assumed he wanted it done here because local regulations about used oil were a lot less strict than they were in San Diego.

Right now he was steam-cleaning the engine and resenting Arnie taking off, leaving him to, literally, take the heat. He grabbed the handle that would move the crankshaft and leave another area accessible.

The Terminator found a box of tools beside the door and pulled a two-foot-long pry bar out of it. As it had neither gun nor knife, this should do for a weapon.

Though it should be able to destroy an unarmed human with its bare hands, mission parameters stated that any and every available advantage should be used. The soft clatter of machinery being manually cranked succeeded by a sound like a compressed air blast led it to its prey.

Dieter sprayed the upper part of the engine with the steam, watching the muck run off with a sense of satisfaction. He was almost done with this. It had been a long time since he'd pulled maintenance on a marine diesel, and it made him feel nostalgic, in a way. Another half hour or so and he'd be able to go up on deck for some of the comparatively cooler air there. Then a shower. He imagined the shower stall would look something like the engine did now, with black goo running down its sides.

He squatted to get the lower side and a pry bar hit the engine with enough force to dent the metal.

Dieter fell onto his butt and reacted instinctively, turning the steam jet on his attacker.

There was no scream of pain and the figure dimly seen through the steam didn't stagger back. Instead, the bar came down for another blow.

Dieter rolled to his knees and shoved at the man while he was overbalanced to make his strike, and his opponent went down. The Austrian rose to his feet and stared at the man, astonished to see that he was naked. Then the man turned over and began to rise, the pry bar still in his hand and—

That is my own face. Red and covered with blisters, the eyes white and peeling from the steam blast, but still terrifyingly familiar.

The Terminator reached up and plucked the cooked flesh from its eye sockets, revealing the red lights and black plastic of its eyes and allowing it to see.

"Oh shit!" von Rossbach said, and turned, running for the door. He needed a weapon; something in the way of high explosives would be nice.

The Terminator's hand flashed out and the hooked end of the pry bar locked around Dieter's ankle, bringing him crashing to the metal floor. The Austrian scrabbled forward, reaching for the toolbox, intending to throw it. Then the pry bar hit his thigh glancingly and von Rossbach shouted with pain and went down again. His hand reached out and came up with a five-pound sledgehammer.

Dieter rolled onto his back just in time to block a blow from the pry bar aimed at his neck; the force of it was shocking, slamming the head of the hammer into the slatted grillwork of the engine-room deck.

I'm going to die, he thought as the Terminator raised the bar for an impaling stroke.

Vera heard someone cry out and she hurried down the narrow stairway, listening with alarm to what sounded like a fight. She arrived in the hatchway just in time to see the Terminator place its foot on Dieter's injured thigh, causing him to cry out again.

She shouted "no!" as she saw the pry bar come up for a blow and the Terminator turned toward her.

For Vera everything stopped in that moment—sound, breath, thought. A terribly burned face in which blazed red, glowing eyes turned to her, hesitated, then the Terminator began to bring the bar down toward the man on the deck.

Dieter swung the hammer, knocking the bar out of the Terminator's hand, then

brought it down on the T-101's knee. It crumpled, and at that moment Vera realized that the sound was… metallic.

As it adjusted its leg von Rossbach rolled free, coming up against the bulkhead, seeming to rise to his feet in one fluid motion. He grabbed the power cables that had been rigged to test the engine and hit the switch with his elbow as the Terminator lunged toward him, its big hands reaching for his throat.

Dieter pushed the live cables into its reaching hands and the Terminator almost flew backward to lie twitching on the deck. Instantly von Rossbach scrambled to the wall, took up an electric arc welder, and went to work on the twitching, recumbent form; he didn't have much time until it reset.

Vera sank to the deck with a little cry, her eyes so wide the whites showed all around, her hand to her mouth in horror.

Ignoring her, von Rossbach cut through the metal neckbone analogue, watching with grim satisfaction as the red lights behind the thing's eyes went out. Then he stood panting for a moment before he turned his attention to the frightened woman in the doorway.

"It isn't human," he said to her.

She looked up at him, uncomprehending.

Dieter knelt beside her and spoke very gently. "Look," he said, pointing. "You can see the metal. It wasn't a person."

She looked at the fallen Terminator, then turned to von Rossbach and back

again. "Not human," she said, her voice shaking.

"Are you all right?" Dieter asked her. He hoped she wouldn't go into shock. "Do you know who I am?"

Slowly Vera frowned. She was shocked, and badly frightened, but she was also very tough. "Of course I know who you are. I'm not an idiot! What the hell is that thing? Why does it look like you? And how the hell are we gonna get rid of the body?"

He leaned back and studied her, assessing her condition, and decided that she was going to be all right. As all right as anyone was after meeting their first Terminator anyway. "It's a Terminator," he explained. "Its mission was to kill me in order to protect that AI program that I told you about."

Dieter watched as her eyes turned to the fallen Terminator. Its skull showed metallic gleams through the mass of crushed flesh, and the spine was a mass of gleaming cut metal and sparking wires.

She licked her lips and then looked up at him. "How did it know where to find you?" she asked. The she straightened with a gasp as an idea struck her. "Are there others?" She grew pale. "Could there be another on the ship? I mean, right now?"

He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and shook his head. "It's unlikely that there are more around right now. They're not all that common. As to how it found me"—he shook his head—"I don't know. It probably picked up something on the Internet and came looking."

Vera shuddered and turned away from the Terminator, burying her head on his shoulder. She began to shake. "Oh God," she said.

Dieter put his arms around her and let her rest for a moment, then he urged her to rise. "I'll dispose of this," he said, planning how ho would do it even as he reassured her. "You should go have a brandy and lie down. I'll come and talk to you later."

"Don't," she said, rising to her feet, her face determinedly turned away from the Terminator. "I need to be alone."

She walked away like an old woman and Dieter watched her, frowning, uncertain what to do. His options were limited; stay and risk her turning him away, or go on his own. He didn't think she'd mention the Terminator to anyone; she was intelligent enough to imagine the consequences of that.

Dieter looked at his disposal problem and decided to stay. With such unequivocal proof presenting itself to her, she just might come through for him.

CHAPTER TEN

MIT CAMPUS

Snog's small room—bed-sitter with kitchenette—was surprisingly neat. Maybe that was because everything that wasn't a computer or a book had been eliminated.

"Can't work in clutter man." Snog himself said in response to John's initial, evaluating glance around the room. "Makes me feel like the inside of my head's

messed up."

John raised his brows and nodded. The answer to his unspoken comment made sense to him. After two years in a military academy he found it difficult to tolerate mess himself.

There were five of them besides John in the cramped room, Wendy the only female. Two of the guys were long and thin with unruly mops of hair, one dark-haired, the other a redhead, both with glasses. The other two, one of them Snog, were on the hefty side, both bearded, with even longer, wilder hair and no glasses.

Wendy pointed to the dark-haired skinny guy. "Brad," she said. He and John nodded and smiled at each other. She indicated the big fella who'd passed them the word about this meeting in the student union. "Carl." Carl nodded, too.

"Yam," Wendy said with a nod at the redhead.

"Hi," John said.

"So you're the mystery man," Snog said—sneered, rather.