The Future War

DELTA JUNCTION, ALASKA

John sat in the parking lot of the Longhouse for a good forty-five minutes staring at nothing—wet green trees, wet gray mud, wet pavement, and wet gray sky, all a blur. Dieter's truck was three cars over, but there was still no sign of him and Sarah.

Maybe I ought to tell them inside, John thought. Cowardly, sure, but probably a good way to ensure that Mom doesn't kill me outright.

Tightening his lips, he hung his head. She might never speak to him again—at least not as her son—but she probably wouldn't kill him, if only because Skynet would want her to. John opened the door and slid out, ignoring the chill and the spray of rain that struck his face and neck. Then he crossed the longest parking lot on earth…

But not long enough, he thought, dodging around a vastly bearded man in a bloodred mackinaw who looked like he'd done a summer's drinking with spring yet young. I wish it were somewhere about a light-year long. Or that I could just run away.

He pushed through the entrance door, through the hall, and through the inner doors—most places around here had that air-lock arrangement, for wintertime. Hot smoky air full of the smells of cooking and beer struck him, noisy with conversation.

The hostess beside the "Please Wait to Be Seated" sign waved him inside when he told her he was meeting someone already there. He stood at the entrance to a long and dimly lit room, amid a clatter of cutlery and more tobacco smoke than he liked.

Dieter and Sarah, wineglasses in hand, were laughing together at a table in the dim back corner of the restaurant.

Candle glow from a small, rustic lamp in the center of the table made his mother look thirty and very pretty.

It seemed selfish to force his news on them when they were enjoying themselves so much. But then, if they're feeling mellow, maybe Dieter won't kill me either. He walked toward them, forcing a vaguely pleasant expression onto his face. When he reached their table his mother gave him a knowing smile.

"I was wondering when you'd come over," she said. "But when I saw the look on your face, I wasn't about to invite you."

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Can I sit?" he asked.

Sarah and Dieter exchanged glances and the big man made a gracious gesture of invitation; whereupon John sat, his hands clasped over his stomach. That was beginning to ache with the tension.

"You want to eat?" Sarah asked, glancing around for a waiter.

John waved her off. "No." He sat forward, closer to both of them, and his manner made them lean in, too. John looked them both in the eye. "I owe you an apology for my behavior," he said.

"Both of you, but mostly you, Mom. I have something to tell you."

He gritted his teeth. "And I swear, I'd rather cut my tongue out than say it."

Sarah leaned back, tapping the table with one finger, and studied her son. He looked… ashamed. Something curdled deep inside her, some warning of impending disaster. If John were just any young man, she'd think he was going to confess that he'd knocked up some girl and was planning a low-rent lifestyle with her. But John wasn't just any young man, and any disaster that could make him look so defeated and so conscience-stricken must be very, very bad.

"Do you want to wait until we get home?" she asked softly.

He shook his head. "I don't think I can stand to wait." He shook his head again. "But I don't know how to tell you."

Dieter rolled his eyes. "Say it like it's a report," he snapped.

"Start at the beginning, go on to the end, and stop."

John gave him a brief smile, then looked down again. "I was reading Mom's report, and in spite of my resistance, I was seeing the sense of it when I asked myself why I was being such a jerk."

Dieter made a rumbling sound of protest and John stopped him with a look.

"I know how I've been behaving. So I thought about when it had started, and that brought me back to Red Seal Base." Sarah and Dieter automatically checked to see if anyone was listening, and John was briefly, sadly amused. "Just before the Terminator killed Wendy, she was trying to say something to me. I thought it was 'enter.' So I went to the computer and loaded the disk I found in the drawer. Then the Terminator killed her, we killed it, and we left."

John picked at a hangnail for a moment, then he looked directly at his mother. "But now I've thought it over and I think what she said… no, I'm sure that what she said was 'erase.' "

Sarah made a little grunt, as though she'd been punched, not hard but right in the solar plexus. She stared at her son, her mouth slightly open, and moved her hands awkwardly, as though she didn't know what to do with them.

"You?" she said, unbelieving. She shook her head, then gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Sarah stood, still looking at John. "I need to take a walk," she said, sounding hypnotized.

She slid out from behind the table. Dieter started to rise and she waved him back. Sarah stopped for a moment to look down at John, who could only bear to shoot brief glances at her. Then she walked away from them, briskly, and without looking back.

Silence reigned at the table.

"I'm glad we had dinner before you came in," Dieter said.

John looked at him, feeling sick. "I don't think I ever want to eat again," he mumbled.

"You will. You'd better." The big Austrian narrowed his eyes.

"We've got a mess to clean up."

That shocked an incredulous laugh out of John. "A mess?

That's putting it a bit mildly, wouldn't you say?"

"Yah, but I don't have my violin."

Genuinely shocked, the younger man stared at him. "I can understand if you don't wanna give me a hug, but I've just realized this whole thing is my fault. I'd appreciate it if you didn't make fun of me, okay?"

"You made a mistake," Dieter agreed. "But you weren't the only one. I knew you were upset, and hurt. I was the more experienced operative; I should have double-checked your work."

"It's good of you to want to shoulder some of the responsibility, Dieter," John began.

Dieter waved that off. "At this juncture assigning blame is meaningless. And in this case it's particularly pointless. We've been in this situation before, John." He nodded his head. "And we've discussed what's happening. Events want to happen a certain way. You and your mother and I have changed things three times. The first two times you had nothing to do with creating Skynet, yet you owe your very existence to it." He sighed. "I suppose it's only reasonable that fate would choose you to bring it into being."

"We have no fate but what we make for ourselves," Sarah said.

John jumped and looked up at her. She was wearing her hardest expression, but she wasn't looking at him as though he was the enemy.

"This was bad luck and poor performance, brought about no doubt by your having hypothermia and John's being wounded and in shock. But we're not going to lie down and wail, 'Oh, it was fate, there's nothing we can do.' We've fought Skynet before and won; we'll go on fighting it until the damn thing's obliterated. Now let's go home and get to work." She turned and walked away.

Dieter watched her go with awe in his face. "What a woman,"

he whispered. Then he smiled at John and, reaching over the table, gave him a slap on the back. "Let's go see what we can do, eh?"

* * *

NEAR THE MOSQUITO RIVER, ALASKA

Ninel rode her bike up the weed-grown gravel driveway, then paused just as the house came in sight through the bushes. It was a neat little cottage with a stone chimney and a screened-in front porch. It seemed surprisingly well cared for given the condition of the driveway. Someone moved within the shaded depths of the porch and Ninel tightened her lips, embarrassed at being seen spying on the house. She continued riding.

"Hello the house," she called out.

A slightly plump woman with short gray hair, wearing a shapeless housedress, opened the screen door and stood on the steps. She had a pleasant, motherly face and alert, intelligent eyes. Ninel warmed to her immediately.

"Hello yourself," the woman said, and took another step down.

"You'd be Ninel?"

"Petrikoff," Ninel agreed and held out her hand.

"Balewitch," the woman said with a grin and a slight shrug.

She took Ninel's hand in a firm clasp. "It seemed romantic and interesting when I was young." She rolled her eyes. "Now it just reminds me of how young I once was. Still, a lot of people know me by Balewitch. C'mon in and have some tea." She went up the steps and onto the porch, holding the door open invitingly.

"Quick, before the mosquitoes get in!"

Ninel put the bike on its kickstand and dashed lightly up the steps. Her hostess led her past a tiny sitting room and down a short hall to a sunny kitchen. It was probably the largest room in the house and most likely where Balewitch spent most of her time. The room was painted in soft yellow and pale green with a big farmhouse-style table and ladder-back chairs with rush seats around it. It smelled like fresh bread, with maybe just a hint of the sandalwood scent of pot beneath it.

"You have a lovely home," Ninel said.

The woman turned from spooning tea into a pot and smiled.

"Thank you, honey. I like it." She poured boiling water into the pot and brought it to the table where two mugs already sat. "It's mint from my garden."

"Oh really, how nice," Ninel said, and sat down.

"Ron said you used to be a lot more active than you've been the last little while," Balewitch said, pouring the fragrant beverage for both of them.

"Yeah, I was going to college in Fairbanks and there was a pretty big Luddite presence on campus. But so many people up here are Luddites that I sometimes felt like we were preaching to the converted. You know what I mean?"

Balewitch nodded as she drizzled honey into her tea.

"So when the opportunity came up to. take over this trapper's run, I grabbed it. Kyle kept me pretty busy teaching me everything I needed to know, so I didn't even have time to keep up with my friends in the movement, never mind the broader scope of things. But as soon as I could, I got back in touch." She took a sip of tea, smiled approval at her hostess, then shook her head. "But when Ron Labane himself seemed to be answering my postings, well, naturally, my interest soared. Although"—she carefully put her mug on the table—"I have to admit I sometimes doubt it's really him."

Balewitch chuckled, her eyes sparkling with humor. "Oh, I can understand that. I had my doubts when he got back in touch with me at first. But it's him all right." She gave a firm nod. "No one else would know the things he knows—about me, about my group. It's him all right." She looked at Ninel and smiled. "So tell me all about yourself."

Perhaps it was her motherly appearance or the sympathy in her smile, but Balewitch was very easy to talk to; she was an intelligent listener who asked all the right questions. Or maybe it was finally being in the company of someone with similar interests and ideas, but Ninel found herself talking more than she probably had all year. When the flow of words ran out, she looked down at her cold tea in surprise. Balewitch grinned and took the cup away from her.

"Well, you've at least kept up with the literature," she said.

"I'm a fast reader," Ninel admitted. "When I finally got the opportunity to hit the library, I just devoured everything I could get my hands on. And when I didn't have access, I just"—she shrugged—"well, thought about Mr. Labane's philosophy. My parents thought that Marxist-Leninist philosophy put forth the most important ideas ever known. But they were wrong. Ron Labane's ideas will save the human race from itself."

After a moment Balewitch said, "I suppose your parents saw themselves as revolutionaries."

Ninel shook her head, smiling sadly. "Maybe before I was born they were. The fire was pretty much gone before I was ten. When I was in high school I discovered the Luddite movement and tried to get them interested, but it was hopeless. I haven't been back home since I left for college, and I seriously doubt they've noticed I'm gone."

Balewitch patted her hand. "They've noticed. Maybe they've even discovered the movement."

Ninel shook her head. "I doubt it. The last time I went to one of their party meetings, the women were trading recipes and the men were talking about baseball. Like I said, the fire is gone."

"What about your fire?" Balewitch asked. "Still hot?"

The younger woman leaned forward eagerly. "Give me a chance to prove myself. Ask me to do something and I'll do it. I can be very efficient."

Balewitch laughed and patted her hand again. "Down, girl!

First why don't we try to put you in touch with some like-minded young people and see how you get along. Meanwhile, Ron told me to give you this." She got up and retrieved a booklet from a counter.

Ninel took it and gasped. "Oh! The library didn't have this and they said they couldn't get it."

"I'll just bet they didn't have it," her hostess said with a grin.

"And the only way you can get it is with Ron's special permission. I warn you, do not show this around. It's intended for your eyes only. Understand?"

Her eyes shining, Ninel clasped the booklet to her bosom and nodded. "I'll be careful," she said. "Thank you."

"I know you will. You'd better get along now, honey. You've got a fair piece to travel, haven't you?"

"Yeah." Ninel was taken aback at first to realize that Balewitch knew where she lived, but then told herself that of course she knew. Hadn't she been given directions on how to get here? Naturally they knew her starting point. If not the exact location of her home.

She thanked Balewitch for her hospitality and for the booklet and started off on her bike. As she rode along it occurred to her that she'd done most of the talking and her new friend knew a great deal more about her than she knew about Balewitch. That wasn't how things usually went with her and she felt a bit uneasy. Still, she had Ron Labane's latest work, actually titled Forbidden Thoughts. No wonder the public library didn't carry it.

* * *

"Ron'll be able to smell that shit right through the screen,"

Dog Soldier said.

Balewitch didn't bother to turn around; she continued to type her report into the computer, pausing only to take the roach out of her mouth. "It relaxes me," she said shortly in her normal, foghorn voice.

"Ah, but the boss doesn't approve," Dog said. He flopped down in the overstuffed chair beside the computer table, grinning at her.

"Then the boss can go fuck himself, or he can give me something to do. Something besides interviewing dewy young things with more sex appeal than brains." She took another toke, then, raising one eyebrow, offered the roach to him.

Dog waved it away. "Not my failing, old girl."

"No"—she indicated the computer—"your failings would seem to involve aim, for example."

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the chair. "I blew his fucking brains out. There weren't enough of

'em left inside his head to fill an eggcup."

"Then who the hell is reading this report?" she asked.

"Hell if I know. But I like the way he thinks."

Balewitch grunted in agreement and, narrowing her eyes at the screen, resumed typing.

"He can always tell when you're smoking, you know," Dog teased.

Balewitch glared at him. "Haven't you got anything better to do?"

He rolled his head back and forth on the chair back.

"Nah-uh." He watched her type for another moment or two. "So, what've ya got planned for that luscious little poppet, eh?"

Balewitch gestured at the screen. "That's up to the ghost of Ron Labane, not me."

Dog snickered. "I like your sense of humor."

"I don't have one," Balewitch said.

Dog pulled down the corners of his mouth and closed his eyes again. "That kid has potential," he said at last.

Balewitch thoughtfully blew out a cloud of fragrant smoke and gave a slow nod. "She might. Being brought up the way she was, there are certain security measures that probably come second nature to her. She talked her head off to me, though."

"Yeah," Dog agreed. He waggled a finger at her. "But that's one of your more unexpected talents. You can get anyone to open up to you. Partly because you look and sound like the perfect cookie-bakin' grandma."

Balewitch smiled. "Something I had to grow into," she agreed smugly. "As to the kid, she knows how to live hard and make sacrifices. She seems emotionally self-sufficient. She could be useful. It all depends on how the others evaluate her. I think she's worth taking a chance on."

"Time's running out," Dog said.

Balewitch looked at him. "What makes you say that?"

He patted his slim middle. "Gut feeling. That Skynet thing, that's the catalyst. 01' Ron's hopping mad about it, in case you haven't been reading your mail."

"Yeah," Balewitch said softly, almost dreamily. "That's the ticket all right. Maybe that's why he's had us step up recruiting."

Dog nodded agreement. Recruiting, supply gathering, weapons training, not to mention intensive study of Nazi methods of dealing with unwanted civilians. The group had no fewer than ten extermination depots prepared in the lower U.S.

already.

The plan was to round people up, put 'em to work producing weapons, producing food, clothing, whatever was needed to win the war. Work 'em to death actually; there were always plenty more where those came from. Little by little there would be fewer and fewer people until there weren't any left at all. Then the world could be at peace and the cycle of life could continue as it was meant to. And for a little while the favored few, him and Balewitch and the others, would get to enjoy it as reward for their hard work.

He grinned. He could hardly wait for the hard work to begin.

Balewitch grunted in agreement at the sight of that smile as though she'd been privy to his thoughts. Then she went back to writing her report.

* * *

SKYNET

The Balewitch subject had been self-medicating again. It was obvious from her keystrokes and word choice, as well as the deterioration of her spelling. Ron Labane had become very distressed when Balewitch indulged in drugs.

But from what Skynet had found in the records of Susie Jayne Gaynor a.k.a. Balewitch, the urge to take drugs with a calming effect, such as marijuana, was a rare sign of intelligent discipline. Left to her own devices, she was violent and unpredictable and apparently addicted to excitement.

But she was able to restrain herself if the promised payoff was attractive enough. In this case, the payoff was the power of life and death over any of her fellow humans that she chose. With the exception of Skynet/Labane's top echelon. Or to Skynet's discretion.

The report she was composing confirmed Skynet's estimation of Ninel Petrikoff—intelligent, emotionally stable, independent, and capable. Balewitch wanted to confirm her dedication to the cause, but Skynet had no doubts in that regard.

While it had no more understanding of emotions than most humans did, it knew that within certain parameters they were predictable, even quantifiable to a degree. Generally humans loved their parents, for example, but they loved them less than they did their own children.

Therefore, a threat to a human's children would probably produce a different result than a threat to the same human's parents. Threats were one type of manipulation, but there were other methods available. Some of those methods could undermine the human's emotional attachment to even their children.

Skynet had found that when a human was alienated from his or her family then they would seek out a similar relationship elsewhere. Some found this with friends, others with causes, often developing a worshipful mind-set toward a group leader, not unlike that of a young child for its parent. Humans could easily be manipulated through this bond.

In its estimation, Ninel Petrikoff's commitment to the Luddite movement was 85 percent. Not as high as that of Balewitch or the other six members of her cell, but enough to depend on.

Especially during the early days, when other humans would be hailing the Luddites as heroes. The Luddites would maintain their positive image as long as only those with a higher rating were allowed near the extermination camps and as long as security could be maintained there. Then, gradually, the less useful troops would find their way to the camps and their own elimination.

The time was almost ripe. Soon it would have achieved the right number of augmented vehicles to act as Hunter-Killer machines until such time as the real HKs could be manufactured according to the information that the 1-950 had downloaded into its files. Soon, it would control all of the nuclear arsenal of the United States.

* * *

ALASKA

The door banged behind Sarah Connor and she headed for her computer, throwing her coat and mittens on a sofa as she passed, and pausing half a second to pitch another section of log into the woodstove.

That's my human whirlwind, Dieter von Rossbach thought, following in her wake. Let's see if I can give it that delicate personal touch instead.

Whistling silently, he thumbed the first of the list of numbers on the phone routed through his computer, and waited—waited a fair thirty seconds, because the call was being encrypted, broken down into separate digital bundles, and shot through half a dozen anonymous remailers all around the world.

Paranoia as a way of life, he thought.

"Hello, Chen?" he said, conscious of how Sarah's hair stirred as she cocked half an ear in his direction. "Yes, it's me. We think it's started, Chen. Be ready."

He winced and took the phone from his ear. Loudest click I've heard in many a year, he thought.

"No joy?" Sarah said.

"I think my feelings are hurt," Dieter said, hanging up the phone.

Sarah looked up from her screen, frowning. "But did he hear you?"

Dieter shrugged his big shoulders. "I believe he did; I hope so." He sighed. "But what can we really tell them? We've found this pattern, it seems significant, we think the time is near, be prepared." He shrugged. "The people I'm talking to are as prepared as anyone can be, you know? But how can you really be prepared for Armageddon?"

He scanned down the list—three more in China, seven in South Korea, five in Japan, two in Malaysia, six in Indonesia, around thirty in Australia…

"It's not Armageddon," Sarah said. "It's not even Judgment Day. This isn't divine retribution, it's an industrial accident on a major scale." She turned back to her screen. "And we will win."

Dieter gave her a fond smile and then went to the next name on his list.

In his own workroom John was trying to trace down more accidents of the type his mother had been tracking. He'd been at it now for about four hours and his eyes felt dry. He stretched and went into the kitchen to make coffee.

When it was ready he made up a tray and brought it to Dieter's office.

"What time is it on the East Coast?" Sarah was asking as he came in.

Dieter checked his watch. "Five a.m. Too early unless we've got more to give them than this," he cautioned. He grinned at the sight of John's loaded tray. "Let me adopt you, John, it's the least I can do." He cleared a space on his desk.

John gave him a weak smile in acknowledgment of the joke, laid down the tray, and turned to his mother. As if by instinct she looked up and met his eyes.

"Yesterday there were several 'incidents,' " he said. "All fitting the pattern you found." He paused as Dieter handed Sarah a cup of coffee.

"And? But?" she prompted.

"But for the last twenty-four hours, nothing. There have been some accidents, but nothing on the scale we've been seeing, and none that were absolutely freaky involving cars manufactured in the last two years. It's like they're all on their best behavior."

Sarah and Dieter lowered their cups as one and looked at each other.

"This is it," she said.

* * *

Kurt Viemeister thought the bunker deep under the Antarctic ice had a certain raw grandeur; the glimmer of the red lights, the blue of screens and readouts, the murmur of voices, a hint of ozone in the air—and the knowledge of the mile of rock and ice above him, with the blizzards of the Antarctic winter scouring the surface. He stood beside his terminal at parade rest, watching the purposeful bustle of the technicians and the world-scale schematic map of the U.S. armed forces' strategic assets on the big plasma screen at the end of the room.

There were other scientists around him, but he ignored them.

He considered them self-important cattle and discounted their contributions as negligible. Kurt had more respect for the engineers, though he thought of them as little more than exalted technicians.

It was he who had brought Skynet's intelligence to this level, he who had developed it to a near-human degree of self-awareness. If anything, he resented the government's insistence on this test. Skynet was ready, and far less flawed than the average humans who'd had their fingers on the button for the last fifty years or so.

He stood in a heroic pose, with muscular legs braced, his massive arms folded across a mighty chest, little suspecting that every-one in the room, including his super-computer mind child, thought he was a complete prick.

Orders were called out, the technicians repeated them and tapped in commands, announcing their completion and standing down until more orders came. Everyone tensely watched the screens as all manual control of nuclear weapons, whether in silos under Kansas cornfields, on submarines, or in aircraft, was transferred to the control of the most awesome computer mind ever designed by man. The final command was tapped in.

On the screen above Viemeister the words Program Loaded

appeared, followed by

Standing By

The room broke out in spontaneous applause at this sign of smooth transition.

Then the lights went out. After a moment's silence a murmur went up, and a general asked plaintively: "Was that supposed to happen?"

The main screen remained live and everyone's eyes were locked on the only light in the room.

Execute: Firefall

Loading Program

Commence Firefall Yes/No

Yes