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 alm
ost 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 Am
erica 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."
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