Because of the unveiling gala, Lincoln Center Plaza had been blocked off with temporary walls of red velvet curtains attached at top and bottom to metal frames. Not an ideal solution since it was a windy place and the velvet tended to billow like sails, dragging the heavy frames forward or back with an ear-rending screech.
The glittering throng on the plaza gave every appearance of being deaf to the racket, and the string quintet might have been playing in an enclosed theater before a respectful audience instead of a noisy open space, being ignored by one
and all.
Clea stood at the gate, slightly nervous, which gave her some idea of the work her regulators were doing, and wondered at the ability of humans to compartmentalize their attention like that. It should be impossible for such inferior beings to do something so difficult so easily. On the other hand they provided themselves with endless opportunities to perfect this particular ability.
The line moved up and an usher took her invitation, leaving her tree to enter. It seemed to her as she paused on the edge of the party that everyone wearing a tie was looking at her, waiters included. Well, she thought, it seems the dress is having the promised effect. The saleswoman had assured her that she would be
"eye-catching."
She looked different tonight. After spending the afternoon at a spa having every conceivable treatment, she looked dark and glamorous. The makeup artist had almost wept when Clea pulled out the glasses and put them on, and had insisted on making adjustments. The woman's efforts had paid off; Clea looked very little like her progenitor and the knowledge gave her a confidence that she was often sadly lacking.
Clea looked around; it was time to seek her prey.
Ron Labane sipped his champagne and looked around at the important, well-dressed people surrounding him. These days he was invited to every noteworthy event in the city. Usually he went, because it was an opportunity to speak with money; such opportunities were not to be overlooked. Occasionally he worried that he was in danger of losing his idealistic purity. Money was dirty, after all, and the filth could smear your soul if you weren't careful. Lie down with dogs,
get up with fleas. Ron was about to make some remark to the crowd around him when his eye was caught by a beautiful woman in a painted-on red dress moving across the plaza with the grace of a stalking panther. He thought she might be looking for someone. I'd like it to be me, he thought.
Clea finally spotted Vladimir Hill, surrounded by an admiring cluster of committeewomen. There was Mrs. Colvin, and by her side was her husband, the CEO of Cyberdyne. She approached the little knot of people with a slight smile that hid her nervousness.
Vladimir looked up; his eyes widened slightly at the sight of her and he smiled his welcome. He began walking toward Clea with a confident gait, almost a swagger. Clea's smile widened; he would be her entree to the group.
Vladimir introduced her to each of the committeewomen, every one of whom
"noticed" her dress. Their husbands did, too, but they approved. After the introductions Hill reclaimed everyone's attention for himself.
Clea leaned toward Mrs. Colvin and spoke out of the side of her mouth. "I don't know how I let myself get talked into buying this dress." she said. "But I'm just a Montana country girl and that saleslady was a big-city shark if you ever saw one.
She said it was what everyone would be wearing and I'd look a fool if I didn't buy it." Clea gave a little huff and looked around nervously. "I think I look like a hussy!" she whispered.
Mrs. Colvin smiled at her, really smiled for the first time, and leaned close. "You look fine. I've met a saleswoman like that a time or two," she said. Then she gave Clea's arm a little pat. "Trust me, you're coming out of it better than I did."
MONTANA
Crack.
The Terminator raised its head, scanning in the visual and infrared. The sound had been a medium-caliber rifle with a 98 percent probability a of being a hunting weapon; it had been fired approximately 1.2 kilometers to the northeast.
It turned and walked in that direction, wading through a knee-high stream of glacially cold water, then through open pine forest. Animals fell silent as they scented its approach; that might alert the humans, and so might the unavoidable crackling of fallen branches under its five-hundred-pound weight. Otherwise it made little disturbance in the environment as it passed, dipping and bending with eerie grace to avoid the standing vegetation.
The two hunters—poachers, given that this was out of season, at night, and on private property—were stringing the deer up to a branch and preparing to butcher it. They turned with startled speed as the Terminator approached over the last ten yards. One wrinkled his nose.
"Hell, what's that smell, man?" the shorter one said.
The Terminator's machine mind drew a wire diagram over them both. The larger human's clothes would be suitable; its own were saturated with decay products.
If they did not see him clearly, there would be no need to arouse potential attention by terminating them. At present, both orders and its own estimation of the proper maximization of mission goals indicated stealth tactics.
"You," it said. "Fat man. Lay down your weapons, give me your clothes and
boots, and then go away. This is private property."
The flat gravel of his voice seemed to paralyze both men for an instant. Then the bigger of the two spoke. " What did you say?"
"I said: You. Fat man. Lay down your weapons, give me your clothes and boots, and then go away. This is private property."
"The hell you say!"
The bigger man's accent held a good deal of Western twang, over-laying somethingelse—the Terminator's speech-recognition software estimated his birthplace as within twenty kilometers of Newark, New Jersey.
"He didn't even say 'please,' " the smaller man put in.
"Please," the Terminator added.
"Mister, your ideas stink worse than you do," the bigger man said, and reached for the angle-headed flashlight at his belt.
"Don't turn on that light."
"The hell you say!"
The light speared out and shone full on the Terminator's face, glittering in the reflective lenses no longer hidden by False flesh, highlighting the shreds of rotten skin hanging from his lips and the white teeth behind.
A sharp smell of urine and feces reached the Terminator's chemoreceptors from
the smaller man. The bigger snatched in his rifle— Arms Tech Ltd. TTR-700
sniper-weapon system, the Terminator's data bank listed—and fired. The hollow-point 7.62mm round flattened against one of the pseudo-ribs of the Terminator's thorax and peened off into the darkness. The T-101 stepped forward three paces as the poacher struggled to work the bolt of his rifle and snatched it out of his hand, tearing off one finger as it came. A blow with his fist between the eyes disposed of the big hunter, and it stooped to pick up a rock for the second, who was fleeing in a blundering rush through the night. The rock left the Terminator's hand at over a hundred meters per second, and transformed the back of the smaller man's head to bone fragments and mush.
The Terminator appropriated the big man's hunting jacket and hat as well as his boots. Then it dragged the two corpses deep into the woods for the wild animals to finish off; after a thoughtful pause it carved a short slogan into their chests with a hunting knife: PEOPLE FOR THE ETHICAL TREATMENT OF
ANIMALS.
Their truck's windows were only partially darkened, so that the driver could still be seen, but dimly. It found a pair of sunglasses on the dash and put them on, trimmed away the strips dangling from its lips, started the engine, and began to drive. Except for the smell and the Band-Aid on its nose that hid exposed steel, it could pass for human again, in a dim light and as long as the human didn't get too close.
BIG BEE DINER, ROUTE 85, NEW
MEXICO
Waylon Bridges and Luke Hardy sat sipping their Cokes and watching the TV
mounted over the counter. Conversation was over for the ti
me being and they were just waiting for their customer. One of their favorite "reality" programs was on. a show called Crimefighters. They re-enacted actual crimes and then showed pictures of the suspects in hopes that people would call in with the whereabouts of these people.
Tonight they were showing exclusive footage of a murderous raid on a police station in California. The host grimly warned that this sequence was not suitable for children or very sensitive viewers. Then the blurry tape began to roll and a huge man in sunglasses, carrying guns in both hands, began murdering cops by the dozen.
Waylon and Luke sat with their mouths open and watched the carnage. "My God," Luke murmured.
"Damn!" Waylon agreed.
The camera froze on the man's face. "If you have any information on this man,"
the host intoned, "call this number, or contact this Web address."
Waylon quickly wrote the numbers down on a napkin. "Love to git my hands on that sucker," he said.
Luke lit up a cigarette, blew a speck of tobacco off his lip, and shook his head.
"You 'n me both, brother," he said. "Wonder what they're offerin' for 'im."
"E-nough," Waylon said, slapping the pen on the table. He lit a cigarette of his own and leaned back to watch the show.
A kid of about seventeen came into the diner and paused inside the doorway, looking around. He spotted the two men and walked over to them. Waylon and Luke pretended not to notice.
"Excuse me," John said.
They looked him over thoroughly before one of them condescended to answer.
"Ye-ah," Waylon drawled.
"I'm looking to buy a used car," John said.
John assumed these were the men he was supposed to speak to. They were the only two customers in here. The Jeep with the "For Sale" sign in the window was supposed to be the signal that the gun dealers were in. He waited politely for them to make the next move.
Waylon and Luke exchanged glances… at length.
I'd forgotten what dealing with good ol' boys could be like, John thought impatiently. / guess if's kinda like forgetting pain once it's gone. If you didn't, you'd never go back to the dentist and there would be no second children, as Mom puts it.
"Not from us you're not," Luke said, his blue eyes cold. "I ain't gonna sell nothin'
to no kid. I don't wanna be responsible for no high-school shootin' spree."
"Maybe you'd like to speak to my dad," John suggested. "He's out in the car."
And he could whup both of y'all with one hand tied behind his big ol' back. My
God, he thought. I can't believe I thought that. It must be contagious.
Luke and Waylon exchanged another meaningful look. Luke turned his eyes to stare at John while Waylon examined his thumbnail closely, then he looked up at Connor from under his eyebrows.
"How come yore daddy dint come in hisself?" he asked.
Aw, c'mon, John thought. Nobody talks like this. This guy's probably from San Diego! He looked from one man to the other. "My daddy is lookin' at yore car, mister," he drawled. Then he spread his hands at hip level. "You want to do business or what?"
They dragged themselves up like they'd been bustin' broncos all day and adjusted their hats carefully, then sauntered out of the diner. Behind them John rolled his eyes.
They all walked through the reddish dust to the white Ford Dieter had rented. He was leaning over, putting something back into the glove compartment. Von Rossbach straightened up and looked at them, and Luke and Waylon froze. It only lasted an instant, but to men as experienced as John and Dieter, it was the equivalent of a shout.
"Do I know you?" Waylon asked.
John gave him a sharp look; he could have sworn there was a slight tremor in the man's voice.
"No," Dieter said crisply. He got out of the car and the two men stepped back.
Von Rossbach leaned against the door and casually crossed his arms over his chest. "But we have mutual friends."
"These friends got names?" Luke asked.
Dieter mentioned one; the two dealers glanced at each other and Waylon raised one shoulder in a half shrug.
"So what you want?" Luke asked.
"I want Barrett fifty-caliber sniper rifles or their equivalent. I want Browning heavy machine guns. I want Carl Gustav or LAW or other light anti-armor weapons; plus any military-grade small arms you have on hand, preferably battle-rifle caliber. I'll need them shipped all over the U.S.," he added.
Waylon tugged down the corners of his mouth and frowned.
"Gonna be expensive," he cautioned. "That there is some heavy shit."
"For top-quality goods, I can live with expensive," von Rossbach said easily. He pushed himself off the car door and managed to loom over the two men, even though their heights were almost equal. "Not getting what I'm paying for, that I couldn't live with." He stared hard at Waylon until the other man broke eye contact, grinning as he looked at his companion.
"With us y'always get what ya pay for." He flicked a hand at Dieter. "Ya think our friend'd steer ya to a bum deal?"
Dieter stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "I'll want to see some
samples," he told them. "So that there are no misunderstandings about what I want."
Waylon bit his lip and the two men looked at each other for a long moment.
Then Waylon nodded. "No problem," he said cheerfully. "But we don't carry the stuff with us, nat'cherly." He pulled a map out of his pocket and spread it on the hood of von Rossbach's Ford. "We got us a little out-of-the-way spot where we do our private business." He pointed at a spot marked on the map. "Meet us here tomorrow night at seven o'clock. You got any questions?"
"Can I keep this?" Dieter asked.
"Sure thing," Waylon said generously. "I know my way already." He grinned.
"Till tomorrow," he said, touching the brim of his hat.
"Yes," Dieter said. He folded the map and put it in his breast pocket.
"Tomorrow."
John got in the passenger side of the car and sat watching the two gun dealers as Dieter started up and drove away in a cloud of dust, the plume vanishing into the dry crackling grass and occasional dark green scrub cedar.
"Is it my imagination, or was there something wrong about them?" he asked.
Dieter grimaced. "Hard to say," he answered. "There's often something off about these people. Maybe to them I still smell like cop. Holmes wouldn't steer me wrong," he added. "Of that I'm confident."
John nodded, then looked out into the desert, frowning. Something still didn't
feel right. "Not deliberately," he said. "But Holmes might be wrong. Or something might have spooked those two."
"My God! "Luke said.
"Da-amn!" Waylon agreed, having trouble controlling his gleeful laughter. "That is fuckin' unbelievable! It was really him!"
Luke punched his fist in the air. "Yes!" The he looked at his friend. "How are we gonna handle this?"
"First we call that number," Waylon said, heading toward their table. "Oh shit!
Hey! Who cleaned off my table?" he shouted.
The waitress turned to stare, her mouth wide open.
"I wrote something important down on a napkin, Maria! Where is it?"
She pursed her lips and pulled the wastebasket from under the counter. "This it?"
she asked, pulling up a dirty napkin with a number written on it.
"Yeah," Waylon said, snatching it from her fingertips. "Whad' ja do, barf on it?"
Luke pulled his lips back from his teeth in disgust. "Sure looks like it," he muttered.
"Hey, bring me some coffee," Waylon shouted as he went back to his table.
"Yeah," Luke agreed.
Pulling out his cell phone, Waylon dialed the Crimefighters show, started to speak, and then stopped with an exasperated expression.
"Lines are busy," he said to Luke. Then, "Yeah. That guy who shot up all them cops, what's the reward for findin' him?" His mouth and eyes opened wide. "Five hundred thousand dollars
?"
Luke punched the air again and again, stamping his feet beneath the table.
Waylon cocked his head, listening. "Aw, bless your heart, honey. Don't you worry 'bout me! I'm considered pretty dangerous myself." He listened. "No, ma'am, I won't tell you where I'm callin' from. But I will tell you that by tomorrow night that sucker's gonna be on his way to jail! I gah-run-tee it!" He disconnected and grinned at Luke. "Five, hundred, thousand dollars, buddy!
Whoo!"
Luke shook his head in wonder, then slowly sobered. "Think we should have help?"
Waylon made a face. "Bringin" somebody else in means less money fer you 'n me," he pointed out. Then he looked thoughtful. "Yeah," he finally said. "Good idea actually. We'll get Luis, have 'im wait out in the desert; then if anythin' goes wrong we're covered. He's one mean li'l greaser." He nodded. "Yeah." Then he grinned again and high-fived his buddy. "Yeeee-HAWWW!"
U.S. SECTOR HEADQUARTERS
"Sir." The young woman turned from her console toward her superior. "I think I've got something here."
The man hurried over; surveillance was in what Sector operatives called "the pit," below the slanted glass of the office from which operations oversaw HQ.
"Whatcha got?"
" Crimefighters has received an anonymous phone call from New Mexico inquiring about the reward. He told the operator that he'd have the suspect in custody by tomorrow night."
The supervisor frowned and leaned toward her, looking over her head at the screen. "What's his location?"
The agent turned to her computer and tapped a few keys.
"Route 85… he's at a diner named the Big Bee," she said.
"We have an agent nearby?"
She queried the database. "The nearest is in Los Alamos," she said. After a few more taps she said, "He can be there in an hour."
"Good." The supervisor nodded once. "Send him or her now. Even if this guy has left, someone there might know something."
UTAH
Alissa smiled, looking positively angelic as she dangled her short legs and feet in their little red shoes off the edge of the too-tall chair; her hands flew over the computer keyboard in a blur of machine-accurate movement, and the crackle of the keys sounded like distant machine-gun fire. The moment she'd heard about
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