this TV program she'd hacked into their computer and phone system. Then she'd thought better of it and checked out the various government agencies and antiterrorist groups. Only the Sector was also listening in.
While Crimefighters had received the call, the Sector had zeroed in on the location of the caller. The tiny I-950 was delighted by her own cleverness.
*Sister!* she sent to Clea.
Clea, who was having a quiet but, she sensed, important conversation with Roger Colvin, barely skipped a beat as she answered her little sister.
*Bad timing, Alissa,* she warned. Aloud she said to Cyberdyne's CEO, "There are all sorts of ways this material can be used. I've thought of several weapons, for example. They'd require some additional research to bring them to manufacture, but they'd be very useful."
Alissa paused, reluctant to interfere with her sister's progress. Her success with Cyberdyne was vital. Still, this would be a very brief report. *We have a lead on von Rossbach,* she said. *It's possible he's in New Mexico.*
*The Blackhawk, did you acquire it?* Clea sent.
"Where did you take your degree?" Colvin asked.
*It will be delivered tomorrow,* Alissa said. *I can have a team in New Mexico well before tomorrow evening.*
"I had an unusual upbringing," Clea said to Colvin. "My uncle was a genius and
educated me himself, more or less in isolation, in Montana." She shrugged, which did interesting things to her dress. "Consequently I lack a degree, I'm afraid. But perhaps because of that, I feel I'm more creative than a lot of scientists and engineers who have a hard-and-fast 'field,' or 'discipline.' " To Alissa she said, *Excellent. Keep me informed. But I want you to stay in Utah.
Send no more than four Terminators. We need to keep some for backup.*
"Understood,* Alissa responded. *I'll keep you informed. Out.*
Alissa hopped down from the chair, folded her hands under her chin with her shoulders high, and spun in sheer delight, her golden locks floating in the still-cool air of the new Utah headquarters—underground, of course. The area had many abandoned mines.
The regulators worked overtime to deprive her of this natural high, and unlike Serena, she resented the interference. She had reason to feel good and wished she could enjoy it.
Then she dropped her hands to her sides. It was gone; her brief celebration was over.
Well, it is more efficient, she thought, and began to plan what weapons the Terminators should take.
BIG BEE DINER, NEW MEXICO
An hour and fifteen minutes later a plump, middle-aged man ambled into the diner and took a seat at the counter. He took a menu out of the holder and smiled politely at the waitress, who smiled back.
"Coffee?" she asked.
"You bet," he said.
He'd checked the place out when he walked in. It was deserted except for the help and him. The only cars in the lot probably belonged to the waitress and the cook; the surroundings were bare cow-salad-bar for miles in every direction. She came back and poured a rich-smelling brew into a white mug. He took a sip and his brows went up. She grinned.
"Better'n you expected, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She leaned her arms on the counter and got comfortable. "We drink it ourselves, so we figger we might as well get the good stuff. Would you like somethin' else?
We close in a half an hour," she said apologetically.
"How's your apple pie?"
"Good," she said, straightening. "Ice cream?"
"Please." He turned to look around the deserted restaurant. "Y'know what," he said as she placed the pie before him, "I was asked to come in and talk to some guy who called to report seeing somebody on Crimefighters." He shook his head.
"He would have been here about an hour ago."
She placed an elbow on a napkin holder, rested her head on her fist, and looked at him like she was the tiredest woman in the world. A silent moment passed
while the agent took a forkful of pie and ice cream, making a pleased "mmph!"
sound. Then a little frown crinkled her forehead.
"Yeah," she said, making up her mind. "That'd be Waylon Bridges." Her lips drew back in a sneer. "He made a big deal about this number he'd written down, got real snarky about it."
Lifting another forkful of pie, the agent looked at her and asked, "Know where I can find him?"
She looked away and shook her head slightly. "No. I dunno where he lives." She chewed her lower lip, then looked at him. "But tomorrow, I think I know where he'll be."
She told the agent that Bridges thought of himself as a wheeler-dealer who liked to have meetings with shady characters in an out-of-the-way spot down the road.
"I saw him talking to somebody in the parking lot earlier and then they drove off, so that probably means they'll be meeting him there tomorrow night." She shrugged. "I think he thinks it's this big mystery nobody knows about, but everybody does. He always does the same thing."
"How come the cops don't pick him up?" the agent asked.
She shrugged. "No law against talkin' to people in a parking lot or meeting up with 'em in the desert. Anyway, whatever he's up to, I don't think it's very important or they would do something."
"Could you draw me a map?" the agent asked.
"Sure." She shrugged again, but looked a bit unhappy. "You won't tell him I told you?"
He grinned. "It won't even come up," he assured her. "But even if he asks, I won't say."
She grinned, too, and began to draw. Serve Bridges right for being such a cheap, snarky bastard. Dud tippers never had any luck. Not if she had anything to say about it.
NEW YORK
"… an organic whole," the sculptor proclaimed. "And so I've named it Venus Dancing. Because with every passing day it will change, never remaining the same from sunrise to sunset."
The audience applauded politely as Hill tugged on a cord and the silky covering slid aside to reveal a gleaming silver object over fifteen feet tall on its contrasting pedestal of bronze. The pedestal was also a circular bench, molded in such a way that it seemed to flow into the different color of the sculpture itself.
Venus Dancing was triangular in shape and pierced here and there on its surface with round holes of various sizes. Loops of the silvery substance flowed away from the sides of the sculpture in a way that suggested vibrations. As the members of the audience watched, the material—now freed from its protective shroud—reacted to the cooler air, changing shape, changing texture to become sharper-edged, the loops more angular.
The crowd "oooh'd" its approval and moved closer. The heat of their bodies
softened the outlines of the lower half of Venus Dancing, bringing forth spontaneous applause.
Clea, looking on and applauding with the rest, suddenly found a business card in front of her face. Startled, she turned to find Roger Colvin giving her a very serious look.
"Call me," he said. "I think we've got a lot to discuss."
She took the card and smiled. "I'll do that," she promised.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MONTANA
"So that's all that was taken?" Sergeant Purdee asked suspiciously, looking around the little store and sniffing. A smell like bad meat lingered in the air, faint but definite enough to someone who'd been raised on a farm. Purdee shrugged mentally; he wasn't the health department.
"That's it," the manager of the Quickmart said.
He was a middle-aged man wearing his pajama top as a shirt. Not unreasonable after being dragged out of his bed at three A.M. in response to a police call informing him that his store had been the target of a break-in.
"Here we go," the manager said. He pressed a button and the cloudy, jerky security tape began to play. The store's glass door burst open and a big man in a gimmee cap, hunting jacket, and sunglasses entered. He paused in the doorway, looking around, then he headed down one of the aisles.
Purdee noticed that the man's head never stopped moving, like a searchlight, almost mechanical
. Something about him tickled the sergeant's memory. "Why would somebody break in and just take baby food?" he asked.
The man had walked right by a display of beer without even looking. And he hadn't stolen any diapers. You'd think if he was gonna take baby food he'd need something to deal with the results. Weird.
"What kind did he take?"
"A case of chicken, a case of beef, and a case of liver," the manager answered, rubbing his face.
"Liver? I didn't know they even made liver for babies." Poor kids. Whoever this guy was, he had a screwed-up value system. Then light dawned. "Hey!" Purdee said. "Play the tape again from the beginning!"
Obligingly, the manager rewound the tape and started it running. The door burst open, the man entered, started down the aisle toward the camera.
"Can you freeze it there?" the sergeant asked urgently.
"Sure," the manager said.
The burglar's face was turned toward the camera, sunglasses reflecting an image of the aisles before him.
This was him, Purdee was certain, the guy on TV, the man who'd shot up a
police station in Los Angeles and killed, like, sixteen, seventeen cops. Then he'd gone on to blow up a computer company and shoot fifty or more police. And he was here, right in this sleepy little Montana town! Or, at least, he had been as of two-thirty this morning.
"Stealing baby food…" Purdee murmured. He shook his head. He'd find out what it meant when they caught the bastard. The sergeant pulled out his radio and called it in.
UTAH
Alissa anxiously awaited the arrival of the representative of Turbine Transport with the Blackhawk. It was taking longer than she'd expected, and as the day grew later she became more concerned.
Just after noon she decided it would be wise to employ the damaged Terminator on its way down from Montana. It could easily be diverted to New Mexico, thus ensuring that at least one of them could be on hand when von Rossbach, and possibly John Connor himself, was taken into custody.
*How soon can you be there?* she asked.
The Terminator checked its position via satellite and cross-checked with a commercial mapping program. It quickly estimated that it would be at the Big Bee Diner by 5:30 P.M., if it kept to the speed limit.
Alissa was not pleased. She'd hoped to have someone there in the early afternoon. But it wasn't advisable to speed and risk attracting police attention.
*Very well,* she sent. *Keep a low profile, do not terminate anyone without my
express permission. But at all costs, be there.*
She resumed her pacing across the flat stretch of scrubland outside the mine entrance. A few buildings still stood, the remains of the ore dump, mine office, and workshops; her Terminators had been replacing windows and doors and changing long-dead lightbulbs so that the place would look inhabited but not suspiciously so. They had their own diesel generator for power, and there was abundant water from a deep well. A perfect location, all in all.
If only the helicopter would arrive…
Alissa's augmented ears picked up a sound, and her small chubby six-year-old face turned with the precision of a tracking radar.
Twin turbines, her database prompted. Specifications match civilianized Blackhawk transport.
NEW MEXICO DESERT
"Luis! God dammit, get back behind those rocks, for crissakes!" Waylon pointed at a tumble of rocks beside and slightly above the gully where he liked to meet his customers. He checked his watch. "He'll be here any second."
Luis calmly continued his descent from his hiding place, carefully holding the rifle to the side. "Waylon," he said wearily, "I've got cactus spines in my ass and things are rattling their tails at me up here." He stopped and looked at his sometime employer, then he waved a hand. "He's not coming, amigo."
"I said seven," Bridges said. "It's only seven-fifteen."
"I think you said seven-thirty," Luke interrupted.
Waylon glanced at his partner distractedly and went on, "It's only quarter past.
He'll be here!" He pointed desperately up the slope. "Get back in place, okay?"
"I been here for an hour, man," Luis pointed out. "I don't like it out here. There's scorpions and centipedes and snakes, and I'm afraid I'm gonna put my hand down on a Gila monster."
"Gila monsters are extinct in New Mexico, Luis," Waylon said with exaggerated patience. "And you could make up to fifty grand for putting up with Mother Nature for a couple of hours. Now get back behind those rocks!"
Luis looked at him, working a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.
"You told me fifty grand if—and you said if— this is the guy." He shrugged. "So if this isn't the guy then I'm just wasting my time out here for nothin'."
Waylon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "O-kay," he said, the strain of holding his temper obvious in his voice. "If he doesn't come we'll take you out to that strip club you like, steak and drinks, anything you want. How's that?"
Luis's eyes widened. " Anything?" he asked. " 'Cause there's this girl there…"
Waylon raised a finger. "But only if you get your ass back up behind those rocks. Because he is coming and you're gonna be a lot richer for stickin' around."
Luis sighed, dropping his head. "Okay," he said, trudging back up the slope. "For booze and babes and some good red meat I'll stay until dark."
"For fifty grand!" Waylon shouted. "That's what you're staying for, then you can buy your own damn meat."
Luke Hardy leaned close to his partner and hissed, "Fifty Gs?"
Waylon spread his hands. "He wouldn't do it for less and I couldn't get in touch with anybody else." He shrugged, looking sullen. "You saw that guy, we're gonna need backup. Luis might be a pain in the ass, but he's solid."
Luke nodded reluctant agreement, checked his watch, and muttered, "Fuck."
BIG BEE DINER, NEW MEXICO
The Terminator pulled up at the diner at six-thirty, having been delayed by an accident fifty miles back. If not for the police presence, it would have gone around the mess of ruined metal and the ambulances on the verge; the truck had four-wheel drive. Regrettably caution had been necessary.
It checked the parking lot and found it empty but for two cars. An acceptable risk, it decided.
When it came inside, a plump, dark-haired woman was leaning on the counter reading a magazine. She looked up, half smiling, and said a friendly, "Hey." She straightened, looking him over, and seemed to recognize him.
"If you're looking for Waylon or Luke," she said, "they're probably already at the gully. Couldn't you find it?"
"I couldn't find it," it agreed, not moving from the doorway. It shrugged, a gesture meant to be reassuring.
The woman chuckled. "Let me draw you a map, honey." She picked up a pad of paper and, tearing off a piece, began scribbling. "Just before you turn off," she said, "there's a highway sign and a whole bunch of yucca plants all together."
Maria drew a picture of a yucca plant, just in case the stranger didn't know what one looked like. He had a slight foreign accent, so that seemed likely. Finishing, she held it out to him. "There ya go," she said aloud.
He came forward to take it and with him came a wave of stench, like rotting meat, making her gag. Maria fell back, her hand over her mouth. She hadn't been wearing her glasses as she read, so she got her first good look at the man's face at his approach.
His skin was waxy looking and it was shredding in places to show the raw flesh beneath. Here and there was the glint of what had to be bone.
"Mike!" she shrieked, scuttling behind the counter toward the kitchen door.
The T-101's orders were to keep a low profile, but this was now impossible. It had also been ordered not to terminate humans without permission. It would probably be best to remove this human from this location. "Perhaps you'd better show me this place," the Terminator said, starting forward.
The kitchen door burst open and a middle-aged Hispanic man came through holding an enormous knife. "Hey!" he shouted
as Maria cowered behind him.
"You leave her alone!" Then he, too, saw/smelled the stranger and his jaw dropped.
The Terminator reacted as it always did to a threat. Grasping the man's knife arm, it threw him across the diner. Mike went through the windows and landed in the parking lot with bone-jarring thud.
"Don't hurt him!" Maria cried as the Terminator turned to follow his victim through the window. "I'll show you where it is!"
The Terminator looked at the man lying in the parking lot and estimated his probable condition. Several large bones were broken; from the position of the body, the pelvis and the right thighbone at the very least. The man wouldn't be calling for help anytime soon, possibly never. It had no intention of hurting the human any further; it had, after all, been ordered not to terminate anyone. Its intention had been to move the body inside, out of sight. But if leaving him alone would gain the female's cooperation, it decided it would do so.
"Let's go," it said.
"Just the one guy up behind the rocks," John said at last, taking another scan around the stretch of arroyo bottom beneath them. There was no danger of a flash flood at this season, and the hardy weeds that colonized the sand of the seasonal riverbed were dead and brown.
Dieter didn't look very concerned. "I'd expect at least one," he said.
Moving with surprising grace for a man so large, he pushed himself backward to where he wouldn't stand out on the horizon, then stood and walked down the steep side of the hill. John looked over his shoulder at von Rossbach with a slightly annoyed glance, took one last look through the binoculars at the gunrunners, then followed him.
"Well, I don't like it," he said.
"I'm not crazy about it myself," Dieter said. "But it's not unreasonable. They don't know us, and I might have gotten their name and my friend's name from a dozen different places and just put them together in a lucky guess."
John shoved the binoculars back in their case. "So we're just gonna walk in there knowing there's a guy with a gun on us?"
Rising Storm t2-2 Page 21
