Rising Storm t2-2

by S. M. Stirling

  Somehow Clea didn't find this reassuring in the least. She looked around and saw the two men going off with their buddies.

  "You look exhausted, you poor thing," Clea's buddy said. She lifted her arm as though she was going to put it around the I-950's shoulders but didn't actually touch her. "Let me show you to your room. A little supper and a good night's sleep will do wonders for you."

  Ah, Clea thought, I look exhausted. That's why Tricker didn't recognize me.

  Well, she'd have to see what she could do to continue looking mousy and uninteresting. Meanwhile she'd have to see what she could learn from this source. "Have you been here long?" she asked Josephine, smiling tentatively.

  "Oh! Just ages, honey! At first I thought I'd go stir-crazy, but then I really got to like it here. We've got a pretty good mix of people. You'll see…" A hopeful note. "Do you like bridge?"

  Clea followed her down the hallway listening to her nonstop chatter and wondering if, in fact, poor Josephine had gone stir-crazy and just didn't know it.

  The cafeteria was the single largest room on the base, Tricker told them. With the exception of the warehouse, naturally.

  Clea found it almost excessively institutional, with its rows of long, Formica-topped tables on either side of a wide central aisle. There were the same beige floor tiles and walls with the inevitable bulletin board for decoration. At the head of the room one picked up a tray and utensils and dragged it along to the place where food was dispensed. It was rather noisy, and smelled like a medium-priced chain restaurant; Applebee's, say.

  The ceiling lights mimicked natural daylight, as did most of the lights on the base, so Tricker had told them. It didn't surprise her that the humans needed to be indulged this way. They were animals, after all, and six months of night or day was not a natural part of their cycle.

  The people in the big room seemed to take a polite interest in the three new arrivals, watching them surreptitiously as they got their food and found seats. As Clea moved to join her fellow newcomers she found herself greeted with friendly smiles and nods. The I-950 found them rather… what was the word?

  Ah. Creepy.

  She joined the conversation already in progress at the table Tricker had chosen.

  He glanced at her as she set down her tray and continued to watch her as she pretended not to notice. When she looked up she smiled at him, then let her face drop as he continued to stare at her.

  "What?" she asked defensively.

  He spooned up some oatmeal before answering her. "You look familiar," he said.

  Clea looked at him askance. "Is that a line?"

  He swallowed the oatmeal and took a sip of coffee before he answered her, his gaze never wavering. "No. I've met you. I'm sure of it."

  Shaking her head, Clea told him, "I don't think so, Mr. Tricker."

  "Just Tricker," he said.

  "Uh-huh. Well, Tricker," she said, leaning forward, "have you ever been to Montana?"

  He shook his head, spooning up more oatmeal.

  "Well, except for one trip to New York and one trip to L.A., both in the last month, I've never been anywhere else. So I don't know how you could have met me. Do you?" She widened her eyes at him and took a sip of coffee.

  The two men who'd arrived with her turned their heads back and forth between them. "Is this important?" one of them asked tentatively.

  Clea thought that the fact he asked at all hinted at a habitual arrogance that circumstances had temporarily muted.

  "No," Tricker answered. "Not at all." With a last, indecipherable look at Clea, he returned to his lecture about the base's rules.

  "Ah, I see we have some new prisoners, Tricker."

  The man's voice had a thick German accent and came from behind the I-950.

  South German, her computer half supplied helpfully. Within fifty kilometers of

  Vienna, but not actually in Vienna. Originally middle-class. She turned to look and found a tall, muscular blond man looking down at them.

  Kurt Viemeister! she thought, and her heart leapt, like a human girl meeting her favorite musician.

  Serena had decided that Viemeister was insane because of his extreme hatred for certain classes of human being and had stopped associating with him. But Clea had always felt her parent/sister was wrong.

  If the scientist hated humans, well, so did Skynet, and so did the Infiltrators, for that matter. Of course, they hated all humans, and wanted to exterminate them, but why was that reason to judge Dr. Viemeister for only hating some?

  Though she was painfully aware that Serena entertained almost fond feelings for humans.

  Subversive, misguided, and a failure, Clea thought dismissively. She intended to encourage Viemeister's efforts for Skynet. It didn't matter if he hated humans, but making Skynet sentient did.

  Viemeister put his tray down beside Clea, giving her a pleasant smile. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

  Tricker took a sip of coffee and looked thoughtfully into the distance while the three newcomers watched him. Viemeister buttered his toast and salted his omelet as though he'd never said a word.

  Clea rolled her eyes and gave a crisp "tsk!" Then she turned to Viemeister. "I'm

  Clea Bennet," she said, offering her hand. "From Montana."

  "Charmed," he said, taking her hand gently and giving her a warm smile. He looked at the two men opposite them.

  "Joel Gibson," a heavyset middle-aged man said.

  "Maxwell Massey," his friend said. Maxwell had the dark looks of an East Indian.

  "So what have they got on you folks?" Kurt said cheerfully.

  Clea blinked as she realized his accent was much less thick than it had been.

  Serena had always suspected that he affected it. What he'd said was as interesting as how he'd said it, too. She glanced at the two men.

  "See, now this is where you have to watch out," Tricker interrupted. "If any of you answer that question, you may find yourselves segueing into a conversation about your work. Now, what did I say about discussing your work?"

  "But I already know something about Mr. Viemeister's specialty," Clea said eagerly. She turned to the scientist. "My uncle was a great admirer of yours and I've read all of your published work." Obviously gushing was the right tack to take with him; he fairly glowed in her infrared vision. "Your ideas on—"

  "Hey!" Tricker interrupted. He pointed his spoon at her. "That's something you and I will have to discuss in private. Do you know why?" He drew out the last word.

  Clea rolled her eyes again. "Because otherwise we'll be discussing Mr.

  Viemeister's work and we're not supposed to discuss one another's work." She raised her brows at him. "Did I get it right, teacher?"

  "Yup," he said. Tricker scraped his bowl and ate the last spoonful.

  "If you're granted permission to talk about your work to one another, you can yak about it all you want in private." He rotated his spoon, indicating the room around them. "Never in here. In here, none of us have jobs. Comprende?"

  "Yeah," she said, letting a little insolence seep into her voice. Beside her Viemeister seemed amused.

  "Great! If you folks are ready we should get started. I know you all have a lot to do today." Tricker rose and looked at them expectantly.

  "I haven't finished my coffee," the I-950 hazarded.

  "Well, too bad. Chop-chop, Ms. Bennet." He gave Viemeister an artificial smile.

  "Nice seeing you, Kurt." Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Gibson and Massey scrambled to follow him, but Clea lingered, taking a last sip of her coffee. Then she gave Viemeister a conspiratorial smile, rose, folded her napkin, and slowly sauntered after the men.

  Her walk gave the scientist something to watch if he was so inclined.

  Kurt watched the young woman walk away. It looked as though the long dry spell was about to end. And to end very pleasantly indeed. As the girl followed

  Tricker and his chumps out the door, she glanced at him over her shoulder and
gave him a delightful little smile. If only she were a blonde, she'd be a perfect Aryan.

  Yes, definitely, things were looking up.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CYBERDYNE, LOS ANGELES

  Meg Horton, secretary to Roger Colvin, CEO of Cyberdyne, sighed as she looked at the tower of mail on her desk. It seemed the stack got bigger every day.

  Taking her seat, she began sorting the mail into separate piles. Most of it was junk, and could be disposed of without opening. But one large envelope had a note written on the front.

  Here’s the material you requested. Thank you for your interest Jesse Hooper

  Inside was a stack of brochures from the Utah Tourist Bureau. Meg frowned, checking the address o>n the envelope. It was indeed addressed to Roger Colvin.

  The boss must be thinking of going skiing. Or turning Mormon. She added the material to the personal pile to go directly to his office and discarded the envelope.

  Inside the envelope were several insectlike machines. As soon as the envelope hit the wastebasket they emerged and climbed out, dropping to the floor and scurrying to the nearest dark corner as they'd been programmed to do.

  In Utah, the Terminator that had been assigned to monitor the bugs' progress took over their function, ordering one to remain below the secretary's desk while directing the others to various positions around the perimeter of the room to give the Terminator a broad view of the office.

  It saw that the gap between the door to the CEO's office and the thick carpet inside was too small for the bug to slip through; the T-101 continued searching.

  In the ceiling there appeared to be a ventilator cover. That would be optimal placement. Once they were in the ventilation system, the bugs would have access to the whole building.

  Soon it had one of the bugs stationed in Colvin's office and had sent the others off to explore and map the whole facility. Then it alerted the I-950 that the bugs were safely implanted. It arranged for their input to be recorded, then turned to other tasks.

  Paul Warren looked up from the screen at his friend—the CEO of Cyberdyne—

  his face split by a delighted grin.

  "I can't believe these numbers!" he said.

  Roger Colvin grinned back at him. "Neither can I."

  Their automated factories were a complete success, not one breakdown in their pilot plant in over a year. Production clicked along 24/7 at a fraction of the cost of a human-run production line. Granted, it would take a while to amortize the capital costs, but with a guaranteed market like the Pentagon, that was a sucker bet. Best of all: No employees equaled no unions and no support infrastructure

  for people, and all this minimized environmental impact—not that the environmentalists appreciated that.

  The intercom on Colvin's desk gave a warning chirp.

  "Mr. Colvin," Roger's secretary said, "there's a Mr. Pool here to see you."

  "Just Pool," a voice said.

  "Sir!" they heard the secretary snap.

  The office door opened and a tall, rather nondescript man of middle age entered.

  Behind him Colvin's secretary hovered, looking outraged.

  "It's all right, Meg," Roger told her; he looked at Warren, then back at the intruder. "You must be the new guy," he said wearily.

  "Pool," the man said, nodding in agreement.

  "Just Pool?" Warren asked with more than a touch of sarcasm.

  "Yes." Pool sat down without waiting for an invitation and opened his briefcase.

  "You might like to take a look at this," he said, handing Colvin a CD.

  The CEO took it, his eyes never leaving Pool's. The government liaison nodded once. "Sure," Colvin said, and replaced the one he'd been running. When he accessed the disc it showed a recording, obviously made with a high-end video camera, of what at first appeared to be one of their automated factories.

  "Wait a minute," he said, leaning forward. He tapped a few keys and the picture

  froze. "Paul, take a look at this." He swung the monitor around.

  "Hey!" the president said after a moment's study. "What's going on here? That isn't ours!"

  "You guys building your own now?" Colvin asked coldly.

  Pool looked back at him for a moment, then switched his glance to the president.

  "No," he said. "But unfortunately the situation is out of control. Factories like these are sprouting up all over, especially in the third world. Many of them,"

  Pool continued with careful emphasis, "are making munitions."

  "NATO. They're like… spy central. What are you doing about it?"

  "Unfortunately there's very little we can do at this point." Pool closed his briefcase. "We know you're not involved," he continued, "because we've investigated. Thus far we haven't been able to pin it down, but you're right, unfortunately—it's more likely to be one of our 'friends' at NATO than anyone else."

  "We're losing money here…" Warren began.

  "You could always try suing," Pool suggested. "France is always a nice place to visit, though it would be a pity to spend your time there in a courtroom or locked up in a lawyer's office." He shrugged. "And I understand they're open to fiscal persuasion in the Balkan countries. But the problem is a little too universal for you to expect much success, I'm afraid."

  Colvin sat back in his chair, genuinely shocked. They'd lost their exclusive

  contract. All their research and development, all their expansion plans, were just so much wasted time and money. They'd borne the start-up costs and someone else was walking off with the profit.

  "How?" Warren demanded. "How did this happen? And how long has it been going on?"

  "Almost from the beginning," Pool said. "That's why we assumed you two had something to do with it. Or at least someone in your organization. But we've found no corroborating evidence of that." He sounded regretful.

  Colvin grunted like a man kicked in the stomach. The only thing they had going for them now was their contract with the government. He covered his eyes with one hand. "Where the hell is Sarah Connor?" he suddenly blurted. "This is certainly a Connor-sized disaster."

  If he hadn't been looking directly at Pool he would have missed the moment when the agent froze.

  "What?" the CEO snapped.

  "Mr. Colvin?" Pool asked politely.

  Colvin glanced at Warren, then back at Pool. He sat up straight, almost certain he could feel himself going pale. "Well?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Where is she?"

  Pool sat still for a moment, then he said, "We don't know, actually."

  The announcement threw both executives into motion. Warren flung himself up and walked to the window, his back to the room. Colvin rose and, placing his hands on his desk, leaned forward slowly. "You what?" he asked quietly, one eyebrow raised.

  Warren turned back to them. "Could she… ?" He waved a hand helplessly.

  "Have leaked the information?" Pool asked. "No. Definitely not. We knew where she was when the problem began."

  Colvin dropped back into his chair. "Could she have… associates?" he asked.

  Pool shook his head. "Unlikely. Connor has always been a lone wolf. The degree and speed of this proliferation argue for some sort of organization. Frankly, gentlemen, we're completely out of ideas, which is why we decided to consult you."

  "Oh, that's flattering." Colvin sneered. "The question is who benefits, and how?"

  "Yeah," Warren said. He shrugged, then sat down himself. "If someone was blowing the factories up, I'd blame the Luddites. But I don't see how making this technology universally available fits in with their obsession."

  "Well"—Pool rose—"keep thinking about it, gentlemen. If you have any ideas please feel free to contact me." He placed a plain business card on the CEO's desk. Like Tricker's, it bore only an E-mail address. Pool glanced from one man to the other, nodded once, and left without another word.

  The two men were silent for forty-five seconds; then Warren spoke.

  "We are fucked," he said quietly.


  UTAH

  Alissa frowned. Some part of her had expected Tricker; had hoped for Tricker might be more accurate. Apparently this Pool was Tricker's replacement. He certainly seemed to be the same sort of human. It also seemed that the government's interest in Cyberdyne was limited to projects other than Skynet.

  Both she and Clea had estimated a high probability that Intellimetal would prove a strong lure to Cyberdyne, which more or less ensured government interest. Her sister's casual mention of a Skynet-like entity was intended to prove irresistible to whoever had taken over the project, a doubly baited hook.

  What they hadn't expected was that Clea would disappear so suddenly and so thoroughly. When she had vanished after her interview with Colvin and Warren, the little I-950 had naturally assumed that the government had intervened. But she had no idea of exactly where or from whom that intervention had come. The mysterious Tricker, she'd supposed. But he proved impossible to locate.

  Now, with this Pool, Alissa hoped she finally had a lead.

  She'd had some of her bugs hack into Cyberdyne's security system and through the company's cameras she watched the agent's progress through the building and out into the parking lot.

  As he drove off she took note of the car's license-plate number and started a search. The address that came up wasn't very informative, a U.S. government motor pool, but it was a place to start.

  She'd assign one of the T-101s. They were good at worming their way through bureaucratic baffle gab.

  Swinging her legs and putting a finger to her chin, Alissa considered her sister's possible fate. It seemed unlikely she'd been murdered. Unless they'd completely destroyed her head, the computer part of her would have made contact. Unless they'd buried her in the equivalent of a Faraday cage, which was astronomically unlikely, it should have been possible to locate her.

  No, a living Clea was somewhere shielded, or somewhere she feared that any attempt to communicate would reveal her true nature. This silence was more likely an act of will than a sign of misfortune.

  In other words, things were probably going as planned. Except for the uncertainty and the Connors still being alive and on the loose. Alissa's lips thinned in displeasure. She needed to enter her next phase so that she'd be in a position to take care of them.