He was trying, and he knew that he was trying, to suppress thoughts of Judgment Day. If there was a Judgment Day. Well, if there was, it would make Wendy's idealistic pledge seem rather foolish.
And yet, that she had made it moved him; still more, that she'd written to him about it. He felt toward her a tenderness more profound and respectful than he had yet experienced. He wanted to protect her, to shelter her from all harm. At the same time he admired her faith in the future. He smiled and shook his head.
Then he took the tape and inserted it into the VCR and sat back to watch.
There was a little explanation at first on how Lincoln Center had decided to erect a statue, and had commissioned the late Vladimir Hill to create it. Then there was a segment of film, greatly speeded up, that showed the thing actually moving. Its name was Venus Dancing and John's jaw dropped as he watched it doing just that.
The glittering column seemed to swoop and bend, stretching high and then stooping, the holes in its surface growing and shrinking as it moved. The whole thing seemed alive and its motion was graceful and very beautiful. Although, despite the pleasure of watching the lovely thing, something niggled.
Then the dancing segment ended and the "making of section began. The sculptor, emaciated from his bout with cancer, described the process of creation.
He told the interviewer that if he must die young, he had at least created the most unique sculpture in the world before he left.
Then there were scenes from the unveiling, where an almost unrecognizably healthy Vladimir was shown with a beautiful young woman who was the creator of Hill's new sculpting material, a substance she called Intellimetal.
It took a moment as he watched the smiling, blushing brunette, nervously adjusting her glasses. But it was that movement that attracted his attention to her eyes. The shock of recognition took his breath away.
"MO-OM!" he shouted, not moving from where he sat on the bed but only bellowing louder, "MOM! DIETER! COME HERE! NOW!"
Down in the living room the two adults looked at each other, then scrambled for the stairs, pulling weapons out of hiding places.
"What?" Sarah said, bursting into his room.
John pointed at his TV, unable to say anything. He didn't even make his usual crack about mothers who burst into their sons' rooms carrying guns.
Dieter and Sarah moved to where they could see what he was pointing at. Sarah sat down hard on the floor, pressing both hands against her mouth. Frozen on the screen was a face she wasn't likely to forget. How? she thought in horror. She's dead! She's dead. She has to be dead! No one could have survived that explosion, even if they hadn't blown away half her head first. She couldn't have
escaped either; it was impossible.
And yet. This was Serena Burns. Jordan's former boss, the head of security for Cyberdyne. A new breed of Terminator—call it an Infiltrator—sent by Skynet.
"My God," she said. Then she took a deep breath and looked up at John.
"I'm not wrong!" he said, sounding shaky.
"I wish." she answered.
Dieter offered his hand and she took it. He pulled her to her feet easily. "So there was another one," he said grimly.
"Isn't there always?" John asked.
"So far," Sarah agreed. She brushed her hands over her hips. "Now we need to find out where she— it—is and what it's up to."
"I'll get in touch with Wendy." John said. "She might know something."
Wendy answered on tin; third ring.
"Bob's Brickyard, we lay anything." she said cheerfully. In the background there was raucous laughter.
"Wendy!" John said incredulously.
He was calling from his room, lying back on his bed propped up on some pillows; it was kind of late and he'd been afraid of waking her. Guess I had that
wrong, he thought.
"Oops!" she said. Then he heard her talking to whoever was with her. "Hey, guys? I need a little privacy here."
There was a chorus of protest at that; it sounded like Snog and the gang. He smiled, remembering them. It took a few minutes, but she finally managed to get them to leave.
"I'm sorry it took so long," she said breathlessly when she came back.
"Good thing this isn't a pay phone," he said, letting her hear his smile.
They were silent for a while. John couldn't seem to wipe the smile from his face.
Even though they didn't speak, he found intense joy just being in contact with her. Listening to her breath—in a sense being with her for the first time in months.
"I've missed you," she said at last.
"I've missed you, too."
They fell silent again until Wendy said, "Why did you call? Did you get it?"
"Your package? Yeah. Actually that's what I'm calling about. Uh… there's something on it that might relate to Skynet," he said quickly, wincing slightly.
This was a hell of a way to say thank you.
There was a pause, then she said, "Oh."
"Yeah. In the 'making of part of the video they show this woman who invented the material the statue is made from. We need to find out about her. Where she is, for example."
There was silence again and John frowned; this time the silence had a very different quality. "Wendy?"
"Yeah. I just… I thought you might be calling about the pledge," she said, sounding disappointed.
John almost laughed. He'd forgotten about that. But he sensed that it was important to her, even if it was absurd to him. "I will always respect your decision on that. I know it's not something you did lightly. So if you thought I'd be mad or something, I'm not." He waited for her response.
"You just don't care," she said at last, sounding disappointed.
"That's not true," he assured her. "You care, and I care about what you… care about," he finished lamely. He hoped that would settle her down. They needed to get onto a more important subject.
She blew out a breath that whistled across the phone lines. "Okay," she said, her voice slightly flat. "What's up with this woman you want to know about?"
"Well," he said, "she should be dead."
" Uh-huh." She went silent, apparently waiting for more.
"We don't think she's entirely human," John ventured.
"Aaaaand what makes you think that?" Wendy asked.
"She almost killed my mother, but we killed her instead, and now she's attending parties. You can see why we're concerned."
"Yeah, that attending-parties thing, that's a real bitch." Her voice still had that flat quality, almost uninterested, and John didn't quite know what to make of it.
"You don't sound like you believe me," he ventured.
"Well. John. I've seen this woman's face and you're telling me you killed her.
Which is freaky enough, by the way. Until you top it by telling me she's this inventor from the unveiling but she was dead before the unveiling. What am I supposed to think?"
"You're supposed to think this is more proof that Skynet is real," he snapped.
Now you doubt me? he thought. Now, after all these months? "Are you guys still working on the CPU?" he asked, playing his ace.
She took a deep breath and let it out in a huff. "Yeah," she admitted. "We're making some progress, too. But this, John! This is like something out of a movie! And real life doesn't have a plot."
Oh yeah? Mine does. John held on to his temper; he needed her help and blowing his stack wasn't going to do him any good.
"Look," he said firmly, "I'd like your help on this. Can I count on you?"
Wendy was quiet for a while. "You really think this woman is from Skynet?" she
asked, her voice sounding small.
"I'm convinced of it." John waited, holding his breath.
"I may know something," she said at last. "Give me a few minutes to get my notes together, then get on-line. I'll e-mail you what I have."
"Thank you," he said, his voice ardent with relief. He listened to the silence on her end and asked tentatively, "You're n
ot mad, are you?"
"No. Just kind of creeped out. I'll see you on-line."
"Okay… Wendy?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you, you know." Somehow he sensed a smile, then he heard it in her voice.
"I love you, too," she said. Then, briskly, "Give me ten minutes."
"You got it."
They said affectionate good-byes and he hung up. For a few minutes he just lay back on his bed smiling. She loved him.
True, it wasn't 100 percent perfect; she also doubted his sanity. But she's coming through for me anyway. He kept on smiling. Love was really strange. But it was also the best feeling he'd ever had.
*Okay,* Wendy said, *I don't know how useful this will be, but to me it seems to tie in with what you want to know. *
*Shoot,* John told her.
*You remember when I told you that Craig Kipfer guy said something that sounded like an order to kill someone?*
* Vaguely.*
*Well, I kept checking into this guy and finally broke through some kind of wall.
About the same time he said "Send her to Antarctica," he was getting reports on someone from Montana. They were more detailed than you'd expect; there was a lot of material about her uncle, for instance. It looked for all the world like they were investigating her for a high-level, top-secret government job.*
John took her at her word. He'd figured that since Wendy probably saw herself in a top-secret government job one day, she'd look into this sort of thing.
*And this was about Clea Bennet?* he asked.
*No names were mentioned,* Wendy wrote. *But Clea Bennet is from Montana, where she was raised by an eccentric uncle, recently deceased. All the particulars match, even if they didn't call her by name. So what do you think?*
*I think I'd better look this stuff over. Thanks, Wendy.*
*No prob. I really do want to help, you know.*
*I know. Thanks. I'd better get to work on this.*
*Yeah,* she said. *See you soon.* I wish, John thought. *Love you.* *Love you,
* she wrote, then she was gone.
He began reading the reports she'd sent, finding them dry but very interesting.
They did seem to match the few facts offered on the video. Antarctica? he thought. What are we supposed to do now?
They'd gathered in Dieter's study to discuss Wendy's information. The comfortable room was lit by a single lamp and the light was dim, making the space feel more intimate. The French doors were open, letting in soft bree/es laden with the scent of the garden.
Dieter was in the big chair behind his desk, feet propped up on a low filing cabinet. John and his mother were in the smaller, more formal chairs in front of him.
"You're kidding, right?" Sarah said. His mother wasn't so much frowning as looking puzzled. "I mean, it's not much to go on. Or I should say not much to go to Antarctica on."
John smiled at that. "No, but it's the best lead we've got." He tilted his head toward her. "So if you were looking for someone and you dug this up, what would you do?"
Sarah looked down, twisting her mouth wryly. After a beat she raised her hands in surrender. "I'd go to Antarctica."
Dieter hadn't said anything when John had presented Wendy's information. John
looked over at him and found the Austrian apparently deep in thought.
"Hey," John said quietly. "Big guy."
Von Rossbach's narrowed gaze slid toward him.
"What do you think?" John asked.
"I think I remember hearing, just before I retired, the vaguest of hints about the possibility of someone creating a super-secret laboratory 'on ice.' At the time I thought it was a metaphor," Dieter said. "But maybe not." He took his feet off the cabinet. "Let me make a few calls, find out what I can about this."
"Meanwhile, John and I can do some research on what sort of equipment we'll need." Sarah turned to her son and smiled.
John glanced at Dieter, who looked away quickly.
"What?" Sarah asked, looking between them.
John hesitated. "Well…" He looked to Dieter for support, but the big man was looking out into the garden. John turned back to his mother and took her hand.
Raising her brows at the sentimental gesture, she looked at Dieter, too, frowned as he continued to stare out the door, and, her expression turning suspicious, turned back to John.
"You're still not a hundred percent, Mom." He took a deep breath. "Not enough to go hiking around Antarctica." He nodded once, looking deeply into her eyes.
Sarah frowned, then she let out an exasperated breath and looked away. To find herself confronting Dieter's concerned eyes. "Okay!" she said, throwing up her hands. "You're right. I'm not a hundred percent. But"—she pointed at John
—"you're too valuable to risk. So where does that leave us?"
They both looked at Dieter.
He laughed and held up his hands. "Before we decide who is going, let's make sure of our destination."
"Sounds reasonable." Sarah rose and crooked her finger at John. "Let's leave our host to it, shall we?" With that, she walked from the room.
John followed her out, saying, "You're not mad, are you, Mom?"
"No, John, I'm not mad."
He was quiet a moment. "You sound mad."
"I'm not mad!"
Dieter smiled. She might not be mad, but she wasn't happy, either.
While they'd been thrashing out whether Sarah was to go or not, he'd been wondering if he dared call his old friend Jeff Goldberg, his former partner in the Sector.
I suppose I might as well, he thought. Sully must have made a report by now, and even if he hadn't, they already knew about my association with the notorious Sarah Connor. Which means that [eff knows, too.
He went to the wall and took down a heavily .framed painting, setting it to lean against the file cabinet. Then he worked the combination of the safe it had hidden. Removing the valuable papers and other odds and ends inside the surprisingly deep little safe, he opened a tiny secret compartment with a few deft touches. Inside was a cell phone.
In Vienna, Jeff had one just like it.
When Dieter had retired they'd decided to arrange a private means of communication in the event that either ever had need of the other's aid. At the time von Rossbach had been thinking that his partner, still active in a very dangerous profession, might need his help. It just went to show you; a backup plan was always a good idea.
He placed the phone on his desk and booted up his computer. Once on the Internet he sent off the coded message that would bounce through a few different addresses before it reached Jeff. Then he sat back to wait. It could be a while.
An hour and a half later the phone rang. Dieter snatched it up. "Yes?" he said.
"I don't even know why I'm talking to you."
"It's because in spite of everything you've heard, you know you can trust me,"
Dieter said.
"If I can trust you then why does it look like you've gone over to the other side?"
Jeff's voice was stressed, not usual.
Dieter wondered if, in spite of their precautions, this call was being monitored—
if Jeff was letting this call be monitored.
"You know me better than that," von Rossbach said dismissively. "What's the gossip about me?"
" Gossip? If it was gossip I could doubt it. I'm talking about official reports, Dieter."
"And what am I supposed to have done in these reports?"
"For starters, harboring a wanted fugitive!" Goldberg snapped.
"When was this?" Careful, Dieter thought. You don't want to antagonize him any further.
"You know goddamn well when. You were the one who sent me those sketches of her. Then you said the description didn't match. And of course I believed you because my good buddy wouldn't lie to me! Next thing I know, you're running around California recruiting for her army!"
Dieter was silent for a while as he gathered his thoughts. He'd thought he knew what he was going to say, th
ought he knew how to counter any arguments Jeff might throw at him. But now that the moment was here he found he couldn't use any of those glib explanations, because most of them were lies. He couldn't do that to a man who had been at his back through most of his dangerous career.
He'd already done it too often.
Dieter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I owe you an apology," he said.
"I did know it was probably her, but I was intrigued and wanted to investigate her by myself. Especially when you sent me that recording of a man with my face killing police by the dozen. I was bored here and feeling useless." He shrugged, though his former partner couldn't see it. "Then you sent Griego and I felt like I had to defend my turf. It wasn't sensible, and I know it wasn't professional, but I'd gotten to know her a little by then and I wanted to know more."
Goldberg was silent for a long time. "Go on," he said at last, his voice giving nothing away.
Dieter felt relieved. At least he was being given a chance to explain. "One night I went over to her house." He frowned at the memory. "I was bringing a dog for her son, more of a puppy, really." He took a deep breath and forced himself to continue. "Before I knew it we were under attack. By a heavily armed man with my face."
"Bullshit!" Goldberg snapped.
"I wish. God, do I wish you were right." Until this moment he hadn't realized how much he would give for all that had happened to have been a dream. "But you're not. The face was mine, but this man was no more human than that cell phone you're holding. I saw the body. It had no internal organs—just metal, wire, motherboards, stuff like that. There were sparks flying out of it and it took an incredible amount of ammunition to stop the damn thing."
"Do you think I'm an idiot!" Goldberg shouted. "What the hell is the matter with you?"
Dieter kept silent for a moment; he tightened his mouth and closed his eyes as if in pain. "Jeff," he said quietly, "I had a whole bunch of lies made up to tell you. I was going to be investigating this thing on my own, trying to find out how far Connor's influence extended. You know me. I'm good at being convincing when I need to be. You'd have believed me before I was finished with you. But you deserved the truth, so I took a chance and told it to you."
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