Rising Storm t2-2

by S. M. Stirling

  Yam explained that they'd pooled their resources and come up with fifteen hundred in cash for her.

  "Snog got to your computer; there wasn't anything there that needed to be erased, but we had to check. Did you leave any disks or anything around?"

  "No. All my stuff is at the central drop." She shook her head. "I don't do written notes. At least not about that." She was referring to the CPU John had given them.

  "Good." He gave her a brief, nervous smile. "C'mon."

  Upstairs at the Coop they found Snog and Carl waiting for them at a corner table near the big windows that looked out on the alley and the brick wall opposite.

  Snog rose and enveloped her in a hug. Then he stepped back, his hands on her shoulders.

  "Thweetie," he lisped, "you tho need a makeover." Wendy blinked at him in astonishment. "Hey, thanks, Snog! "That just caps my day!"

  "No, no, no. You don't understand," he said, grinning. "Here, sit down before you fall down."

  That didn't make her feel much better, but she let herself be persuaded.

  "Cuppa joe?" Carl asked.

  "Please," Wendy said with heartfelt gratitude.

  "Decaf," Yam said, sitting down beside her. They all looked at him. "I've got some schematics to draw later," he explained.

  "Ah," they all said at once.

  "Here's your passport." Snog slid a blue booklet over to her.

  "I don't have a passport," Wendy said, confused.

  She opened the cover and stared at the photo inside. The girl was a goth-rock vision with multiple piercings on lip, nose, eyebrow, and ears. Her short hair was

  purple; in fact, in her physical description the color was listed as brown/purple.

  The girl stared out of the picture with an unnerving intensity, as though, somehow, she could actually see Wendy looking at her. Wendy snapped the cover shut.

  "Who is this psycho?"

  Snog laughed. "That's my sister, Carolyn. I'll have to tell her you said that; she'll laugh. She belongs to a band in Canada and one time when they pulled her license she decided she needed another ID to get across the border. It's okay, she never uses it anymore since she got her license back."

  "Snog, I don't look anything like your sister!"

  "You will once my girlfriend gets through with you."

  "You have a girlfriend?" Yam said.

  Carl, who had returned with their coffees, looked askance at Snog.

  "Well," Snog said, pulling his head back and looking down into his cup, "she's a friend, and she's a girl…" He glanced up at them. "Okay, she's more a friend of my sister's, but she kinda likes me."

  They all stirred their coffee and he looked around the table at them.

  "Hey, she likes me enough that she agreed to make Wendy look like Carolyn."

  "I really appreciate this, Snog," Wendy said, looking up at him. "But I just can't

  get my face pierced." Wasn't she in enough trouble without adding physical pain, too?

  "No, no, no. This is the cool part." He held up his hands. "She's a makeup artist.

  She can fix you up with fake piercings. And the great thing is, even if you aren't a perfect match, nobody over twenty-five can look someone with eyebrow piercings in the face."

  "You have a point," Yam said after a thoughtful sip of his coffee.

  "Am I going somewhere?" Wendy asked. "And if so, where?"

  "Yeah, you're going somewhere," Snog said.

  "You can't stay here." Carl shook his head sadly. "Brad says the cops are all over your dorm."

  "Is that where he is?" Wendy asked, relieved. She'd been afraid he thought she was guilty.

  Snog slid two phrase books over to her, one Portuguese and one Spanish.

  She looked around the table at their serious faces.

  "John," Yam said, and shrugged. The others nodded.

  "Who else that we know can tell you what to do?" Snog asked.

  Wendy looked down, biting her lips, fighting the tears that wanted to come. "I didn't do it, you know."

  "We know that." Carl placed one of his big hands over hers. "But Brad says the cops are acting like they've got something pretty solid on you."

  "Do you know what that would be?" Yam asked.

  Wendy nodded, then waved a hand in a negative swipe. "I'm not going to tell you anything. The less you know the better."

  Snog slid a packet across the table. Wendy opened it to find a ticket to New York and one to Sao Paulo, Brazil. She looked at him, her eyes wide with unasked questions.

  Shrugging, Snog explained, "He once said that if I needed to meet him face-to-face, I should send him a message, go there and wait." He glanced up at her. "I assumed he told you the same thing."

  She nodded. Actually, John had trusted her further than that, but saying so might hurt her friend's feelings, so she kept it to herself.

  "We should get going," Snog said, rising. "You'll need some new clothes of the right type and then we get you made up. Your flight leaves at seven and they like you to be at the airport at least two hours before that."

  "I can't thank you guys enough." Wendy reached out and touched Carl and Yam, looking up at Snog with tears in her eyes. "I am innocent, but I can't prove it."

  Snog grinned and spread his arms. "Hey, that's why we're helping you. C'mon, let's get cracking."

  SAO PAULO, BRAZIL

  The customs agent stared at her in fascination and Wendy couldn't blame him.

  She felt like a complete clown. Not only was her hair rinsed purple, and her makeup taken to the extreme, her face covered with various types of faux piercings, but both arms writhed with intricate tattoos.

  The vintage black velvet dress was hot even inside the air-conditioned building; she didn't want to think what it was going to be like when she got out into the smog-sizzling tropical atmosphere of Brazil's biggest city. It hung on her like a bag, and the brand-new army boots were killing her. Once I get them off I'll probably have to go barefoot for a week, she thought. Her feet and ankles were undoubtedly destined to swell to twice their size. She'd been moving from one form of transport to another for the last fourteen hours.

  The customs agent went through his list of rote questions, then hesitated.

  "I must warn you, senhorita, that having anything to do with drugs in this country is a very serious crime."

  Wendy smiled sweetly. "Oh," she said, shaking her head carefully lest she shake something loose, "thank you, but I'm not into that. I'm into Christian goth rock.

  We sing about the sufferings of our Lord, not sex and drugs. See." She held out her empurpled arms. "I'm totally clean. Do you believe that Jesus is your personal savior?"

  "Yes," he said, quickly stamping her passport. "And I have a very active patron saint. Welcome to Brazil, have a nice day. Next!"

  Was that a note of desperation I heard in your voice? she wondered as she moved toward the Hertz counter. Wendy put on a pair of huge, black-rimmed sunglasses she'd bought in New York. She slipped them down to rest on the tip of her nose as she got to the counter and, taking out her Portuguese phrase book, prepared to do battle.

  At the sight of the book a look of subdued horror crossed the clerk's face. "I speak English," he said quickly. "American?"

  "Yes," she said, relieved. "How did you know?"

  "The last plane in was from New York. You will pardon my observing that you look like New York. Yes?"

  Wendy laughed. "I suppose I do," she said, trying to sound as though she enjoyed the way she looked. "I'd like to rent an economy car." She plunked Carolyn's Visa card on the counter.

  ("Don't worry," Snog had insisted. "She won't even notice it's missing.") Actually Wendy was willing to bet that she would. At the very least she'd notice when charges from Brazil started showing up on her statements.

  "May I see your driver's license, please," the young man said pleasantly.

  She handed over her own Massachusetts license.

  "This is a different name from the card," he said. "I'm afraid
I can't accept this."

  "But it's obviously me," Wendy objected. "Carolyn Brandt is my stage name, the

  one I travel under." She handed him the passport. "See, that's me, too." She offered him a brilliant smile. "I explained all that to the Massachusetts DMV and they said no. They said I had to take off my makeup and rinse the dye out of my hair and use my birth name. The federal government," Wendy said loudly, "was willing to accept me as I am, but not Massachusetts. But really, a federal document supersedes a state document," she said confidently.

  He looked up at her, comparing the pictures from the license and the passport with what he saw. "It does seem to be you," he said.

  Wendy smiled and nodded. He began comparing signatures. Fortunately Carolyn's handwriting and her own were very similar, hers being slightly neater.

  "This handwriting is a little different," the clerk said, pointing to the license.

  Wendy nodded. "They made me write it three times. It has to be legible, they said." She scrunched up her face and felt one of the brow rings loosen. "So are we all right, or what?" she asked, suddenly impatient.

  The young man hesitated, still. "How long did you want to rent the car for?"

  "Ten days," Wendy said without hesitation.

  That way, if John didn't want to help her, she could get it back here easily enough. She supposed that she could lose herself in a city this size. Hell, she thought, maybe I can start up a Christian goth-rock band.

  The young man made his decision and processed her request, sold her insurance.

  "Very wise, miss." And had her sign the rental agreement.

  Wendy had bought a wrist brace when out shopping with Snog and it supplied the requisite messiness to make her handwriting an almost perfect copy of Carolyn's. Certainly it brought a look of relief to the clerk's face.

  She stopped at the bank window to change her U.S. money into Brazilian currency, and remembered to buy some guaranies for when she entered Paraguay. Within ten minutes, a map on the seat beside her, she was on her way.

  I hope John won't be mad, she thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  RED SEAL BASE, ANTARCTICA

  Kurt Viemeister swaggered through the bland corridors of the base's living quarters to find Clea Bennet's door open. Putting his hands on either side of the doorway, he leaned in and looked around, pleasantly conscious of the way his broad sculpted shoulders and thick-muscled arms rippled beneath the thin T-shirt.

  The room was just like a generous ten-by-fourteen cubicle, painted off-white, with a full bed, bookcase, cheap desk with an uncomfortable chair, bedside table, bureau, and a first-rate computer. Space was at a surprising premium in the base; armoring against the Antarctic was almost as much trouble as guarding against the environment of the moon.

  Clea was packing.

  "Going somewhere?" he asked, half humorously. As if there was anywhere to go.

  "Yes," she said, coming out of the tiny bathroom. "Kushner, Locke, and I are going seal hunting." Clea gave him a sidelong smile. "In a manner of speaking."

  "What about our work?" Kurt snapped, straightening.

  The I-950 turned a cool look on the self-styled superman.

  "Hey, Kurt, why don't you say that a little louder, I don't think Tricker heard you.

  Or, you could wear a T-shirt that says 'I break the rules, please punish me.' "

  Clea raised one sardonic brow at him as she crossed the room to take something from her bureau drawer. "If you want me to work with you it wouldn't hurt you to ask for my assistance. Officially." She gave him a very false smile. "I suspect Tricker thinks I want to be your groupie."

  Viemeister frowned. "I will speak to him now, this hour. I don't want you wasting your time fooling around with dumb animals."

  Serena had been right; Viemeister was ridiculously lacking in social skills, and laughably unaware of it. The man was convinced that it was his choice entirely that people left him alone. He was equally convinced that if he wanted someone's company he could charm them into liking him.

  Fat chance! Clea thought. Viemeister had brains and good looks— but then, so did a very bright Doberman. Apparently he's never tested that I-am-charming-when-I-want-to-be theory.

  She turned to him with a slight smile. "Kurt, I'm going stir-crazy down here. I want to see some sky." She tilted her head toward him. "Okay?"

  "I didn't even know you were interested in pinnipeds," he said sullenly.

  The I-950 laughed. "I'm interested in everything. Especially wringing concessions from Tricker. It amuses me."

  Frowning, Viemeister took a deep breath and crossed his massive arms over his swollen chest.

  Is that for my benefit? she wondered.

  "I don't like Tricker," he announced.

  "Big surprise there," Clea said. "I doubt he'd win a popularity contest hereabouts.

  If you don't like him it should please you that I enjoy torturing him."

  Kurt snorted. "I suppose it should. But it concerns me that you claim to be going stir-crazy. It is a weakness, and you should fight any weakness in your character."

  "It's a state of mind, and I'll do what I like."

  The I-950 gave him a hard look and watched him lift his head, like a bull scenting a challenger. She smiled and looked away, a dimple in her cheek. "I'll be back in a week," she said. "You're just jealous because I'm getting to do something different."

  His stance and expression softened slightly. "Perhaps I'm jealous that you're going to be out on the ice with two other men."

  Clea laughed and went to embrace him, chuckling as his arms wrapped around

  her. She leaned back and looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. Yes, she was definitely developing a sense of humor.

  "You have to have seen these guys," she said. "Kushner is a potato with legs and Locke looks like the mummy of Ramses the Second walking." She poked him in the chest, perhaps a little too hard, but he was such a jerk. "I've made my choice, and that ought to tell you something about my taste in men."

  This time he laughed, and something in the way of it was intended to remind her she'd been a virgin until she met him.

  "Exactly," she purred.

  Clea pushed herself off from his chest, forcing him to let her go, though he obviously didn't want to. Arching a brow, she asked, "Weren't you going to go ask Tricker to allow you my services?" She smiled wickedly.

  "I can't dissuade you?"

  "Uh-uh."

  "Then I may as well go." He turned on his heel and walked out without another word.

  Clea snorted, knowing he heard her because she knew exactly how to direct sound to her intended hearer. She knew he'd been deliberately ambiguous, assuming that she'd wonder if he'd even bother to ask Tricker for her assistance in his work.

  As if he'd risk alienating her. Poor Kurt was a very lonely boy and she'd made a point of filling his off-hours with lots of rigorous exercise and stimulating conversation. What ha considered stimulating conversation anyway, which alternated between talking about how wonderful he was, his absurd politics, and his project. Clea actually enjoyed talking about that last subject though.

  So, no, he wouldn't risk antagonizing her. By the time she got back, everything should be settled and then she could begin work on the most important thing in the world. A thrill of anticipation shot through her.

  Skynet!

  Clea approached the downed leopard seal at a jog, moving effortlessly over the irregular, slippery surface of the ice. Had the humans been watching, she would have crept up on it, as if it was going to jump up and savage her. But she could plainly see that it was unconscious, and hear the rhythm of its heartbeat and breathing.

  The I-950 quickly plucked the orange-tipped dart from its side and stowed it away in her pouch. Then she pulled out a radio harness, tested it, and fitted it around the seal's body. Pulling out a punch, she attached a tag to its flipper.

  All of this was done at speeds far exceeding the human norm. It kept her warmer and she saw no rea
son to suffer when there wasn't anyone to witness her relative comfort. She couldn't push her metabolism too hard, unfortunately, as the supply of food was both limited and carefully calculated. So, like the humans accompanying her, her socks froze to the soles of her feet and she actually needed the multiple layers of clothing she wore.

  Pulling a syringe out of her jacket, where it had been kept warm until this moment so the saline medium didn't freeze, she carefully flushed the needle to eliminate air bubbles. Inside, just barely visible to the most refined sight her augmented eyes could manage, were the microscopic machines that would allow her control over this animal.

  She regretted the size of the things, but it was the best she could do with the materials at hand, the constant surveillance, and supplies so carefully monitored.

  The I-950 had only gotten away with the limited number she'd managed to cobble together because she was using minute pieces of parts she then destroyed in "experiments."

  Each machine had a tail, like a sperm, that would allow it to swim through the fluid surrounding the seal's brain to the area it was programmed to affect. There it would gently drop onto the surface of the brain and adhere itself by releasing a microscopic drop of surgical glue. Then tiny filaments would spin out, attaching themselves to crucial parts of the mammal's brain—essentially a more limited form of the machine-neuron symbiosis that made up her brain, and derived from the same technology.

  Not for the first time, she wondered how much of what Skynet would know in the future would come from research, and how much through a closed timelike loop from her. With an effort, she pushed these musings aside; the question was simply unanswerable, as was the question of where the information came from in the "first place." That was meaningless, when time travel was factored into the equation.

  The machines would respond to signals sent through a special transmitter she'd

  added to the one on the radio harness. This should allow her to see and hear through the animal's eyes and ears. How well that would work, exactly, she had yet to find out. The transmitter would also allow her to excite certain portions of the seal's brain to elicit a desired response. Relentless, violent rage, for example.