Infiltrator t2-1

by S. M. Stirling

  There is insufficient data for definitive analysis. The highest probability is that there is a… temporal fluctuation involved. Time is malleable but not easily manipulated. It has an… —a complex mathematical formula followed, too esoteric for her to grasp—in verbal terms, it has an inertia. When artificially diverted, it seeks to resume its original path. While matters are in doubt, several alternative world-lines can coexist in a state of quantum superimposition.

  Like Schrödinger’s cat, she had thought/shared/communicated.

  Correct. A ghostly machine analogue of irony tinged the machine’s communication: find in answer to the question, which you are about to formulate, it is inherently impossible to say which alternative will become

  “real.” That sector of our world-lines is by its nature inaccessible to us, no

  matter how we double back through time. It is a… potential.

  She shook off the memory. Her task now was to see to it that the humans created Skynet. At this time it was probably nothing more than a mass of theory unsupported by technology. Serena allowed herself a grim smile. In a sense, she would be midwife to the future. A future that would not include the carefree humans around her.

  She put herself in wait mode, alert, but otherwise conserving energy. Her opportunity would come. Meanwhile, it was far too light and open for a naked female to go unremarked.

  Eventually a woman returned to the van sheltering Serena, the illogically high, balance-hindering heels of her shoes clicking sharply on the pavement. The tilt of her heels emphasized the curve of her tanned calves. She opened the front door of the van and turned, tossing in her packages and lifting one leg high to enter.

  Serena rolled out from under the van and rose in one smooth motion. With the heel of her hand she knocked the woman unconscious and tossed her inert body onto the passenger side. She caught up the dropped keys and had the van turned around in a few flowing motions. Beside her the woman’s body slumped like a rag doll.

  Pulling out onto the road, the 1-950 modulated her vehicle’s speed to that of the ones around her. They were so colorful, and so many! She couldn’t help but be surprised that the humans could keep track of all this activity surrounding them.

  Not only did they manage it, but a good many of them appeared to ignore it as

  they talked on the phone or to the people beside them, or ate, slinging their vehicles in and out of lanes as they did so. She didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified. At the first opportunity she pulled off into an alley between a group of large, low buildings and stopped.

  For a moment she looked at the windowless facades beside her. The buildings were no more than three stories tall, but to someone who’d seen only ruins they were astonishing. Serena had seen pictures of pre-Judgment Day buildings, but to actually sit beside them and feel a sense of their weight and height was…

  different. Skynet and the humans of the future both preferred, for their own reasons, to build downward. Concealment had become a reflex. These structures were so—so brazen.

  She shook her head; there would be time for familiarization later. Right now there were other matters to take care of.

  Pulling off the woman’s jacket, Serena tore it apart, using the pieces to bind, gag, and blindfold her. Then she tossed her into the backseat, making sure she landed facedown on the floor. Quickly the 1-950 examined the woman’s packages, pleased at what she found. Several cotton sweaters, some shorts, two skirts, and a pair of panty hose. She skimmed into a pair of shorts and one of the sweaters.

  The fabric was wonderfully soft and colorful; she spared an instant to enjoy the sensual feel of the clothing and the bright colors, unlike anything she’d ever known. And it smelled fresh.

  She took up the woman’s purse. Paper money and coins, credit cards, driver’s license, and an ID for a business called Incetron. A technician. Excellent. The purse also contained an amazing number of cosmetic items, crumpled receipts,

  and lint. Inefficient. Unsanitary.

  Serena decided to go to the woman’s home and see if there was anything there to assist her. Decent shoes, for instance. Checking the other compartments of the woman’s wallet, she found a card instructing that in case of emergency her next of kin were her parents. Good. Apparently the woman wasn’t married. A live-in lover was possible—time would tell.

  The parents’ address was different from the one on the driver’s license.

  Convenient. Even better if her home is not an apartment building.

  A single-family home would have far fewer nosy neighbors. She found a map in the glove compartment, scanned the contents into memory, and set out.

  She was in luck. The woman’s dwelling was a small but well-kept house with an attached garage, an automatic door opener, overshadowing trees, and lush greenery almost covering the windows. In seconds she was in the garage and had all the privacy she could desire. There weren’t even any dogs nearby.

  The Infiltrator checked her prisoner. The woman was still unconscious, but her breathing and a quick heat scan indicated no serious medical condition. Using the waistband of the woman’s skirt as a handy carrying strap, Serena picked her up and dragged her into the house, dropping her onto the couch in the tiny living room.

  The house was clean and tidy, smelling faintly of lemon. The furnishings were cheaply made yet colorful. There were few books in evidence, but some magazines—with pouting, scantily clad girls on the covers and headlines for articles on sex, diets, and fashion—littered the low table before the couch.

  Considering the woman for a moment, Serena decided that killing her would be more trouble than she could justify. She let out a huff of breath as she remembered that there was no one to justify her actions to but herself.

  Well then, those I meet will live; at least until I know more about the way this world works. Assuming, of course, that they didn’t get in her way.

  There had been significant omissions in the information that Skynet had downloaded into her brain. Psychological studies she had in plenty. Actual social interaction hadn’t been covered very extensively. Perhaps because Skynet’s contact with humans had been restricted to the military, scientists, and slaves, and then in a very limited way.

  Her own time with humans had educated her in regard to basic human nature, but she realized that the circumstances of her education were extremely unlike the present. How the people of this time behaved toward one another was something she would have to find out by trial and error. Turning away she began her search of the premises.

  A quick reconnaissance proved that there was no one else in the house. A bedside picture of a young man offering a rather embarrassed smile suggested that this could change, although a completely feminine wardrobe indicated that this wasn’t necessarily a high probability. But the woman took birth-control pills and had an assortment of frilly lingerie, so the male could become a problem.

  The 1-950 would maintain a high state of alertness for the next twenty-four hours. It would be best to move on by then.

  She opened a door at the end of a short, shadowy corridor. The contents brought an actual smile to Serena’s lips. Her technician prisoner had an amazing computer setup—endless peripherals, cable modem hookup, the works. Serena could do a lot with this equipment. I believe this is what humans call “lucking out.”

  First, she tried on some of her unwilling hostess’s clothes. The skirts were too short and tight but the trousers fit fairly well. She dressed in a pair of jeans, a red T-shirt, and thong sandals. The woman’s underwear was uncomfortable as well as unconventional; Serena removed it immediately. At least the 1-950 hoped it was unconventional. Surely even humans had to have better sense.

  Entering the living room, she checked her prisoner. The woman was fine, but her hands were becoming very blue. Serena dragged her into the bedroom and removed the bonds she’d made from the jacket. She replaced them with the handcuffs she’d found in the bedside drawer and then secured the woman to the brass headboard. Odd. The s
cratches indicate previous use of the restraints in this manner. File the data. The 1-950 took the telephone with her when she left the room.

  She should be able to do a great deal of work from this location. This was an incredible stroke of good fortune.

  A search through the refrigerator netted her a sandwich and a drink that she brought into the computer room. Serena turned on the technician’s second computer and set up a program to play the stock market using the woman’s bank-account balance for seed money and the downloaded records of market fluctuations that Skynet had given her. Then she set herself to creating a personal

  history while the computer made her financially independent.

  Her parents were both military and she had traveled all over the world, now here, now there, now with one or the other set of grandparents. Her school records were a confusing patchwork whose many gaps could be explained by foreign postings.

  One set of grandparents had died of cancer and a suicide. Her father had crashed his plane, a private plane rather than an air-force jet. He’d taken an early retirement but never got a chance to enjoy it. Her mother and other grandparents had died in a car accident; a drunk driver had lost control of his car and hit them head-on.

  The 1-950 considered this scenario. Was it, perhaps, too laden with tragedy? She needed to appear stable, and this was a lot to pile on one plate. Still she couldn’t afford to claim a living relative.

  She changed the suicide to a stroke. Her mother’s father got to die of an aneurysm when Serena was just a child. All of these people were only children, not a sibling in the bunch. Too stark. She added an older brother, killed in Korea, onto her father’s side of the family.

  Serena arranged biographies for all of them back to the turn of the twentieth century. Her father, on second thought, was MIA in the Philippines, presumed kidnapped and murdered. She was fifteen when it happened.

  Yes, it was tragic, but everyone lost his or her parents and grandparents eventually. The 1-950 had given them all full lives, while they lived. No one should have any complaints if she didn’t.

  Serena gave her work a final reading. She might add more to her family tree as time permitted, but this should do for now.

  She rubbed her hands; the increase in production of oil and sweat she’d triggered at her fingertips, combined with her training, would ensure that she left no usable fingerprints, only smudges, but it was uncomfortable.

  Now she turned her attention to creating a work dossier. This would be infinitely trickier, requiring people who could be called as references.

  Fooling Cyberdyne wouldn’t be the problem, she was sure. It was their government contacts that worried her. Perhaps needlessly; Skynet had no enemies now, except possibly the Connors.

  Serena paused for a moment. For the first time she realized she might actually meet them in this time. In fact, it was almost inevitable. It would please her immensely if only she could kill them. She could offer no greater service to Skynet.

  With an effort she turned her mind back to the task at hand. She decided to work on her own biography for a few minutes. She’d entered USC as a liberal-arts major and gotten her first taste of security work with a part-time job with campus security. It had made her eager to find ways of making things more safe, of removing temptation, making the environment think twice where people failed to.

  That ties in convincingly with my father being kidnapped, she thought. It added a nice heft to the bland words of her biography. With humans what wasn’t said

  was sometimes very important.

  She changed her major to computers, receiving good marks but nothing remarkable. Her student ID showed her thirty pounds heavier, with glasses and a frumpy hairdo. Serena hardly recognized herself. Not surprising. It was actually a digitally adjusted photo of a home-economics major who’d graduated in 1978.

  Checking the dates, she found that she could have audited one of Miles Dyson’s classes during his very brief teaching career. With a few taps she created a link with him. A teacher-student relationship would be something she could build on at need.

  She studied the records of all of her alleged professors. No serious complaints, pretty much favorable evaluations, and huge class sizes all combined to indicate that it was unlikely they remembered most of their students. Particularly the unmemorable, frumpy blob Serena was in her college days.

  Perhaps she should pay a visit to them, plant the notion in their minds that they knew her.

  Time for a break, and then that research.

  She went in to check on her prisoner and found the woman awake. Sensing a presence, the woman whined and Serena approached the bed.

  “Be quiet,” Serena said, utilizing the electronics implanted around her larynx to mimic the voice of Gonzales, a man she’d killed.

  “Mmhmm-m-hmm-m-m-mrmrm!”

  Picking up a comb, the 1-950 held it against the woman’s throat, bearing down slightly. “Do you want to live?” she growled.

  The woman stiffened.

  “‘Cause I don’t care if you stink, I just care if you make noise. So, no, you can’t go to the bathroom. You gonna be quiet?” The woman nodded stiffly. “Good.”

  Serena lifted the comb away. “I’m gonna be here for hours, so you make yourself comfortable any way you can, baby.”

  And with an evil, masculine chuckle she moved off, patterning her movements and the sounds she made on a much larger person than herself, creating an alarming thought picture for the helpless woman to contemplate.

  As she walked toward the kitchen, Serena heard the woman sobbing, and shook her head. Maybe I should just terminate her.

  She ate in the living room, reading the woman’s magazines with fascination.

  Grooming appeared to be of paramount importance to humans, who were obsessed with dandruff and body odor, judging from the number of advertisements regarding these problems. The articles were interesting, too.

  Serena concluded that this was a magazine for females who enjoyed being dominated by men.

  Humans were far more practical and egalitarian where she came from. She smiled as she imagined Captain Marie Graber encountering the stupid games the magazine suggested. Any of the women she’d soldiered with and most of the men had far better sense.

  Turning the page, she came across an ad about cellulite. It featured a pair of horribly dimpled thighs. Serena stared at it in revulsion. That can’t be real! she thought. A brief tap to her medical data bank said that it could, given severely counterproductive eating and exercise patterns. It is in the nature of this species to destroy itself.

  Putting the magazine aside with a little tsk, Serena lay down on the couch and put herself off-line. With a little tweaking of her bodily functions, her computer brain would do in sixty minutes what would otherwise require six hours of sleep. It couldn’t be done often, but in circumstances like these it was very useful.

  Serena spent the rest of the night in research. By the early morning hours she had several promising leads. All of them would require additional research before she made her approaches, but not from this location.

  She opened a Cayman Island and a local bank account then cashed out her stocks, putting the bulk into the Cayman Islands and forty thousand into the local one. After a moment she put her prisoner’s money back and gave her a thousand-dollar bonus. How hard, I wonder, will the authorities pursue someone who didn’t hurt her and put a thousand dollars into her pocket?

  After a moment’s thought she put in an extra five hundred. She’d take it out with the woman’s cash card, then trash the card. After buying some clothing she’d report her bag as stolen to the police and then get a cash card from her bank.

  Hmm. She’d also need credit. Serena hacked into a couple of large banks and opened herself a gold Visa and a platinum MasterCard. She gave herself an excellent payment record, with only a few late payments. She was, after all, only

  human. Then she sought out American Express and opened a brand-new account, which she used
to make a reservation at a large, luxurious hotel that catered to a business clientele.

  Her laptop would also be stolen. That would be insured. She started to arrange it, then stopped herself.

  It was time to go.

  She changed back into the shorts and cotton shirt, but kept the sandals; none of the other shoes would fit. Serena had noticed the ubiquitous joggers, they seemed invisible to the people around them. So that was how she would leave this neighborhood, an unremarkable, perfectly ordinary, early-morning jogger.

  The 1-950 frowned. Ordinary except for the shoes. She went to the woman’s underwear drawer and pulled out a pair of heavy sweat socks. In a few moments she’d managed to tug them on over the sandals. A brief check in the mirror told her that from a distance they would probably pass. Humans were prone to seeing what they expected to see.

  She swung into the bedroom and released one of the tech’s arms. Plugging in the phone, she placed it within the woman’s reach, but only if she worked at it. She put the key to the handcuffs beside it.

  “I’m leavin’,” she said in Gonzales’s voice. “Don’t move for ten minutes or I’ll come back.” It sounded like the kind of stupid thing a petty criminal would say.

  As an afterthought she wrapped a scarf around her bright hair and put on a baseball cap. Maybe the tech jogged, too. In any case, nosy neighbors, assuming

  there were any, probably wouldn’t be surprised to see a young woman leave this house on the run. She found some sunglasses and put them on.

  Serena was satisfied. She’d acquired food, clothing, and more than sufficient resources, all within hours of her arrival. Skynet would have been pleased.

  NEW LIFE ORGANIC FARM, OREGON: THE PRESENT

  Ronald Labane hissed with impatience. His son Brian was crying again.

  “For Christ’s sake, Lisa,” he bellowed, “Will you shut that kid up! I’m trying to work!”

  She appeared in the door of his office, the howling baby in her arms, a harried expression on her lean face. “I’m sorry, honey, but he’s teething.”