Maybe he could get in the car and inch closer that way. But then they’d hear the car and come out to see who had come. He could always tell them that he was almost out of gas, which was perfectly true, and try to buy some. But even if they invited him in they’d watch what they said while he was around.
Then he noticed a flurry of activity before the house. One of the younger people who worked on the estancia drove a Jeep up to the steps. Then von Rossbach appeared, spoke a few words to the driver, and gave him what looked like money.
Soon a small, fat man came out of the house. He stopped and talked to von Rossbach, who handed him an envelope. When the smaller man would have opened it, von Rossbach put his big hand over both of the man’s, stopping him.
From what Marco could see no words were exchanged, but the smaller man looked up into the Austrian’s face and sort of crumbled. He put the envelope in his pocket and went down the steps, while von Rossbach, his face grim, watched him. Then the Jeep drove off.
Interesting, Marco thought. The smaller man was familiar somehow. Cassetti frowned, thinking hard as he watched the door to see if the woman was going to come out now.
Oh! Of course! The little fat guy was Victor Griego, an arms dealer. Not big time, but not small time either. An independent with a reputation for being fairly
trustworthy in what he sold.
Victor used to have an apartment in the building Marco’s aunt Rosa took care of.
Marco had heard her talking to his mother about all the strange characters Victor had visiting him.
It was interesting that he was here. There must be something about Dieter von Rossbach’s background that hasn’t made it into his immigration documents, Marco thought wisely. You didn’t expect to find a slimy little creep like Victor Griego, who’d killed his own rnother with a broken heart, so Aunt Rosa had said, mingling with honest citizens. So something had to be going on.
He waited. After about twenty minutes von Rossbach and the woman came out.
Their behavior towards one another was tentative, like two people patching up an argument.
Maybe she’d wanted von Rossbach to do business with Griego and the big Austrian wouldn’t. No, that wouldn’t work, because the arms dealer had been there before everybody else.
Marco felt a growing excitement as he tried to nail down the possibilities.
Intrigue—no doubt about it. The whole thing reeked of intrigue. Not just another disappointed girlfriend checking up on a rival.
Marco wondered who the woman was. She had a nice figure, but her haircut and the big glasses she wore kind of obscured her face. He had the impression that she was attractive, though.
She and von Rossbach didn’t touch as she climbed into her car. He shut the door
and stood over her. Marco watched them through the binoculars. They definitely weren’t speaking. They didn’t speak for what seemed like an eternity, while Marco could sense the tension building between them from his hiding place.
The woman broke first, looking down to start the car. When she looked up Marco read her lips saying good night, then she drove off. Von Rossbach stood back and watched her go.
Something strange was definitely going on there. Well, he could always follow her home and find out where she lived and then ask people in Villa Hayes about her in the morning. Or—he lowered the glasses—he could just find Victor Griego and ask him what this was all about. If he did that he would get to sleep in his own bed tonight instead of the rental car.
Marco nodded to himself. That seemed the most sensible thing to do. His mother would like it, too. When he’d told her he was going to be out all night working, she’d been too angry to speak, descending into a sullen silence that had yet to be broken. And this morning she’d gotten up extra early to make his breakfast, just so it would be ice-cold when he entered the kitchen. He smiled fondly. He could only hope that someday he would find a girl who loved him half that much.
He got up, dusted himself off, and headed back to Asuncion, keeping the headlights off and driving by moonlight until he was well away from von Rossbach’s estancia, despite the potholes and two determined suicide attempts by armadillos.
No need to attract attention, he told himself, feeling canny. He drove down the road in a glow of anticipation. He’d soon have a lot of very interesting information to share with his client.
She would be grateful. He wondered how grateful, and filled the drive home with fantasies involving very appreciative, very leggy blondes.
SERENA’S LAB: THE PRESENT
Serena sat as though in a trance, sorting through the information her open computer had garnered for her. Most of it was useless. That was one thing you couldn’t say about intelligence back home. What information you received meant something. The Internet in this time was full of garbage, and advertisements—
for pictures, for services. She found she was especially offended by the advertisements.
Another reason to wish the species extinct, she thought, is their rude insistence on wasting my precious time.
Still another was their undeniable influence on her. She found herself behaving more and more like a human. Her emotions were becoming less feigned and more felt. This was dangerous as well as uncomfortable. She was glad that there was no one from home to see her like this. Which was another sign of their pervasive influence. She should not care.
With an effort she forced such thoughts away, reminding herself that when she thought of home she was really thinking of Skynet. And it is here. In its infancy, needing protection more than at any other time of its existence. The one thing that mattered, the only thing, was that she must not fail.
Perhaps it’s time I cloned myself, she thought. Or at least began preparing a safe place for the clone to grow. Right now she was the weak link. If something
unforeseen happened to her, a car accident, for example, Skynet might be stopped cold. Given the way humans drove, it was all too likely.
Very well then, she would prepare.
Serena broke her connection with the computer and looked across her lab at her second completed Terminator. She watched as it assembled a fourth. It was completely hairless just now. The skin was so new and tender that she had left it naked rather than risk chafing the babylike flesh. The skin on its hands was much tougher, about the texture and quality of a five-year-old human’s.
Nevertheless she had instructed it to take frequent rests to allow any damaged tissue to regenerate. Anything that might interfere with function, or might risk the new flesh becoming infected, was to be avoided. The synthetic immune system had some weaknesses.
By late tomorrow night its skin would be as tough as an adult human’s—by the end of the week, much tougher. But for now it was best to restrict it. The third Terminator basked in the tank, growing its shell of flesh. So far everything was on schedule. Even the unexpected additions to her program were being handled smoothly.
For example, tomorrow Mary Warren, who was a pilot, was flying with some of her friends to San Francisco to attend an art auction. Mrs. Warren loved to fly and her husband seemed genuinely proud of her accomplishment.
Paul Warren had told her everything about Mary’s plane. Under the guise of planning security for it, she’d discovered that it would carry six passengers and had all the amenities. Meaning a nice little powder room for her Terminator to lurk in.
Poor Paul. He was going to get such terrible news tomorrow.
Serena had sent her first Terminator, its head and body speckled with stubble, to the airport to accompany Mary and her friends on their trip. Serena smiled to herself.
She’d toyed with several different scenarios, such as a heater pouring carbon monoxide into the cabin, engine failure, a massive fuel leak. She’d even considered having the Terminator shoot them all, making one of the passengers seem a suicide. But then she’d decided to simply have the Terminator break all their necks and bail out while they were over the ocean.
Of course Tricker would que
stion it, but he’d have questioned it whatever they did. It would seem to be just one of those unsolvable mysteries. Serena grinned.
She closed her eyes, and got back to work on her computer’s gleanings from the Net. Ah! Here was the report Jeff Goldberg sent to Dieter von Rossbach. It was encrypted, but nothing that gave her too much trouble. Coming from the future did have its advantages. No new material here. The cover note was a surprise, however.
There were a few words of apology for sending Victor Griego to bother von Rossbach. Then something interesting:
I’ve just found out that Cyberdyne has started up operations again. This time they’re located underground on a military base. That ought to be secure enough.
I’ve also heard that they’ve recovered some of the stuff the Connors stole from them. What I don’t know, my source wouldn’t tell me.
Goldberg’s source was astoundingly well informed. Serena immediately wondered if it might be Tricker himself, then discarded the notion. Tricker as gossip was just too unbelievable. Unless he wants it known, she thought.
Now that, Tricker would do. She smiled. Oh, wouldn’t he, though? It would be just like Tricker to throw the cat among the pigeons like that, just to watch what they’d do. Then he’d take notes and hold interviews at his leisure.
She did like Tricker. A shame he was human.
The Terminator sat in the tiny lavatory of the Warren’s plane, its complex systems in wait mode. It looked like a dead man in a tight-fitting coverall; its eyes were closed and it didn’t appear to be breathing. All sensors were alert, however—at the slightest significant change the Terminator would come to full function.
Getting onto the aircraft had been much simpler than getting to the airport, which had involved changing buses three times as well as taking the airport shuttle. Then it had walked to this field where private planes were kept. Kept with very poor security.
After standing in the shadow of a nearby hangar weighing its options, the Terminator had elected to walk openly to the plane and enter. It hadn’t even been necessary to pick the lock.
The 1-950 had been correct; sometimes boldness was more invisible than skulking. The intelligence unit would also be pleased that there were no collateral deaths to explain.
The Terminator sat immobile, the seconds ticking over on its internal digital display. Waiting.
“My Gawd, Alice!” a woman’s voice exclaimed. “A fox-fur coat? You’ll get spray-painted for sure. I’m tempted to do it myself!”
The Terminator came awake and listened. Several humans clumped aboard, laughing and talking, milling about before seating themselves. Wasted effort.
Wasted motion. Inefficient.
“Well, you know how cold I get. It’s freezing in San Francisco.”
“It’s sixty degrees, honey,” a man’s voice protested. “Chilly for sure, but hardly a reason to pile on forty pounds of fur.”
“Okay, I admit it, I love this coat and I’m just looking for an excuse to wear it.
So there.”
“Give it to me and I’ll put it in the closet,” the first woman said, her voice amused. “But I warn you, there’s a huge crowd of those PETA people in that city.”
“Mmm,” Alice’s voice drifted to the Terminator from further up the cabin. “Now you’ve got me worried. Maybe I shouldn’t wear it. I’d hate to see it get damaged.”
“That might be best, hon,” the man said. “Hey, what have you got to drink on this tub?”
“Tub?” The woman’s voice sounded slightly offended. “You have the gall to call
my beautiful baby a tub? If you can’t be polite you can go thirsty.”
The woman’s possessiveness regarding the aircraft would seem to indicate that this was Mary Warren, the owner and pilot. The Terminator recorded her voice for future use.
The Terminator made out footsteps going forward.
“Aw, c’mon,” Henry protested.
“Wait till we’re airborne, then I’ll unlock the bar,” Mary told him.
Henry heaved a deep sigh.
Steps approached the lavatory; the Terminator took hold of the doorknob and easily held it shut. The door rattled, the Terminator held on.
“Hey!” Henry said. “The bathroom door’s stuck.”
“Sit down, Henry!” Mary said. “I’ve got to get into position for takeoff. These things are scheduled, you know. Can’t it wait?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Henry grumbled.
These people deserved to die, thought the Terminator. Even from a human perspective. Any creatures so stupid needed to be removed from the gene pool for the benefit of the species.
“Strap in you two,” the woman said. “Here we go.”
The Terminator listened to her speaking to the control tower. It deduced their instructions to her from her responses. The Terminator would bide its time, waiting until they were airborne and the controls on autopilot.
Mary Warren leaned back with a sigh. She never felt as alive as she did when she was flying—hands-on flying, with the aircraft an extension of herself.
As she gave the instruments a final check and took the headset off, she heard Henry rattling the door of the washroom again. Well, if he would drink just before getting on a vehicle, and at this hour…
“About time!” she heard him say. Then: “Who the hell are— ukkkk!”
She turned, then blinked. For a moment the scene before her refused to clear; her mind wasn’t accepting the data her eyes presented. A man had come out of the washroom. A huge man, several inches over six feet, dressed in oil-stained workman’s overalls. His shoulders strained the fabric until the buttons stood out at dimpled troughs in the cloth. Below the cutoff sleeves his arms were like tree trunks, the skin incongruously pink and unmarred. His face was almost square, the jaw massive and spade-shaped on a bullet head with only a thin bristle of hair to hide its outline. The eyes were the coldest she’d ever seen on a living human being, like dead brown plastic.
One huge hand was locked around Henry’s throat. As she watched, it closed, and there was a crack like a green branch breaking, and a sudden hard stink. Henry went as limp as a rag doll, and the stranger threw him aside to slump over one of the recliner seats.
Terrorists, her mind gibbered. Sociopath— madman—
Another of her guests launched himself at the stranger: Edgar, a tiresome physical-fitness enthusiast but a second cousin. Mary almost wept with relief as he slammed his foot into the stranger’s groin with a shrill kia! of effort.
The stranger reached down, grabbed the other man’s ankle, and swept him in a half circle like a flail. Edgar’s head met that of Sally Wentworth with a dull cracking sound…
The next conscious thought Mary Warren had was of disbelief as the stranger’s fist smashed through the locked door separating the cockpit from the passenger compartment. Her hands stopped fumbling at the radio controls as the spatulate fingers groped, found the knob… and wrenched it and the lock entirely out of the light-metal frame of the door with a squeal of tortured aluminum.
“Mayday!” she shouted into the microphone. “Mayday, we—”
The door opened, and the stranger reached for her.
“Mayday,” the Terminator said, in what even a voice-analysis laboratory would have agreed was Mary Warren’s voice. “Mayday!”
“Report, Flight two-one-niner!” the control tower said crisply. “We show you losing altitude. Report your circumstances!”
“The engines… Oh, God, I can’t keep her up… God, God— oh God no please—”
The Terminator increased the angle of descent as it screamed high and shrill.
The water below was only a hundred meters or so deep, easily within his
tolerances, and the speed of impact would be survivable. Thoughtfully, it buckled the seat belt across its torso. It would be inefficient to damage its protein-sheath camouflage more than was necessary to accomplish the assigned mission parameters.
When that was complete, he arranged
the body of the subject he’d just terminated in the seat across from him. The impact when it was thrown forward into the cabin windows would account for the blunt injury trauma with a high degree of authenticity.
CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS: THE PRESENT
A single knock and then Serena’s office door opened to reveal her secretary, fairly vibrating with excitement. Serena looked up with a slight frown.
“Oh, Ms Burns! Terrible news!” the secretary said.
Which you are looking forward to telling me, the 1-950 thought with mild amusement. They really are a loathsome species. But they were also entertaining. “What is it?” she asked, still frowning.
The secretary placed her hands on Serena’s desk and leaned forward. “Mrs.
Warren’s plane crashed. In the ocean somewhere between here and San Francisco.”
Serena allowed her jaw to drop in an appropriate expression of horror. She rose from her desk and went to the door of her office, looking down the corridor toward the president’s suite. “What happened?” she asked.
The woman crowded close to say, “Nobody knows, really. Just that the plane is missing and presumed down.”
“Where did you hear it?”
“From Mr. Cowen, Mr. Warren’s secretary.”
“I thought you didn’t talk to him,” Serena said. Warren’s secretary was gay and her own was a member of a very conservative religious organization.
Her secretary was flustered by the observation and took a moment to get a response out.
“Well, ordinarily, no, I don’t talk to him. But I saw these two men come down the hall, and sometimes you can tell just by looking at people that something serious has happened. You know what I mean?”
Serena nodded.
“So when Mr. Warren came rushing down the hall with them, he looked absolutely white, let me tell you, I knew something important was up. And…
and I knew that you’d want to be informed.”
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