The other men chuckled and sipped their coffee.
Ron gave a disgusted, “tsssh!” and waved his hand dismissively. “All they did was annoy the insurance companies,” he said. “The politicians stayed bribed, the ski lodge owners still own the land, and they will rebuild. And that fire took a thousand acres of woodland. Last I heard the owners were planning to expand their operation since all that land had been cleared for them.” Ron shook his head. “What a waste of effort.”
“So what would you have done?” George challenged, looking like an angry Buddha.
“I dunno,” Ron said, looking thoughtful. “Nothing really destructive, though.
Something that would amuse the public, get them on your side.” His gaze sharpened and he looked George in the face. “If you’ve got the public on your side, and I mean the majority, then you make it risky to impossible for the
politicos to do their damage.” He smiled wryly. “You’ve got to think like frat boys crossed with Navy seals.”
The men laughed.
Before Ron left, their hard eyes had begun to glow with hero worship and they’d made plans. Labane opened his briefcase and took out a small, brightly wrapped parcel.
“For start-up expenses,” he said quietly, handing it to John. “Happy birthday.”
The he smiled and got up. Without another glance he walked out into the night.
Ron could feel their eyes following him, like plants following the sun, and he nearly laughed. Having acolytes was a heady experience; he’d have to watch himself or he’d be swallowed up by his own ego.
SARAH CONNOR’S ESTANCIA, PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT
Sarah hung up the phone, frowning. Then she headed down the hall toward her son’s room. “John,” she called.
“Mom.”
“Something’s up.”
“Something’s up,” John echoed.
“It’s about…”
“It’s about…”
“Dieter,” they said together.
They blinked at each other. John had been about to rush into the hall looking for her and she’d almost bumped into him.
“He wants to come over,” Sarah said. “I put him off until later tonight.”
“Check this out,” John said grimly, jerking a thumb toward his computer, flicking his head to get the lock of black hair out of his eyes.
Sarah sat in his chair and read the message on the screen.
“Perry,” it said, using her code name. “Been away. Von Rossbach reputed to be a covert operative for multi-government task force. Be careful, he’s good.”
“Shhhhit!” she snapped, smacking her fist on the table. “Shit!” She got up and paced the small room, one hand pulling at her hair, the other on her hip.
“Do we go?” John asked.
Sarah closed her eyes as if in pain, her face bleak. Was it necessary? Would it only make things worse—heating up the cold trail that, up until now, no one had been able to pick up? She hissed and took a few more distracted paces across the room.
I don’t want to, she thought, not for the first time. I don’t want this! She’d made a life for herself here. A lonely life, but a real one. And a life for her son, a life that included friends and prospects. He was sixteen. How could she ask him to follow her again? And how can I not?
He wasn’t just her son; he might still be the last best hope for humanity’s future.
Because one truth the hard years had taught her was that the thing that tripped you up was the contingency you hadn’t planned for. And no matter how calm the Last few years had been, deep down inside she was still waiting for disaster.
But was this it?
She thought with regret of the something she had sensed growing between herself and the big Austrian, something powerful and good, reaching through the fear and suspicion. Something she hadn’t felt since Kyle came into her life. She’d held herself back from it as if it were fire and she were paper, but she couldn’t deny it completely.
Was it real on his part? Or had he known about her all along and merely been manipulating her until he could confirm her identity?
Well—Victor certainly supplied that, she thought bitterly. She’d been hoping against hope that Griego’s great revelation had fallen on deaf ears. She couldn’t afford to be so open, so vulnerable! W hen did I turn into such a gullible fool?
She blew out her breath in disgust. So, tonight he was coming over. Would he be alone? If he wasn’t, then there was probably somebody watching the house already. So running wouldn’t be easy. At least until they could pinpoint the sentry, if there was one. It would be better to wait for nightfall anyway. By then Dieter would be here and maybe she could use him as a hostage. And afterward?
Could she dispose of him, since he threatened her son?
Dispose of him, she thought with a wry twist to her mouth. Dispose of him. I
sound like a Terminator.
She turned to John. “No,” she said at last, “Let’s wait and see what he has to say.
We might be anticipating trouble we’re not going to have.”
John tipped his head, his eyes uncertain. But she could see that he didn’t want to go either. To once again enter that harsh world of running and hiding and trying to set up unobtrusively somewhere marginally safe. He was sixteen and he already knew too well the definition of adventure.
Someone else in deep shit, far, far away.
CYBERDYNE CONFERENCE ROOM: THE PRESENT
Serena sat quietly in the meeting Paul Warren had called with his department heads. He wanted to be “brought up to speed” after his weeks away. Behind her mild, attentive face she was conversing with her Terminator. It had landed in Asuncion and been met by Cassetti.
“There will be a delay,” the Terminator reported. “Cassetti says the rental car won’t be available until three o’clock.”
“As long as you accomplish your mission and catch your flight back to the U.S.,”
she said. “If you aren’t going to be able to complete your mission in time to make the flight, inform me and I’ll make other arrangements.”
“Affirmative,” it replied tersely.
“Since you’ll be stuck in Asuncion for a few hours, go interrogate Victor Griego.
Find out what Cassetti told him about me, then terminate him. You can probably stock up on weaponry at his office as well, which should simplify things for you.”
“Affirmative.”
“Also find out if Cassetti has spoken to anyone else about this case. If he has, terminate them.”
“Affirmative.”
“Contact me when you have something new to report.”
“Affirmative. Out.”
And she was left alone in her head to attend the meeting. Not that it would require her full attention. All of the material being covered here was more efficiently available as written reports, which she had already read. As far as the 1-950 was concerned there was no real need for this meeting. He must want to demonstrate to his underlings that he’s not a broken man, but is still capable of running the company. Though how anyone could be broken by the death of a woman like Mary Warren was beyond her programming.
But humans had their forms to observe, and they imposed penalties on those who refused to acknowledge them. Serena looked across the table at the company president. He certainly looked thin and drawn in his black suit and tie. Was it grief or had Mary left all her money to her favorite charity, handing him nothing but debts? I suspect that’s just the sort of thing she’d do. If she were human Serena sensed that she would feel sorry for the poor man.
Mentally she withdrew from the meeting again. This evening she was meeting Jordan Dyson at the airport with his company car. A conservative, but very serviceable Excel; she imagined he’d be pleased. They’d have a business dinner to discuss his work for Cyberdyne. Then she’d take him to his new apartment, where she’d parked her own car. She’d present him with a map and directions to get him to work and then she’d leave him to his own d
evices.
I hope this will be a very useful working relationship, she thought. After all, they had a shared obsession. Even if, with a reasonably probable outcome, her T-101
was about to… terminate… the object of it.
AEROPUERTO SILVIO PETTIROSSI, PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT
“I require access to Victor Griego,” the Terminator said. “You will take me to him.”
Marco looked at the towering, black-clad man out of the corner of his eye. He wished the man would take off the sunglasses. The totally expressionless face was hard enough to take without being able to see his eyes. And Marco really wanted to see his eyes. Because what he could see of the stranger’s face looked exactly like Dieter von Rossbach.
“Access?” Cassetti said dubiously.
“You will take me to him.”
” Si,” Marco said with a shrug. “But we’ll have to take the bus. I don’t have my own car.”
“You will take me.”
“Right this way,” Marco said, and walked off through the slightly shabby, dated International Style spaces of the Asuncibn international airport. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stir as the man fell into step behind him.
This had come from the beautiful blond angel that had hired him? What could be the matter with her? Was she collecting men of a certain type?
That thought prompted another. Perhaps she wasn’t a beautiful angel. Perhaps she was some demented witch who actually was collecting men who looked like von Rossbach and was doing things to them. Certainly this one seemed to have been lobotomized.
In which case Senor von Rossbach was in trouble but not from any terrorist. He was in trouble because Marco himself was going to bring it to him. He felt his heartbeat pick up a little and a clammy prickle of sweat on his palms and under his armpits. Marco rubbed his hands unobtrusively on his slacks.
The Terminator, following behind him, noted the slight elevation in Cassetti “s heartbeat and queried the cause of it. The options listed at the query suggested that the Terminator itself was the cause and the solution might be to say something amicable, showing the quality listed as empathy.
The list presented offered:
1. Are we walking too fast?
2. Is it much further?
It opted to utilize the one that might explain the change in the human’s heartbeat.
“Are we walking too fast?” it asked.
Cassetti’s head whipped round so fast he got a crick in his neck. “Unh,” he said.
“Ah, sorry, senor. You must be tired after your journey.”
He slowed down to an easy amble. The Terminator had to adjust its walking speed to avoid stepping on Cassetti’s heels, but didn’t bother to adjust for distance… which meant that they were walking in perfect unison, two inches apart.
Calm down, Cassetti told himself. There was no need to distress himself like this. A woman who collected men who looked alike and then lobotomized them? Absurd! He was working himself into a sweat over a pipedream, just as his mother so often said.
They got on the bus. It took off in a cloud of diesel fumes through the hot crowded streets; it was hot and crowded itself, but they managed to get seats, and sat without talking until they had to transfer.
The stranger asked Marco why they were getting on a different bus. This struck Marco as odd. Surely even in the United States they had to change buses.
This time they had to stand. The stranger never held on to anything and he never lost his balance… which was odd for a man as tall and heavy as he was.
Especially considering the number of bumps the driver managed to find in the road.
Cassetti told himself this was evidence of martial-arts training. Something he hoped to one day be able to afford for himself. With anyone else he would have asked questions, but not this man.
They got off near Griego’s building. It was old, old enough to be thought an eyesore but not to be quaint. Griego’s sleazy office was on the third floor. There was no elevator.
The Terminator looked around the tiny lobby, noted the staircase, and turned to Marco.
“Wait here,” it said. “I’ll be back.”
Cassetti opened his mouth to speak, but the stranger had already turned away.
Marco figured that Griego was probably used to dealing with tough customers and so wouldn’t be fazed by this one. And he knew he could use a break from the stranger’s quelling personality. He leaned against the wall, put an unlit cigarette in his mouth, and began to practice rolling it from side to side with his lips.
The Terminator climbed steadily, using its sensors to take note of human activity in the building: heat traces, heartbeats, vocalizations. There didn’t seem to be much going on presently. On the third floor it paused to give itself a better opportunity to gather data. From the sounds, it appeared this floor was deserted except for one human. The door from behind which the signal came bore Victor Griego’s name and a number.
It opened the door and entered the small office. The human was seated in an old leather office chair with his feet up on the desk, smoking a cigar and reading the paper.
After a moment the man lowered the paper impatiently. Whatever he’d been intending to say died on his lips and he stared openmouthed at the Terminator.
“What the hell do you want now, von Rossbach?” Griego said, his face reddening. “Did you forget to make some self-righteous remark when you threw me out?” He flung the paper down on the desk. “Well, I don’t wanna hear it! This is my turf you’re on now and I don’t have to put up with you looking down your nose at me. So you can take a hike, buddy! Get outta here!”
“I need weapons,” the Terminator said.
Victor stared at it in wide-eyed disbelief for a moment. Then, gradually, he began to chuckle, then to laugh.
“You’re a piece of work, von Rossbach,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, his expression nasty. “So I’m still good enough to do business with, is that it?”
“I need weapons,” the Terminator repeated.
Victor vowed to himself that von Rossbach would pay top dollar and then some for anything he bought.
“Sure,” Griego said expansively. “What did you have in mind, and how many?”
“What do you have here, right now?” The Terminator looked around the office.
Nothing was visible.
“Let me show you,” Victor said smugly.
He got up from his chair and sauntered around his desk to a painting beside the window, a copy of the Madonna and Child in an enormous rococo frame. Victor placed his fingers just so on the bottom of the frame and it swung open with a discreet click to show a recessed area cut into the wall holding a dozen different weapons on pegs. The Terminator reached in, took down a Galil assault rifle, and examined it minutely, working the action and looking down the barrel. The chrome-lined interior shone with careful maintenance; the sound of the bolt indicated wear, but well within parameters.
“You have ammunition for this?” it asked.
Griego frowned. “These are samples,” he said.
“That is acceptable. You have ammunition?” The Terminator turned to look at Griego, who chewed on his cigar and swallowed with a sudden unease.
“Sure,” he said. “But I don’t like to sell my samples. And I don’t guarantee them.” He raised a cautioning finger.
The Terminator nodded. It turned back to the case and selected an Austrian Steyr machine pistol and an American grenade launcher that looked like a fat single-barrel shotgun.
“What are you doing?” Victor protested. “Are you trying to clean me out?”
“I’ll need a case to carry these in,” the Terminator said, laying the guns down on the desk. “You have something?”
Victor glared, but nodded. Of course he did. One frequently had to bring these
things in and out, and they looked a little conspicuous wrapped in plastic bags.
“It will cost you extra,” he said between his teeth.
This was getting to be a bit much. Von Rossbach was conducting business with him as nearly as possible as though they were in different rooms. On top of the way Dieter had treated him the other night it verged on intolerable. Even the prospect of obscene profit from this transaction was waning in attractiveness, while throwing von Rossbach out began to appeal.
“The case? The ammunition?” the Terminator said, turning to look down at Griego, its face impassive.
“That’s it!” Victor snarled. “I don’t have to put up with this, von Rossbach. Who do you think you are, coming in here as though nothing happened? No apology, no acknowledgement, nothing! Making demands left and right like I’m some servant!” He stepped forward and pushed his face up toward the Terminator’s while aggressively poking it in the chest with a chubby finger. “Well, I don’t need you. If the Sector wants to buy from me they can just send someone else, because as of right now I’m terminating this transaction!”
“I have questions for you,” the Terminator said.
“Oh, do you?” Victor sneered. He picked up the Steyr from where it lay on the desk. “Well, that’s too bad, because I’m not going to answer them. Now get lost!”
Griego attempted to put the gun back on its pegs, but the Terminator snatched it out of his hands and pushed him in the chest. Victor stumbled backward, his knees folding as they hit the windowsill and he fell through the open space.
Before he could even scream the Terminator grabbed one of his legs and held him suspended upside down over the alley forty feet below.
“I have some questions,” it said.
“All right, all right! Pull me in and I’ll answer them.” Victor reached toward the window helplessly, completely unable to do anything but hang at the end of the Terminator’s arm. “Please!” he pleaded, terrified. “Help me.” Fingers clawed the air.
“Ammunition, a case,” it said.
“For Christ’s sake, Dieter! Pull me up!”
“Answer me.”
“There’s a case beside my chair next to the filing cabinet. You’ll find ammo for all the guns in the cabinet in a hidden drawer under where the guns are displayed. Now pull me up!” Griego was in tears and was beginning to realize that von Rossbach might actually kill him. “Why?” he sobbed. “Why are you…
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