There wasn’t much to say after that, so they concluded their meeting quickly.
Serena left annoyed, because she’d been unaware that this project had even moved forward.
The brutally honest self-evaluation that had been drilled into her from birth acknowledged that she should have been aware of what they were doing. She’d
grown careless and had neglected to keep an eye on the president and CEO.
Allowing yourself to have contempt for your enemy is a betrayal of common sense, she quoted to herself. It was one of John Connor’s sayings. Still, since she was the one who had given the schematics and plans to them, as well as being their head of security, they should have kept her informed.
As Serena walked back to her office, Third succeeded in connecting her to the video spy devices the Sector had installed. She watched the activity in Jackson Skye’s home-based office superimposed over Cyberdyne’s surroundings, waiting impatiently for the sound to come through.
The Connors and their ally had been interrupted by another man— Skye, no doubt, who seemed to be arguing with them. For this she was grateful since it allowed her time to get back to her office, where she could give this situation a bit more of her attention.
When she saw the Sector agent’s face a small chill ran up her gut, and she almost missed a stride. That face! A quick search of passive storage… Yes. That is the model for the features of the T-101A series. The originals… Skynet had chosen the template from a list of antiterrorist personnel; ironic, in a way, since the Terminators were the greatest terror weapon ever developed.
The Connors and von Rossbach’s efforts to get rid of the man were not proving very successful. Good! she thought emphatically. Why should she be the only one to suffer the consequences of someone else’s self-important stupidity?
As she walked along, she booked Third on a flight to Florida, where it would pick up a short flight to the Caymans. It should be able to prevent the Connors
and their ally from heading for Sacramento within eight hours.
From the way the Connors were pursuing their investigation, Serena doubted they’d be ready to leave before tomorrow. At least she hoped not. It would be better if they could be contained on the island. Once they hit the United States, they’d be much harder to track.
Finally von Rossbach ended the man’s arguments by turning him around and pushing him through the office door, which he then slammed in the investment counselor’s face and locked. Then he turned to the other two and brushed his hands off. They smiled.
So that’s what he looks like, the t-950 thought, studying the smaller male. Of course, he’s young just now. She’d only seen his shoulder and the top of his head before Skynet called her away. Her earlier impression had been that Connor was a slender man, but not unusually so, what humans called wiry. Right now, though, he was a skinny little thing and very unimpressive. And that’s Sarah Connor. The woman was frowning with concentration. She was also smaller than the t-950 had imagined her.
Well, it was only natural to have imagined them bigger than life. They had, after all, and with twentieth century weapons no less, somehow defeated two Terminators. Not an easy task. But a very, very impressive accomplishment.
Serena frowned as she entered her office, locking the door behind her. Did that thought have a touch of negativity about it? The Connors weren’t that impressive. And negativity led to defeat.
The t-950 sat behind her desk and studied them; They were trying to hack into
the Sacramento database. She concentrated on the files her three enemies were working on. She allowed them to look at some administrative records and smirked at their excitement.
Then she had to move quickly to prevent John from exploiting what he’d found to locate another site. For the next hour she dueled with him, over the information she would concede as she struggled to hide anything of real worth.
Sarah and von Rossbach ably assisted him and things were almost at the limits of her control for a while. These people were smart!
It was easy to forget that humans could be so dangerous. The ones she dealt with every day, with the exception of the elusive Tricker, were easy to anticipate and to deal with. Most of them were barely awake, sentient only as a matter of genetic technicalities.
The Connors and their ally were exhilarating. She would have to be careful not to give in to her currently more humanized nature and compete with them. The object was to totally defeat them, not gratify her own ego.
A part of Serena’s mind reflected that it was regrettable that she had an ego at all.
She’d prefer to be less annoyed by Colvin and Warren’s end run around her awareness, it was distracting—and unquestionably the result of bruised ego.
But experimentation had shown that dealing successfully with humans required the Infiltrator to have one. You couldn’t pretend to have something so incomprehensible. It was necessary to have actually experienced it.
True, hers was stunted next to a human’s, but the damn thing had a tendency to grow if it wasn’t carefully attended to. Part of the responsibilities of her
computer brain was to send a prompt if the thing got out of hand. She expected to receive one momentarily.
The Connors were slowing down now, beginning to get a bit frustrated.
SERENA’S LAB: THE PRESENT
The third Terminator decanted the two who had been in the vats growing their disguise of flesh. He then set them to prepping the next pair, now mere metal skeletons, while he checked the fourth and fifth over for flaws or gaps in their newly grown skin. Finding nothing amiss, he reported a satisfactory rating to the t-950.
Acknowledged, she said. I’m sending you to the Cayman Islands. Dress in light-colored casual clothing, wear sunglasses at all times. Pack a small bag so that you’ll blend in with other travelers. Take the low-signature automatic, your passport and driver’s license, and one of the copies of the special health certificate. Call a taxi to take you to the airport. She transmitted the details on its flights. Go to Skye’s home, terminate all humans that you find there. Your primary targets are Sarah and John Connor. If they are not at Skye’s home find them and terminate them.
Understood, it acknowledged. It closed down transmission when the t-950
signaled, Out.
Its chores in the lab finished, Third made its way upstairs to the house. It called a cab, then dressed and packed. There was a wallet with cash and credit cards in the small safe in the home office. It removed these and the travel papers the t-950 had specified, tucking them into pockets about its person. Weapons were
hidden in an access panel in the t-950’s bedroom. It took the fiber-and-synthetic pistol it needed and then stood by the front door to wait for the taxi.
The cabdriver wanted to talk and the Terminator let him. It answered any questions as briefly as possible, just as the t-950 had trained it.
“It’s important to at least be what humans consider polite,” Serena had instructed them. “But answer as briefly as possible. Give the humans no reason to remember you particularly.”
It didn’t see why it couldn’t solve such problems simply by terminating anyone who asked too many questions. It followed orders, of course— it just didn’t understand.
So it answered the driver with yeses and no’s and grunts. Soon it noticed that the driver wasn’t paying attention to its answers anyway.
The airport was already coming into view.
It picked up its ticket and walked through the metal detector. When the security drone made to wave her wand over the Terminator’s body, it presented its doctor’s certificate claiming that several injuries had led to an implant.
The Terminator walked through Owen Roberts International Airport on Grand Cayman, scanning the brightly clad crowd (salted with blank-faced men in suits) and its surroundings when a movement on the tarmac alerted its sensors. It stopped stock-still and looked out the large window to the ground some twenty feet below.
A boy o
f sixteen or so came back into view. Third could only see the back of his head, but an instantaneous comparison of the file pictures from Skye’s office confirmed that this was John Connor, with a negligible error probability. It signaled the t-950.
Have arrived on Grand Cayman. Have John Connor in sight. He is at the airport, apparently readying to depart. Below, a woman wandered into sight.
Beside her was a large man; another, smaller man seemed to be leading them toward an aircraft. Sarah Connor, confirmed. Dieter von Rossbach, confirmed, it reported.
Stop them, Serena ordered. Terminate them, discreetly if possible. But at any cost, terminate them before they can leave the island.
Third reached out and snagged a passing woman who looked as if she degenerative bone disease that had required the replacement of most of its joints with surgical-steel replacements.
Third’s neural-net processor prompted it to say something to accompany the certificate. It selected the third choice.
“Wherever you run that,” it said, indicating the wand, “it’s going to go off.”
Third held out its arms as though cooperating anyway. The woman with the wand hesitated, then shrugged and ran the wand up and down the Terminator’s body. As it kept dinging, she began to smile. Then she stopped, straightening up.
“That must have hurt,” she commented as she waved him on.
“It did,” Third said.
The flight wasn’t full, so Third got to sit by itself. It accepted a drink but refused food. It watched the movie, a comedy, attentively. The 1-950 had told them that while the situations were exaggerated they could still learn a great deal about human interaction from filmed entertainment. Any humor in the movie, if there was any, completely escaped its understanding. The actors were worse at imitating human beings than an experienced Terminator.
It thought the characters were idiots, one and all. But then, most humans were idiots. It just didn’t think they were this stupid. Perhaps that was why this movie was considered humorous? It would ask the Infiltrator unit when it returned from its mission. The t-950 would know.
might work for the airport. It pointed to the tarmac outside. “How do I get down there?” it asked. “The quickest way.”
“You have to have a ticket,” the woman said, trying to pull her arm away from his grasp.
“Where do I get such a ticket,” it demanded.
She winced as his grip hardened. “That’s the charter airline section,” she said.
“Waybright Charters is just down there and to the left.” She tugged and he let her go, ignoring the glare she gave him as she moved off, rubbing her arm.
Their escort led them to a small jet plane that stood baking in the Caribbean sun, its idling engines adding their bit of heat and an extra tang of burnt kerosene. He waved them aboard.
“I can just put those bags in here,” he said, pointing to a bin in the wing.
“No,” Dieter said. “We’ll keep them with us.”
The man nodded. People often were chary of letting their hand luggage out of sight on Waybright Charters. He often fantasized about what was in those bags.
But at the end of the day he figured he was happier not knowing.
Sarah, John, and Dieter settled in to the comfortable gray leather seats; there was none of the elbow-to-elbow crowding of a normal commercial flight on this plane. Dieter nodded appreciatively. The plane was small, designed for not more than six passengers, but luxurious. The seats swiveled and there was a tiny bar/
kitchen near the back, opposite the lavatory.
“Cool,” John said, slapping the wide arms of his seat. “No Greyhound with wings this time.”
The pilot came aboard, wearing some very dark aviator glasses.
“Hello, lady, gentlemen,” he said. “I hear we’re heading for a little airport in Corpus Christi. That so?” In answer, Sarah smiled and handed him a folded slip of paper. He took off his glasses to read it, raising his brows as he did so.
“Ol’ Meh-hee-co!” he said. “Sure, I can do that. You sure of these coordinates?”
“Yes,” she said. “I—”
“Hey,” he said, holding up his hand and beginning to move forward to the cockpit. “I don’t wanna know.” He turned back with a grin. “I don’t wanna know
your name, I don’t wanna know your fake name, I don’t wanna know what you’re really doing or what story you’re telling. I’m paid to fly you where you wanna go and that’s all I wanna do. So strap in, settle back, and enjoy your flight.”
The three passengers exchanged amused glances, then obediently fastened themselves in and settled back to think their separate thoughts about the upcoming visit to the United States.
Sarah had wanted to visit one of her weapons caches in Tamaulipas, near the Texas border, so they could stock up. She had friends in a nearby town who would sell her a safe car with American plates. It would probably be easier for them to cross into the U.S. through one of the border checkpoints than through the airport anyway. The higher volume of traffic meant that if you looked right you got passed fairly quickly. And they were all experts at looking right.
The plane began to glide smoothly forward, the twin turbines emitting muffled screams.
Third walked up to the counter of Waybright Charters and said to the woman behind the counter, “Those people who just went down to the tarmac—I’m supposed to be with them. How do I get down there?”
She gave him a suspicious look. He was huge and she couldn’t see his eyes through the dark glasses. His manner was brusque and his body language was vaguely threatening. All in all, he was a type that this company saw fairly often.
Policy was to be absolutely noncooperative. “They didn’t say anything about a fourth party,” she said at last.
“I’m running late,” it said. “They must have given up on me. How do I get to
them?”
“I’m sorry,” she said carefully, “but theirs is a private charter. I can’t stop the plane for you when you aren’t on their list.”
“I’m supposed to be with them,” Third insisted. “It’s important. Sell me a ticket and hold the flight.”
“I can’t do that,” she insisted. “They’ve been cleared.”
Charter a plane to follow them, Serena ordered. It might not be possible, but then again, it might.
“I will hire a plane to follow them,” it said. “Here is my card.”
“You won’t be able to follow them immediately,” the woman said, frowning.
“Where did you say it was that you wanted to go?”
“I have to follow the Connors and Dieter von Rossbach,” it said.
The woman smirked. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s been a mistake. That’s not the name of the party that’s leaving right now.” She looked at him imperturbably and offered his card back to him.
Take off your sunglasses and look at her. Tell her you must follow the party that just left, whatever their names were. Tell her it’s life-and-death. Allow her to fear it might be her life you’re talking about.
It took off its glasses and stared, unblinking, at the woman. “I must follow them,” it said. “It is a matter of life and death.”
The woman found herself staring into a pair of blue eyes that didn’t look human.
She sucked in her breath, feeling a queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach, and the hair bristling on the back of her neck. If I were a dog, I’d howl, she thought; in all of her life she’d never met a gaze so terrible—terrible in its absolute lack of fury, or anger, or impatience, or anything human. With a dry tongue she licked her lips and felt her world narrow down to a tunnel with this terrifying man at the end of it.
“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice trembling. She cut him a ticket. “You may wait in the lounge,” she said. “But it will be at least an hour before your flight is cleared.”
“Is there any way to hasten the process?” it asked, still staring.
“It… could be arranged,” she said.
>
“Do it. Whatever it costs,” Third told her.
In ten seconds she handed it a new ticket.
“Please take a seat, sir,” she said. “Someone will come for you when your plane is ready.”
Three took the ticket, picked up its bag, and walked over to the small but elaborate security setup. There was the usual metal-detector gate, and another, longer tunnel just beyond it. He put his bag on the belt and handed his health certificate to the guard. While the guard unfolded and read it he walked through the metal detector. It rang.
“You have metal joints?” the guard asked, looking up at the tall, apparently perfect specimen beside him.
“Yes.”
The guard handed the paper to another uniformed man behind a console.
“All right,” that one said. “Everything seems to be in order. If you would please continue through.” The guard indicated the abbreviated white tunnel before him.
The Terminator looked at it suspiciously; there was nothing precisely like this in its files. There was no choice if it was to maintain its cover, though: it strode firmly forward. As soon as it did, Third knew it had made a mistake. The scanners were not simple X-rays; they included a highly sophisticated phased-ultrasound element.
The operator of the machine looked at his 3-D display in astonishment. He whistled, high and sharp. “Lord Jesus! That must have been one hell of a degenerative disease! Look at’t’is guy, Arthur! It unbelievable, mon! Every one of his bones is metal! Even his jaw and teeth, for Christ’s sake!”
Go! Serena commanded. Catch them, terminate them, self-destruct rather than allow yourself to be captured by humans.
From a standing start it took the Terminator ten seconds and twenty strides to reach forty miles an hour. It crashed into the glass wall at the back of the waiting room with enough force to shatter the high-impact safety glass and hit the ground on its feet, legs flexed, and started running after the plane that was
making its final approach. Men and women working on the ground began to yell at him; some gave chase but gave up after a few strides. They looked at each other in wonder and someone called the control tower.
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