He closed his eyes. The map expanded in his mind. West-Southwest was Roswell. Further, Alamogordo. North, up by Santa Fe, was Los Alamos.
This is the eastern boundary of the new Cauchy Horizon…
That explained—was an explanation—why he had appeared here. The western edge of the horizon would be in or near Los Angeles, perhaps further out, in the Pacific.
The northern edge would be north of Denver. The south—
The southern rim did not matter. The key points, he knew, were all connected to Skynet activity, especially high-energy fusion experiments. The Cyberdyne installation outside Denver was critical, but the old man understood that he had to get to Los Angeles instead.
9
TERMINATOR 2
He staggered back from the map. All this information flooded his consciousness, not as memories would, but like an imprint, an instruction table. There were files. When he closed his eyes now he saw them, access nodes, available at command. Frightened and fascinated, he traced the connection tree.
What am I?
A file unwrapped itself. He saw the hardware implanted throughout his body—augments, carbonile bone grafts, oxygenation amplifiers, blood scours, mesh casings enclosing vital organs, lists of accessory components both increasing efficiency in organic cells and others simply replacing tissue with hybrid tech—and in his brain. A cata-logue told him he contained over two hundred thousand files on various topics.
Who am I?
Nothing. The search protocol stopped. He waited, but nothing happened.
What am I doing here?
In an instant, a new file opened. FIND JEREMIAH PORTER, PRIMARY MISSION. JOHN CONNER AND SARAH CONNER, SECONDARY MISSION AND RESOURCE. CURRENT DISPOSITION OF PRIMARY: UNKNOWN. CURRENT DISPOSITION OF SECONDARY/RESOURCE: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA. BIO OF PRINCIPLES FOLLOWS—
Jeremiah Porter. That name was very familiar. Very.
The particulars continued unveiling within his mind, but he found that he could let it load into a standard memory format without paying direct attention. Porter, whoever he was, had something to do with string theory and time travel.
The old man could become better acquainted with the details later. After he established himself.
He opened his eyes. Clovis was as good a place as any to start.
10
TWO
Normality returns,” John Connor said, surveying the dingy room. He grunted. “At least as much as can be expected.”
Ivory light pushed through the dirty windows, picking out paper scraps and dustballs across the dark hardwood floors. The walls might have been white at one time. He started counting electric sockets and phone jacks—eight of the first, five of the second. They would need to upgrade substantially. The next room was larger than the first, but contained fewer outlets of both kinds. If they avoided arrest long enough, though, the place could be made very useful, very now-tech. The ceilings did not show any evidence of leaks, and none of the windows were broken.
John inspected the two bathrooms, the closets, and the alleyway behind the building. Typical L.A. The steel door opened onto pale concrete, opposite the graffiti-emblazoned brick wall of a large warehouse. Industrial trash dumpsters squatted, large and blue, to the far end of the alley. A car rolled past the nearer end, overpowered speakers thumping out a hip-hop beat.
Back inside, he found his mother, Sarah, and the leasing agent in the first room.
“—your ad says ‘will upgrade to suit client needs,’ ” she was saying. She waved the folded-up paper in her left hand.
11
TERMINATOR 2
“So what does that mean, exactly? Fresh coat of paint and spare plywood boards for future broken windows?”
“You haven’t specified yet what upgrades you’re asking for,” the agent said. He cast a worried look at John. “We can’t sign off on some open-ended deal that lets you upgrade forever. We need to know what you need.”
Sarah cocked her eyebrows at John, shrugged, and walked away.
“Dedicated wireless,” John said. “More power outlets, circuit breakers for eight hundred amp service—”
“What do you plan on running here?” the agent laughed nervously. “A high-energy physics lab?”
John held up his hands. “You never know. Seems like this neighborhood could do with a bit of high-end money-draw. What do you think, Sis, a physics lab be something that might attract the high rent crowd? Across the street you could open a pricey watering hole for the PhDs and undergrads, down the street a yuppiemobile dealership—”
“He’s kidding, right?” the agent asked Sarah.
“Just so long as the air conditioner works,” Sarah said.
“Everything else is Sean’s concern.”
“The inspection certificates are current,” the agent said.
“You can have your own inspector, obviously.”
“Till then,” John continued, “we’ll want steel-reinforced doors and frames and a security system integrated into the space. We’ll pay for that, don’t worry, but we want the permits for installation.”
The expression on the agent’s puffy face might have been relief, but John could not be sure. They had run him all over the city for the past three weeks till they found this place. It was still a bit small for what they wanted, but it was close enough and—unlike most of the other places he had shown them—affordable.
John had the feeling that Sarah wanted this neighborhood to begin with, regardless. They were three blocks from Pico, in an area that had slipped a bit in the last few years.
The agent sighed. “We can do that. I might have to make an adjustment—”
12
HOUR OF THE WOLF
Sarah whirled around. “You weren’t even going to tell us about this place. How come? I found this ad and what do you know, it turns out to be offered through you.”
“Look, we go to some trouble to fit the client to the property, okay? And before you think that’s a load of crap, let me assure you, it’s pure self-interest. These upgrades you’re asking for suggest to me that you’re bringing in a lot of expensive hardware. Fine, you move in here, install all that equipment, and get cleaned out by the local free market entrepreneurs—we don’t want to be held responsible.
I didn’t show you this place because I think the neighborhood is wrong for you. But hey, it’s your money, your time.
Make me a list of the upgrades you want and let me see what I can do. I suggest you take out a big theft policy, though.”
“So what were you thinking of putting in here?” John asked.
“A bodega or something. There’s some federal seed money for the right client.”
John caught Sarah’s eyes. A bodega already stood at the nearby intersection.
“No takers?” John asked.
The agent shrugged. “It’s been on the market for six months. We just added the upgrade offer this past week to see if anyone would move on it.”
Sarah smiled. “Then you can afford to be very accommodating on the upgrades.”
“But—”
“But what? Anybody lined up behind us?”
The neighborhood had been very upscale not three years ago. The building was on Calder, near Pico, along which nightclubs, restaurants, shops, and expensive loft apart-ments had stretched for miles. Most of Pico still boasted trendy boutiques and clubs, was still vital, but this end had experienced a decline.
The agent scowled briefly, then nodded. “Get me a list, I’ll see what we can do when. But I think we’ll want six months down.”
13
TERMINATOR 2
Sarah looked ready to explode. John extended a hand.
“Sounds reasonable. Let’s see what can be done, then.
Thanks for taking all this time with us.”
“Um…sure, no problem. Let’s say we meet in my office tomorrow afternoon?”
“Fine,” John said, shaking the agent’s hand.
On the street, he bade them have
a nice day and strode quickly to his car. The alarm chirped twice and the engine started when he touched the door. John and Sarah watched him drive off, a little too fast.
“He’ll be thrilled by tomorrow,” John said.
“Half a year down?” Sarah said. “You don’t think we gave him too harsh a deal, do you?”
“A little sweet’n’low can work wonders sometimes.
Besides, we’re going to end up buying the place from him anyway—what difference does it make?”
She shook her head, though in wonder or disgust John could not tell. She studied the facade of the storefront. The exterior of the building was plain in the extreme—white-washed stucco around a large ground-floor store window, now boarded up, and the second floor apartment window.
John had given the apartment a quick look—nothing special, one bedroom, a shower, kitchen with stove and refrigerator—and found a direct access to the ground floor that opened from a door in the utility room. For a start-up, it would do.
“So other than the fine ambience of the neighborhood,”
he asked, “is there a reason we’re taking this one?”
“Several. Mainly, it’s large enough and priced right. Hell, I thought Santa Fe was bad. I had no idea property values in L.A. had gone so high. This neighborhood fits our needs.
It’s not nearly as bad as he thinks it is.”
John agreed. “Decline” was a relative term.
They had discussed it thoroughly before making the move from New Mexico to California. Chief among them was to attract as little attention as possible. Too much cash to throw around was still the surest way to draw scrutiny.
14
HOUR OF THE WOLF
They could afford to take a place in Bel Air, but that was the wrong kind of camouflage.
John still was unsure why they had to come back to L.A.
at all. Sarah wanted to. Maybe she was homesick, but he doubted it. Sarah rarely made decisions based on sentiment.
Business had been good in Santa Fe and Albuquerque—good enough that they had opened a small office in Colorado Springs and another in Denver—but Sarah insisted they return here. An expansion, not a relocation. L.A. would be another new branch. After a few arguments, John stopped fighting and started doing the logistics. They were leaving the company offices open in New Mexico and Colorado.
The company was incorporated under a shell identity, easily severed from themselves, but now employed eighteen people. Security investigations and consultations just kept gaining importance among people whose wealth had come from less than legitimate sources, who had taken shortcuts in building their businesses, and now wanted to be as legit as possible—and the money flowed like desperation. John assuaged his doubts knowing there was someplace to which they could run if things went awry.
All the hardware with pertinent material on it had come with them to L.A.—pertinent to their ongoing investigations of Cyberdyne and Skynet. They had kept that distanced from the rest of the business, on entirely separate machines, in isolated files, away from everyone else. The Cyberdyne file was their project. The skills developed over years of researching the company and its government affiliations and its major project, Skynet—all without being traced—proved lucrative when they turned them to private security, identity prophylaxis, and related corporate matters.
They could hide things, change them, unbury the past, reinvent entire histories for people—or do the exact opposite for law enforcement. They had developed a not unfriendly working relationship with local authorities in New Mexico, and with a little care they hoped they could duplicate that here.
15
TERMINATOR 2
Of course, here there might still be people who knew them.
After all this time, how many? he wondered.
The truth was, Sarah picked this place out of nostalgia.
John rarely knew her to be sentimental, but she had lived here, twenty-three or so years ago. She had shared an apartment with a close friend, a friend who had died in her place when the future paid a visit and changed her life.
They had been unable to get the same building, which was gone, but if John had it right, this one was only a couple of blocks away. In a bizarre sense, she wanted to return to the beginning. If anyone understood that time did not work that way, they did. But once in a while Sarah surprised him.
Symbolism occasionally meant something to her.
He was curious to see how well their current identities would hold up under scrutiny—test to destruction, in a way.
Better to know sooner than later, perhaps. But they had passed all the examinations in New Mexico, even the federal ones, without raising a red flag anywhere. What could the L.A.P.D. do that the feds could not—beyond possibly having a witness who could place them on the scene of a great deal of destruction, years earlier.
Back on terra cognita now, he thought wryly. Step cautiously, for here there be demons.
Since fleeing California in 1994, there had been a number of names—Lawes, Cannerly, Soquoro, Smith—but all of them had been practice. With the work John had done since returning to the United States, it was highly unlikely anyone would make the connection between Sean and Julia Philicos and the Connors who had caused so much destruction thirteen years ago.
Thirteen years. So long. So much time. Time in vast quantities. But never enough.
Sarah wandered north, toward the intersection, arms folded matter-of-factly. She walked with an almost military bearing. Nearly forty-five now, she could still take down all but the best trained men. Squared shoulders, long legs, slim waist—the dark blue silk blouse and cream pants 16
HOUR OF THE WOLF
covered solid muscle—and a multitude of scars. Her hair was dyed black now, pulled back today in a ponytail that touched her back between the shoulder blades.
Not a lot happening, though it was already past ten in the morning. The bodega was open; two men sat under the awning, drinking from bottles. Music played, muffled and distant, indistinct. A couple of old cars, lovingly restored, cruised by, chrome glinting electrically in the crisp sunshine.
Long shadows. Spring. Warm, but not oppressive, not yet.
L.A. summer was weeks off.
Every morning with a clear sky is a blessing, John thought.
Sarah headed for the bodega. John started to follow, but his cell phone chirped.
He checked the incoming number—the main office in Santa Fe—and pressed TALK. “Talk to me.”
“Boss, it’s Jenny.” Juanita Salceda, who ran things while John and Sarah traveled.
“What’s the word, Jenny?”
“Got a client call you might want to check personally.”
“We won’t be back for a week at least—”
“This one is L.A. local. Besides, he asked for you personally.”
“Jenny—”
“He asked for John Connor.”
John stopped, momentarily stunned. “Uh-huh. Was this a referral or something?”
“Maybe. He was kind of vague about that. But I checked the company, and it’s all legit. Might be a good piece of change in it. Besides…”
She let that hang. Besides, it would be worth finding out who knew his real name and that it was connected with PPS Security Investigations.
“All right, feed me the file, I’ll check it out.” He switched his phone to data transfer and watched the screen while the information Jenny sent loaded. It flashed RECEIVED, and he switched back to voice only. “See what else you can find out about this guy. Do a personal search—”
17
TERMINATOR 2
“What do you pay me for? Already on it.”
“Good. Let me know if—”
“—if I find anything important. Right. I just love this spy stuff. What about your search? Find anything yet?”
“Yeah, we’ve got a place. Just need to rebuild it a little, sign all the papers, and start moving in. I’ll let you know when the lease is signed.”
<
br /> “How does it feel to be back in L.A.?”
“Not eerie enough—which is freaky.”
“Freaky but not eerie.”
“Not eerie enough.”
“You’ll have to explain the difference to me some time.”
“My pleasure. Later, though.”
“Right. Stay in touch, boss.”
He closed the phone and slipped it back into its belt pouch.
Sarah was coming toward him. She frowned. “What is it?”
John frowned. “We may have a problem.”
Destry-McMillin Research occupied a twenty-five-acre campus a mile north of Caltech. John stopped at the main gate and handed his ID to the guard.
“You’re expected in Building H, Mr. Philicos.” The guard handed back the card.
John pocketed his ID and drove through. The voice on the phone had been polite, almost cheerful, but completely uninformative. McMillin wanted to meet John face to face before anything important was discussed. He had not pressed the point, but surely he had known John could not refuse.
McMillin had agreed to a meeting two days later. John wanted to be present when the leases were signed and the construction team showed up to begin installing them in the new building. Ken Lash and his people had been standing by—one call, and the truck appeared a few hours later. When John was satisfied that Sarah could handle 18
HOUR OF THE WOLF
anything that might come up, he headed for the meeting, more than a little apprehensive.
Tall trees lined the curving road through the campus. He glimpsed low, steel-and-glass buildings through breaks in expensively landscaped woodland. His brief research into the firm painted a picture of a high tech R & D company doing contract work through Caltech and other university affiliates, and a certain amount of government work. High-energy plasma physics and superconducting superfluids came up as their chief areas of expertise.
He pulled into the parking lot around Building H, which turned out to be a five-floor, amoeba-shaped structure—the showpiece of the complex, the public face of the facility.
John suppressed a shudder at how much it reminded him of the Cyberdyne building he and his mother had destroyed.
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