Terminator 2_Hour of the Wolf

by Mark W. Tiedemann

  He saw then that he stood on one of the planes, and that was the problem. His reference was set, established on this level. The entire assembly drifted upward as he looked, coiling gracefully along the spine to which his plane attached. If he could leave this plane, step off it and follow the threads that shot around him, interpenetrating the planes above and below him, he could get a good perspective on how the warp and woof of the still-recomplicating structure related to itself, in all its parts.

  But that, of course, was the difficulty: he carried his plane with him. Breaking free was impossible because he and the plane existed solely in relation to each other. In order to get a better perspective, he needed to take it with him. If he could roll it up and detach it from the main string, or even let it flow freely along the length of the string, riding with it…

  How to fold it up, though.

  Folding it up, it would disappear.

  No, it became a point.

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  Folding it up, riding with the condensing volume of space-time (when had it become a volume instead of a plane?) he watched the string grow thicker, become the overwhelming fact of his perception, expanding to absorb his four dimensions into a point just inside the infinitely thin body of the string. A singularity within a singularity.

  Was that allowed? Could two singularities exist at the same point? Two particles could not occupy the same space at the same time, but a particle was not a singularity—nor was it separate from a frame.

  He saw…one vast color, a variation of sameness…All frame of reference was gone.

  The dream faded, blended with memories of other things, and he lost the thread.

  Bobby opened his eyes in fading afternoon light. The blinds cast angled shadows across a painting Deirdre had bought from a recent art bazaar: an abstract, supposedly depicting music, all in rich tones of azure and violet and emerald, with splashes of gold and scarlet. He had doubted her claim that she had paid very little for it; in fact, the more he looked at it, the more he believed that she had paid a lot for it. But he loved it. There was an organizing element to it that helped him, upon waking, cope with the divergence between his dreams and the so-called real world. Only a few seconds, that was all it took, but gazing at the fluid lines set against subtle rhythmic patterns grounded him.

  He sat up in bed. Could two singularities occupy the same point?

  Funny, the things you think of after sex, he thought, smiling. Actually, maybe that one isn’t so strange…two singularities, same point…

  He stood, stretched, and went into the bathroom. He pulled on a pair of shorts before going into the living room, looking for Deirdre.

  He found her lounging naked on the sofa, talking on her cell phone. She waggled her fingers at him, smiling, and 30

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  continued talking. Bobby stood still for a few seconds, admiring her body. She worked hard at it, and the effort paid off in defined muscle, sleek skin over power-at-rest.

  Some of it was bought—the tan, the overall effect of mas-sages, the trainers—but it also showed her discipline. Others, her friends, often disdained the work involved, but Deirdre paid no attention to their subtle—and occasionally unsubtle—teasing.

  Not often, but occasionally, Bobby wondered what she saw in him, why she stayed with him. Early on there had been arguments about it, but it had been his own insecurity, sometimes bordering on paranoia. He mostly got over it.

  Without her, he felt, his university career would have been very short. He loved the math, the physics, but she had tutored him through the rest, most of which failed to attract his interest.

  Bobby continued into the dining room, sat down, and booted the Mac up again. The equations lay on the screen, inscrutable and clear at the same time. They reminded him of something else. He wanted to model a wormhole as a description of a temporal loop. Spatial dimensions gave nicely balanced equations, everything eventually equaling everything else, net zero. But these just left him with an open-ended…something.

  Maxwell. Bobby blinked, recognizing the pattern. Maxwell’s equations describing electromagnetism. The electrical charge side of them balanced, plus and minus giving symmetry, but while the same equations described magnetism—as related phenomena, one would expect they would—there were no discreet poles in magnetic fields. They came as a set, always linked, north and south. Loops. Hence, symmetry broke down. They described what they described perfectly well—at least, usably—but that failure of symmetry had been irritating physicists for decades.

  Bobby’s wormhole models displayed the same asymmetry when applied to time.

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  “What was it they wanted to find…?” he mused, tapping his lips with a forefinger. “Magnetic monopoles…yeah…”

  In theory, magnetic monopoles ought to exist. Just as particles came with positive and negative charges, magnetic charges ought to come with north and south components—separate, discreet components—but none had ever been found. What do you get when you cut a magnet down into two parts? Two magnets. One hypothesis suggested that all magnetic fields existed as coiled loops, folded in on themselves. They could express both poles only when undivided. The actual “thing” that might be the opposite charge was inside the coil, hidden like a snail in its shell.

  He studied the equations on the screen. So time came folded up inside space? Its effects could be expressed, but not separated out…

  In string theory, there were more than simply four dimensions. The others had long since diminished to relative insignificance, or curled up inside the four dominant dimensions that represented the universe in which everything existed.

  Or was that too simplistic? An easy answer to describe something entirely different?

  Time possessed an arrow, but unlike space, one could not travel back and forth on that arrow at will. Why not? Einstein had described how time and space came as a package, inseparable, even though entirely dependent on the observer’s frame of reference for its specific effect. What if—

  “You are the only man I know who does science after good sex.” Hands slid down his chest from behind.

  “Yes, but I also do sex after good science.”

  Bobby let his head fall back against Deirdre’s belly. He gazed up at her face, smiling down at him.

  “I promise I won’t take the job,” he said.

  “All right.”

  “Who were you talking to?”

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  “Daddy.”

  Bobby felt himself tighten. “About what?”

  “I just wanted to know who this Mr. Casse is. Just information.”

  Bobby sighed. “Dee, you know how I feel—”

  “Yes, I do. But frankly, in this, I understand just a little bit more than you do. Cyberdyne does military R & D. Twice in the last thirteen years someone has blown up their facilities. Both times, the government pumped more money into them, and the only explanation they offered the public was a wild story about two crackpots who thought Cyberdyne was building a doomsday machine.”

  “And you believed that?”

  “No. What I believe is that they’re doing something that makes them a target for some seriously unpleasant fanatics.

  Their history of funding from the Pentagon makes me think those fanatics know more than we do.”

  “I told you, I just need to find out if I can get the damn job!”

  “That’s fine. But when you deal with snakes, it’s best to know which end has the fangs.”

  He really could not argue with her. Between them, they shared a powerful belief in being informed. She simply had resources he lacked. She could ask questions of someone who could get them answers about certain things they could find no other way. And it would be good to know as much as possible about these people—for instance, how this Mr.

  Casse had found him. Scholarship was open, certainly, it could have been nothing more than someo
ne noticing his academic achievements. But his experience with Cojensis made him suspicious of simple explanations. How had Cojensis been involved? This was the first time Bobby had been approached this way; it scared him a little. Deirdre was only helping by contacting her stepfather—Dennis McMillin was privy to a great deal of information—and Bobby appreciated it on a certain level.

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  On another level, he felt coddled.

  “Okay,” he said not wanting to ruin the mood any further.

  “So,” she said, leaning over his shoulder, peering at the screen, “you want to explain this to me again?”

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  FOUR

  Sarah resisted the impulse to micro-manage. Ken Lash knew his job; this was, after all, the fifth time he had done an install like this for them. His crew worked efficiently, installing the new security hardware in the building. Arrangements for the new doors had been made at the signing of the lease agreement, and the permits were being fast-tracked. Everything was well in hand, and she should leave Lash alone—her meddling would only slow him down. She made herself ascend the rear stairs to the second floor apartment, newspapers tucked under her left arm.

  Her boot heels cracked sharply on the hardwood floors as she walked to the living room. The place contained little furniture. Sarah did not care so much, but John preferred things to be comfortable. For now, two armchairs, a coffee table, sofa, and a television, all newly arrived, gave her more than enough comfort. More importantly, a computer squatted on the kitchen table—her link to the world.

  She dropped the stack of papers beside it: Los Angeles Times, USA Today, and the Wall Street Journal. The bodega down the street carried the first two normally. During her first visit, she’d asked them if they could get the Journal, and they said yes. They had had it tucked aside for her, no other copies in sight.

  She booted up the computer. While she waited, she unfolded the L.A. Times. Knowledge is power, she thought.

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  That’s what John says. Of course, I taught that to him, even though he thinks it’s all his idea now…

  She went directly to the business section and scanned the copy for anything about Cyberdyne. Then she opened USA Today and did the same. The screen on the computer informed her that the system was ready. She tapped instructions, linking to the Internet. Once connected, she started her robot programs tracking down information about Cyberdyne. Several new articles popped up quickly. She skimmed them, ignoring the ones that were clearly spin generated by the company itself. A few came from disarmament groups, and a few more from independent news-hounds trying to uncover anything that looked like government black projects. Cyberdyne had been remarkably resili-ent at fending off bad press, at least any that might seriously impact them. Sarah had watched them deploy harass-ment lawsuits to shut down some inquiries, buy off reporters, get federal agencies to investigate others. All the rest they somehow buried with charm. Cyberdyne possessed one of the finest public relations machines in business. Even while she hated them she conceded a grudging respect at their adaptability. It was only fitting that Skynet should emerge from such a company.

  Will emerge, she corrected herself. As yet there was no Skynet—not here, not in this timeline. Sarah still balked at the ramifications of time travel and its related branches.

  She had been through it—them—and still had only the most basic understanding. Doesn’t matter. What I do understand is that so far we’ve stopped Skynet from happening several times.

  Of course, that was no guarantee Skynet would remain unbuilt, in this timeline or any other. Skynet had appeared—many times—and Armageddon had happened

  —many times—and still there was the possibility of undoing it, somewhere, in some reality.

  When they had finished their time-hopping and found themselves in a reality where Skynet did not exist, they had decided to stay and try to make sure Armageddon never 36

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  happened in this one. It was unlikely, but Sarah, at least, needed a bit more stability. One time, one reality.

  “It doesn’t work that way.” She could hear Rosanna Monk’s complaint.

  “And where are you now, Rosanna?” Sarah murmured as she turned her attention back to the Times.

  She worked her way through to the obituaries. John had used them when assembling their new identities. Helping him, Sarah had developed the habit of skimming them.

  Once in a while she saw a name from the distant past—from before 1984, when the first Terminator and Kyle Reese entered her life—usually a friend now dead with whom she had lost all contact after leaving Los Angeles for the desert and the life she had led since. Morbid, John called it. Maybe, but she did it automatically now, and when she did see a name she knew it gave her an odd sense of connectivity to something almost normal.

  At the top of the page a banner piece announced the death of a professor of mathematics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology: Dr. J. Hewit Porter died in a car crash; police investigating reports of another vehicle involved.

  Sarah scanned down to the columns of deaths, a few with small pictures. She paused, catching something familiar.

  Another Porter: J. Porter, found dead in his apartment, natural causes…

  She finished the obituaries, refolded the paper, glanced at the computer. Still searching. While her electronic trolls prowled the web for Cyberdyne data, she opened a new window and began a search for “Connor, Sarah,” just to see if anything came up. The contemporary listings were about other Sarah Connors. A few older articles appeared about the 1994 Cyberdyne incident and the 2001 incident, but nothing more recent.

  She opened the New York Times site, heading immediately to the business section. She had become adept at interpreting the stock listings for signs of movement in the specific tech industries that had connections to Cyberdyne.

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  Destry-McMillin…

  John was there now. She closed the Times, opened a search engine, and requested a profile, and sat back to read.

  John had already gone over most of this. He might have missed something, though, with all he had to do—setting up a new office in a city distant from where they had successfully made a home, and the complications of trying to find out if anyone else knew about them. That had entailed a call to Jack Reed, something they tried to keep to a minimum; but in this case, it seemed necessary. Jack told them not to panic, he would check and get back to them. That did not exactly mollify Sarah—she disliked relying on people so removed from them, from their experiences—but Jack had been good to his word since their return. She just needed to learn to trust him.

  After all, it’s Jack’s people downstairs once more installing our on-site security…We’d better be able to trust him…

  She opened Destry-McMillin’s website. The lab had been founded in the mid-Eighties by partners Ian Destry and Dennis McMillin, both PhDs in physics. The lab had begun small, then leaped ahead by taking advantage of the digital boom. Because they had invested as much (if not more) in the actual hardware end of the physical sciences, they survived the dot-com crash at the turn of the century.

  The list of research areas was impressive: astronomy and astrophysics, atmospheric science, robotics, computing, energy research, environmental science, lasers and optics, materials science, microtechnology, physics, sensors and instrumentation. She clicked on some of the links to specific areas of research. Ultrawideband communications, multi-cell proteomics, ultrasonic nondestructive evaluation of multilayered structures, multifluidic systems for solution array-based bioassays, carbon-nanotube permeable membranes—

  She paused at that one. Nanotubes. Nanoprocessing.

  There was a link called “Working With Destry-McMillin”

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  that brought up a list of partnering programs with other labs. Cyberdyne was one of a dozen.

 
; “Partnering in what?” she hissed, hitting the link.

  It took some time to find the project, and when she did it made little sense to her.

  “‘Exchange coupling in magnetic nanoparticles, combined with a study of covalent attachment of metallic nanorods to nanocrystals.’ What the hell does that mean…?”

  She bounced around on the site for a time, trying to locate anything that might explain what any of this was, but all she found were more lists. The term “nano” appeared far too often for her comfort.

  She did not want to run an open inquiry right now on Cyberdyne, although she doubted she would be traced and identified if she kept to their main website. She would wait until Lash and his people finished their work downstairs.

  For now…

  She flipped open her cell phone and punched John’s code; on the second ring, he answered. “John, it’s me. Where are you now?”

  “In Mr. McMillin’s office. What’s up?”

  “A question for him. Destry-McMillin did a project in partnership with Cyberdyne, involving nanoparticles.”

  There was a pause. “I’ll ask.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is…weird. I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always. Thanks for the call.”

  The connection broke. Sarah sat back, staring at the screen, wishing she had paid more attention to the talks between John, the Specialists, and Rosanna Monk when they had discussed the science. Even John admitted that he understood very little.

  She went back to the search engine. Sounds of construction came from beneath her. In a few days, Lash would have the office intrusion-hardened, connected to well-shielded phone, satellite, and Internet connections, and equipped with state-of-the-art equipment top to bottom, 39

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  all courtesy of Jack Reed and his federal off-the-books discretionary funds. She still felt anxious about their connection to Reed—there would be a price down the line, she knew that—but for now it was the only way they could operate in this country, and Reed at least was on their side.