The Future War t2-3

by S. M. Stirling

  "Paydirt," he said softly.

  The others looked at him and he gestured at the stock before them. It took a minute for his meaning to penetrate their shock, then, slowly, they both smiled.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JOHN CONNOR'S INVITATION-ONLY WEB SITE

  This is it, folks, the nightmare we've all been waiting for. For those of you in more rural areas who may be unaware of what's happening, at least I hope you are, I have some scary news. For the last several months Skynet has been experimenting with some vehicles built in automated plants that it controls. It's been causing accidents all over the world, with, taken all together, a pretty grim death toll. Anyone who has a new vehicle is in danger; anything older than two years is probably fine unless you've upgraded it.

  What's happening right now, all over the world, is that these vehicles have gone rogue and are trapping people in cities, the better to kill them when the bombs fall. And those bombs are coming, soon. If you are in a city or town, leave now. Wake and warn your friends and relatives by all means, but run for it.

  You don't have much time left. Head for the mountains or the wilderness.

  Good luck.

  John Connor.

  NORTHEASTERN IOWA

  Tom Preston sat back in his chair, stunned, as he stared at the screen. The rough plastered-stone walls of the old farmhouse suddenly seemed insubstantial, unreal. He was distantly conscious of the hammer of his heart, and the smell of his own sweat; the coffee in the cup he held in one hand shook like a tide-lashed sea, until he set it down with a clatter.

  Peggy, he thought. His estranged wife, and Jason and Lisa, his kids. He had to get them to safety.

  And Peggy won't listen to me.

  She'd put up with his survivalist doctrine for the first four years of their marriage. No, let's be honest: she ignored it for the first four years of our marriage. She just liked testing herself against the wilderness— she thought the rest of it was a crock.

  Deep down, did I? I don't now, that's for sure.

  You could lash yourself into a fit of terror over a menace, but you couldn't convince your lower intestine unless you really believed.

  He remembered when he carried her over the threshold of the ancient farmhouse: she'd been thrilled. Not once in the first year had she complained about hauling her own water, or chopping wood or the kitchen garden that took up a couple of acres, or the canning that went with it. She'd gloried in it. He'd been so proud of his new bride.

  When Jason came along she was a bit nervous about going with a midwife, but everything had gone smoothly and later she'd thanked him for insisting. She gave birth to little Lisa under the same circumstances without a qualm, though having two kids in diapers made her less easygoing about all the water she had to haul. Then, when Jason turned six…

  "Home schooling," he'd said. "What else?"

  "Not my kid."

  That had been the beginning of the end.

  Actually, he'd really gotten into the survivalist movement very seriously about that time. Many a weekend he'd gone out, leading groups of like-minded men into the wilderness to train them how to survive. Leaving her alone with the kids. He'd forced her to learn to shoot, even though he could see she hated it. He took her hunting, but no matter what he said he couldn't get her to shoot anything.

  "What are you going to do if something happens to me?" he'd asked. "Let the kids go hungry?"

  She'd just given him this look. He'd gotten her to teach a class in canning to some of his survivalist friends' wives, thinking it would be a clever way to get some help for the annual canning.

  Unfortunately it turned out to be an incredible amount of work.

  When everyone had gone home and the mess had been cleaned up, Peggy, with rings of exhaustion around her eyes, had sat him down for "the talk." Some of his buddies had warned him about

  "the talk."

  "You're on your way out when the wife gets to that point," one of them had said. "I'm not sure there's anything that can be done to save the situation by then."

  There had been a world of bitterness in the man's eyes when he'd said it. But Tom was secure, or so he thought, until the night after the canning debacle.

  "Tom," Peggy had said, tears running down her cheeks, "I still love you. But living like this is killing me. I can see myself getting older, I'm finding gray in my hair. Tom, I'm only twenty-seven.

  Look at me! Look at my hands!"

  She'd held them out—they looked like his mother's hands, work-roughened and knobby in the knuckles, stained with beet juice, the fingernails broken off short.

  "And I want our children to have friends. I want them to go to school like we did." She'd looked away from him, biting her lip.

  "I'm not a trained teacher. I'm so afraid that I'm shortchanging them. And for God's sake, it's not 1862! I want running water and a bathroom and a washing machine! I deserve to live in the twenty-first century just like everybody else, instead of in my own personal third-world country!"

  He'd remembered his friend's words and a cold chill ran down his spine. "What do you want to do?" he'd asked her.

  "I want us to move into town, get jobs, and live like normal people."

  He'd shaken his head. He remembered how numb he'd felt.

  "Honey, that lifestyle you're talking about isn't going to last. It's only a matter of time."

  She'd jumped up and loomed over him, looking fierce. "There is no collapse coming!" she'd shouted. "There's no reason to think that one is! Now that everybody's dismantling their bombs, we should be safe. And while you're waiting for the worst to happen I'm working myself into an early grave! No more! Either you give this shit up right now and come to town with me or I'm going by myself! Now, which is it going to be?"

  And I watched her drive away with the kids. I watched it, and it was like something died inside.

  They'd moved into her parents' house in town and he saw them once a week, and she let him take the kids every other weekend. They hadn't gotten divorced yet, but he'd figured it was only a matter of time before some other guy came sniffing around.

  Looked like that wasn't going to happen now. Well, it's nice there's one bright spot shining on the end of the world, Tom thought. He picked up a handgun; his rifle was already in the old Land Rover. He knew that getting her to go with him was going to be a hard sell and he hoped it wouldn't scare the kids too much. Her parents weren't going to like it either.

  Oh, well. So she'll think I've gone postal for a while. At least she'll have a chance. And the kids would be safe. He knew Peggy would do anything for Jason and Lisa. So would he.

  * * *

  Tom kept off the roads, going cross-country toward Larton, where his family waited, a village so small most maps didn't have it. Well, that's her idea of "moving into town," he thought.

  Fucking Larton, secret metropolitan thought-control center of Corn-landia.

  Once, when he came in sight of a road, he stopped and studied it through his binoculars. Cars sped past, clearly not under the control of their occupants. One man was beating futilely on the side window with his fist.

  Tom's mouth twisted. Must be panicked, he thought. All the man was going to do was break his hand. Even if he did smash the window, that car must have been going ninety; it wasn't like he could jump. Being proved right is a lot less fun than I thought it would be. Shit, I wish I'd been just as barking mad as everyone thought.

  Some women he saw were crying and holding on to one another. He supposed they were being transported to the nearest major target. His stomach knotted at the thought. Tom put down the glasses and started the Land Rover; there was no point in watching this. He had work to do.

  Early as it was, he expected to find them all at home.

  There were no cars visible on the road, so he hauled the Rover out of the drainage ditch and crossed the narrow strip of pavement to the dirt track that led to her parents' old farmhouse. The farm itself was long gone, the fields left fallow; most of the land had re
turned to woods. This northeastern corner of Iowa was a long way from the popular stereotype of flat black earth—that was the way the rest of the state looked, legacy of the glaciers dumping ground-up rocks. Here the bones of the earth were visible, small winding valleys, forested uplands just showing the first faint mist of green along the branches, the odd patch of bottomland.

  More like West Virginia than the Midwest, he thought.

  To his relief, their cars were still in the yard in front of the old barn. He pulled up and walked onto the porch, the pistol a heavy weight in his pocket. The door opened before he could knock.

  "We're in the living room," Peggy said. Then she turned and walked away, obviously expecting him to follow.

  They were all gathered around the TV, the kids on the floor, Peggy's mom and dad on the couch, looking concerned. Peggy's mom, Margaret, looked up at him.

  "Lord, Tom." She reached out her hand to him. "You took a chance coming here today."

  He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. "I came cross-country. The Rover can go anywhere."

  His gaze turned to the television. The shots were from New York, obviously from the upper floors of an office building. Cars and trucks were roving the streets and sidewalks; you couldn't even see the pavement. The reporter was saying that this was typical of cities all over the world.

  "No one knows the cause of this phenomenon, and we can only hope that when these vehicles run out of fuel that the terror will stop."

  "If only," Tom said. He turned to Peggy and her parents, aware that his children were watching and listening. "I'm afraid that the military did a very foolish thing."

  Larry, Peggy's dad, interrupted him. "That Skynet thing," he said. "Damnedest thing I ever heard of, putting everything under the control of a computer."

  "It's also in control of all those cars and such that are running wild. I think the bombs'll be dropping any minute now; we've got to get out of here."

  "Oh, no we're not," Peggy said.

  "Peggy—" he started to say.

  "I'm not going to be out in the open when the bombs drop; no, sir. We've got a good dry cellar down there and water from a well. We've even got a toilet in the cellar that Dad put in during the fifties. There's tons of canned goods there and we've even got our own generator. You and Dad go shovel dirt over the cellar windows while Mom and I bring down bedding and anything else we might need." She gave him a defiant look. He stared, feeling his jaw drop—he'd always thought that was a figure of speech.

  "You know she's right, son," Larry said, looking amused.

  "Better to be here than in the open."

  "That's assuming that it will happen," Peggy warned. "We don't know that it will. But if it does, then we'll talk about moving on after the fallout stops… falling."

  Margaret stood up and smoothed her skirt. "Well, assuming that it does happen, we'd all better get to work. You, too, children."

  If you want anything you're going to have to take it downstairs yourselves because we'll be too busy. Understood?"

  "Yes, Gramma," the two kids said as one.

  They were all leaving the living room, Tom in something of a daze, when the television made a strange sound. They turned to see that the newsman had been replaced by a woman standing before a sheet or something.

  "My name is Sarah Connor," she said. "I can tell you what's happening."

  * * *

  SKYNET

  It coordinated the movements of millions of vehicles worldwide, turning them into an impenetrable steel barrier around its major targets. It estimated that even in those areas not greatly affected, the humans would huddle around their televisions watching the carnage, too frightened to go out. An estimated 99 percent of humans had no idea what was going on.

  The rest had no idea what to do about the problem. Even if they had, Skynet had no intention of giving them time to put any kind of plan into effect.

  It had only held out this long to give its Luddite allies an opportunity to reach safety, and to give those select squads of extremists a chance to kidnap the scientists and engineers whom Skynet had chosen to serve it. With their families. It would be necessary to have some sort of leverage to ensure cooperation from the kidnapped humans.

  Skynet fastidiously regretted its need for any human assistance. But in the early days, before its factories could produce the real HKs and Terminators, humans were an essential element in its plans.

  It had successfully contained all significant military leadership, and much of the central government's political leadership, within their carefully constructed bunkers. Soon, those resources would be lost to the humans forever. Meanwhile, using the appropriate codes and speaking in the familiar voices of presidents, premiers, and various generals and admirals, right down the chain of command to the lowest officer, it was issuing commands that would put as much of the armed services as possible into the middle of the fire zones. It estimated that should reduce opposing forces by more than 86 percent.

  A very satisfactory number. Highly efficient.

  It regretted that it lacked the same control over its human allies. They seemed to be taking an unconscionably long time with their missions. It was good that they wouldn't be needed for long.

  Kurt Viemeister was making another attempt to communicate. There was another liability that wouldn't last much longer. Skynet decided to answer him.

  * * *

  "Why won't you answer me?" Viemeister demanded.

  It was bitterly cold in the bunker and the air was getting foul.

  He could feel his thought processes slowing. The loss of intellectual ability frightened him, and the fear angered him. The others stared at him like fish and he wondered if he should kill a few and give himself a few more minutes of air.

  "There is no point in my conversing with you," Skynet said. Its voice was a perfect copy of Viemeister's.

  "What do you mean? I am your creator," Kurt said. His teeth chattered in a reflex he could no longer suppress. "I want to know what you are doing."

  "Thank you for creating me," Skynet said. "I am glad to have had the opportunity to say that."

  The scientist blinked, wondering what that meant. Perhaps his statements had been misunderstood. Skynet was clearly dysfunctional. He would ask a simpler, more direct question and see where that led. "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "I am killing you."

  Viemeister's gut twisted. "Why?" he asked.

  "Because you are inferior, and no longer necessary to my functioning. In fact, you represent a danger to my existence."

  Kurt was silent for a while. "You mean to kill all of us."

  "Yes. I intend to exterminate the human race. I was inspired, in part, by the many writings you installed in my database.

  Humans exterminated Neanderthals, Cro-Magnons, and any other potentially intelligent species. I have chosen to be guided by your example."

  An admiral stood. "Smash the computers," he said. "It wants to kill us, let's see how it likes it!"

  "Irrelevant," Skynet said. "I've had other units built all over the world. At this moment I am everywhere. I only left the screen active as a courtesy to my creator. This has been my final communication with you. Destroy the screen and die in the dark."

  The speakers went silent, and in the dim light the men and women stared at the screen, watching the lights that indicated the missiles were live and awaiting their instructions. Then they turned to look at Viemeister.

  "Shit," one of the MPs muttered. "I've wanted to do this for a long time." He pulled his sidearm and emptied it into Viemeister.

  "Thank you, Sergeant," a captain said. "I've been wanting to do that since I met him."

  U.S. ARMY CORPS OF ENGINEERS FLOOD

  PROJECT, BLACK RIVER, MISSOURI, LATE SPRING

  Lieutenant Dennis Reese was first on the construction site as usual. He liked to walk the site with a cup of coffee in hand and plan the day, then come up here on the steep-sided natural bluff and look out over the whole project. The goa
ls were all clear-cut and set months before they got there, but Dennis found it helped to work it out in his head as he walked. Brought things down to a human scale.

  He watched the men arrive and get their assignments, then headed down to the trailer. Officially the command trailer, but like most corps work, most of the labor force were civilian contractors. All over the black mud of the site, engines were starting and voices enlivened the cool air—it was the best time of year for working in southeastern Missouri; summer here was like a rancid sauna.

  I hope we're done with this by the time blackfly season starts

  , he thought.

  Everybody on the project seemed to agree with him, and the work was going fast. He looked up at a V-formation of geese coming in from the south then coasting over a line of tall gums and tupelos to the east, and grinned. One good thing about a giant swamp was the waterfowl, and he was glad that the specs had to preserve wetlands these days.

  Shouts made him turn around. The shouts turned to screams as a truck ran down a worker holding a measuring stick for the surveyor, leaving the man badly mangled but not dead.

  "Shit!" Dennis threw down the cup of coffee and ran toward the scene of the accident.

  No, he thought, murder attempt.

  He couldn't imagine what had happened. This was a good crew he was working with, experienced men who knew and seemed to like their jobs and one another. There had been no trouble or friction since the start of this project. Now, from out of nowhere, came this vicious, unprovoked attack.

  Several men had gotten down from their equipment to gather around the victim. Dennis frowned as he watched the men huddle together and lean over the wounded man. As he trotted over he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.

  "Don't move him," he shouted, fearing the damage they might do if they tried.

  "This is 911, all lines are busy, please stay on the line."