Rising Storm t2-2 Page 5

  "Exactly, sir," Tricker said, after a minute pause.

  Craig put his elbows on the arms of his chair and folded his hands under his chin; he allowed his gaze to drop from his agent's eyes, having made his point.

  Tricker was one of the best agents he had. No, probably the best.

  And he was right, there were limits to what one could, and should, do to a hostile witness, especially one from a competing agency. Professional courtesy and all.

  So if he couldn't crack Dyson, it would take more than Kipfer was willing to sanction. Besides, the how of the thing wasn't really important. After all, Sarah Connor was in custody once again and her son was only sixteen.

  Not that teenage boys weren't potentially dangerous; there was a reason armies liked them. He just thought that they were more limited in the type of harm they could do than adults. He doubted the kid was still in the U.S., but they had Sarah Connor, and eventually that would bring the kid into the light.

  "One of the things that makes me suspicious of Dyson," Tricker said cautiously,

  "is that he appears to have done a complete one-eighty on Sarah Connor. He's been at her bedside or visiting her constantly since she was admitted to the hospital. The doctors and nurses I've interviewed say that his concern seems genuine. Connor herself, predictably, isn't talking."

  "That's something of a departure for her, isn't it?" Kipfer asked. "She's always been on the talkative side before, going on for hours about killer robots and

  Judgment Day and so on."

  "Going by the records we received from Pescadero, she'd be off at the slightest provocation." Tricker shook his head. "But not this time. She just gives you this accusing look, like a kid getting teased by her classmates."

  Kipfer lifted a few pages of Tricker's report and read for a moment, then he dropped them. "You've taken the usual steps, I see. Keep me informed. Now"—

  he met Tricker's eyes once more—"tell me about the project."

  "Things are going very well, all things considered," the agent replied.

  Which was true. The scientists and engineers at their disposal weren't quite the top-flight talent that Cyberdyne had recruited, but they were plugging along. At least as far as he could tell, and he, unfortunately, was in the position of having to take their word for it.

  "Things would go better still," Tricker added, "if we could manage to recruit Viemeister. And I think he could be tempted. His work is important to him and he was, according to the last reports we received from Cyberdyne, making great strides. But he's still under contract to them, and since we don't want to admit we have a clone project up and running, it's going to take some delicate handling."

  Kipfer made a rude sound and sat forward, pulling his chair into his desk. "Dr.

  Viemeister isn't someone you handle delicately," he said. "We've got enough on him to change his career from scientist to license-plate maker. Just hit him over the head with an ax handle and ship him to the base. When he wakes up tell him that. Then show him a hilly equipped lab where he can pick up his project where he left off. I think you'll find he'll cooperate. Especially since he won't have any

  other option. The guy's not even a citizen."

  Tricker frowned thoughtfully. "I thought he was naturalized."

  "There's no record of it," Craig said easily. It wasn't necessary to add: not anymore.

  Tricker allowed himself a slight smile. Sometimes it was fun working for the government—at least when you were working for this part of it. And since he really didn't like Viemeister, seeing the arrogant kraut taken down was going to be pure pleasure. One of life's little bonuses.

  "In any case he's liable to be"—Kipfer waggled one hand—"upset about his new location."

  "I think we can guarantee that he'll be upset, sir," Tricker dared to say.

  "So I'm going to assign you to the base, just to make sure things run smoothly, for… say the next few months."

  Tricker's jaw dropped; it only showed in his slightly parted lips, but an equivalent expression in an ordinary citizen would have included drool. "Sir, I have no scientific qualifications for observing this project," he said carefully.

  "You'll be handling security," Kipfer said, his eyes like green nails. "My secretary has a package with all the necessary tickets and permits. You can pick it up on your way out."

  "On my way out," Tricker said. He felt as though his blood had frozen in his

  veins.

  "Yes. You have two days to wind up any outstanding business you may have."

  His boss was giving him nothing, no opening to protest, no idea how long this ultra-dead-end assignment in America's secret Siberia was to last. This was his punishment. He'd known in his heart that it was coming. You didn't screw up an assignment this badly, losing the one artifact remaining to them, and not answer for it. After all, no one even knew what had become of Tricker's predecessor. He took a deep breath.

  "That'll be more than sufficient," he said. If the powers that be were adamant that he be punished, he might as well take it with a little dignity.

  "Is there anything else you need to tell me?" Kipfer asked.

  "No, sir. I think we've covered everything."

  Craig turned his attention to another file from his in-basket. "Then I guess I can let you go," he said, looking up. "Bon voyage."

  Tricker lifted one corner of his mouth in a pseudosmile.

  "Thank you, sir," he said, rising. "I'll send you a postcard."

  Kipfer looked up, his eyes dead. "Just send your reports."

  Tricker suppressed a sigh. "Yes, sir."

  After the door closed, Kipfer put down the report he wasn't really reading. He

  leaned back with a thoughtful frown. It was a waste of talent to send Tricker off to the hinterlands to cool his heels.

  Unfortunately the Cyberdyne fiasco required some sort of response. Craig sat up and opened the discarded file. He'd reclaim his agent in about six months. That ought to be long enough for Tricker to begin to despair of ever being rescued.

  Maybe it should be eight months. It depended on what came along. He supposed it was only just that he be deprived of something he valued, too. This disaster had occurred on his watch after all.

  Enough introspection. Kipfer turned his attention back to the new file.

  FORT LAUREL BASE HOSPITAL,

  CALIFORNIA

  Jordan Dyson shifted his wounded leg into a slightly more comfortable position, which wasn't much of an improvement. You sure can tell when the meds are wearing off, he thought.

  Sarah Connor had shot him, of all the ironic things. She'd also shot his older brother, Miles. The only difference being that she'd shot Miles before he was convinced about Terminators and himself after he'd discovered their reality.

  In a strange way, despite his wound, his lost job, and the horrors he'd witnessed, Dyson felt a sense of peace. He now knew how his brother had died, trying to destroy his own work to ensure that Skynet and Terminators never happened, and he was proud of him. He could lay Miles to rest in his own heart and mind and move on.

  His long-held hatred for Sarah Connor had begun to fade upon his first encounter with a Terminator; now, in his brother's memory, he felt a growing friendship for her and a tremendous respect.

  Jordan looked up as the door opened and Tricker came in.

  "This will be your final debriefing," Tricker said. The agent put his hands in his pockets and looked down at the former FBI agent. "Connor seems to like you,"

  he observed.

  "Connor is still woozy," Dyson replied. "We'll have to wait to see how she really feels." He put down the book he'd been reading. "What do you need to know?"

  Tricker looked at Jordan for a long time before he answered. Part of that time he was thinking about his new assignment. But he returned his mind to the business at hand with the discipline born of years in the field. Dyson was looking back at him with a bland expression that he could probably hold for a very long time.

  What would
he like to know? He'd like to know why Dyson was in Connor's room every day giving her encouragement and sips of water after spending the last almost seven years hunting her down in the belief that the Connors had killed his brother in the original attack on Cyberdyne. And what had happened to her son, and how much had the kid helped her blow up Cyberdyne a second time? And how the hell had Connor gotten that wound? The gunshots were standard enough, but the one in her middle looked, the doctor had said, like someone had done it with their hand.

  But he didn't think he was going to find out what he wanted to know. Dyson was

  clearly a reluctant witness and Tricker had other things to do. Ah, well. You had to have a high frustration tolerance in this line of work.

  After a moment he leaned forward, resting one hand on the back of Jordan's chair. "I'd like to know why you're suddenly on her side," he said confidentially.

  He searched Dyson's eyes for a moment, then tightened his lips and straightened.

  "But I doubt I ever will." Tricker gave him an assessing look. "Watch your back, Dyson," he said, and left the room.

  Jordan looked at the door for a moment, then leaned his head against the chair back. You, too, he thought.

  SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA

  Kurt Viemeister stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his luxurious home without seeing the mountain and surf and crimson-cloud sunset they framed.

  He tightened a massive fist. What gave that government stooge the right… ?

  Kurt stopped himself with an effort. Might gave Tricker the right. The government had kept backup copies of the data on his project— his project—

  copies which he himself, the creator, had been forbidden to keep! Now they would only release them to him if he agreed to work on it in the place they chose under still more of their insane restrictions. It was maddening!

  He turned on his heel and went to his weight room. He stripped to his shorts, put on a belt, and began to use the Nautilus.

  His project— his! Kurt reset the weight chock at two-fifty and lifted again. With a hiss of breath he lifted, then slowly let the weight down, again… He felt

  himself grow calmer as the effort purged the fight-flight toxins from his blood.

  The government needed him to complete the project, and they had to know it.

  Being a necessary part of things gave him some leverage. Unfortunately, given the current location of the project, once he committed himself, they had the upper hand again. Even more so than before. So.

  He sat up and wiped his face with a towel. Who was he kidding? Once he was at their secret base they could ignore any of his demands with impunity and he knew that. Kurt lay back on the bench with a deep sigh. His need to complete his work was like an addiction, and knowing he couldn't do so until they let him was agony.

  No. This time the ignorant weaklings had him right where they wanted him and he had no choice but to give them what they wanted. Very well, he would concede. Though he would, of course, make them pay dearly for his defeat.

  And who knew, one day, he might get to pound Tricker's face right off its bones.

  With that happy thought firmly in mind he went back to his regimen, feeling better if not satisfied.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LOS ANGELES

  Roger Colvin, CEO of Cyberdyne, leaned back in his chair as his eyes strayed to the figures on his computer.

  "Roge," Paul Warren said patiently, recalling his friend's attention.

  Colvin looked up guiltily. "Sorry," he said. He gestured at his screen. "Some of the numbers just changed and it caught my eye."

  Warren tightened his lips. He knew the truth, which was that no one wanted to hear how much he missed his wife, how he was haunted by questions about her death. Was it murder, suicide, an accident?

  He was better now about not launching into maudlin monologues than he had been, but the questions and the soul-searching went on and on. By now, though, even his most patient friends, like Roger, wished that he would turn it off.

  Especially during business hours.

  Of course, for people at their level it was always business hours. So, back to work.

  Now that Cyberdyne had the automated factory as their premier project, it behooved them to work their asses off.

  "What have we got?" Warren asked.

  Colvin sat forward, relieved that his friend was temporarily back in the groove.

  "It's very good, in fact. I don't know how they're doing it, but we're a month and a half ahead of schedule now."

  "Maybe that's because they're totally isolated out there and want to get back to their homes," Warren suggested.

  The factory was going up in the middle of nowhere, no towns around for a hundred miles, and if there had been any, they'd be inaccessible because there was no road leading to the site. And there never would be.

  Right now everything was being done by humans and helicopters. But when the factory was finished all supplies would be flown in on unmanned drones, self-guided by one of Cyberdyne's most advanced onboard computers. Raw materials would be removed from the transports by a small army of their latest generation of independently functioning robots. Finished weapons would be delivered to warehouses the same way. No humans involved at all until the end point, and even that was optional.

  The Pentagon loved the idea.

  Colvin grinned. "You might be right," he said. "I'm glad because they tell me the weather gets fierce up there in the winter."

  Warren grunted. "Have you heard anything else about the Skynet project?"

  The CEO shook his head. "I don't expect to either. I also have no idea what happened to our beloved Tricker. Last contact was with someone else."

  Warren raised a brow at that. So even the indestructible Tricker could be pulled up short. Nice to know. "So when can we get into production?"

  Colvin handed him a printout. "By the end of the month," he said with a cocky smile, and leaned back in his chair. "Not bad, eh?"

  "Not bad at all." Warren laughed and shook his head. "And boy, do we need a

  success right now."

  "Couldn't have said it better myself," the CEO agreed.

  VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA,

  PARAGUAY, NOVEMBER

  John clicked a few keys and found himself on the Sarah Connor Web site; the von Rossbach estate might look like the Paraguayan equivalent of backwoods, but the satellite-link communications were first-rate, with outlets in every room.

  Things had calmed down at the site over the last few months. There were occasional updates, and old E-mail got cleared away, but it was very different from the days when it was new.

  What he was here for was the secret Luddite chat room, where things remained hot. In fact, the Luddite movement seemed to be getting stronger and more active worldwide—it had practically gone mainstream, putting up political candidates and organizing outreach stations and Web sites. Unfortunately, this was accompanied by an increase in terrorist acts both large and small every day, everywhere.

  The tone of conversation in the rooms was different, too. It lacked the almost pleading exasperation of previous listings that wanted to teach and had become more militant. Much more us versus them. And that attitude, too, seemed to be becoming more mainstream with every passing day.

  John simply lurked in the topic and chat rooms, gathering information, but he'd noticed one user, styled Watcher, who occasionally shook things up. Lately the

  threats the Luddites made against Watcher for questioning their methods and ideas had become chilling.

  He decided to seek out this character. Someone with that sobriquet might know some very interesting things, and might be someone he could add to his growing list of informants on the Web.

  He was in luck; Watcher was on-line, discussing a recent bombing with the Luddites. If you could call such a hostile exchange a discussion. Good thing Watcher isn't in the same room with these people. On the Internet the gloves came off and people said things they'd never say in meat space. But
if you were right there with them when they were saying it… who knew what would happen.

  He glanced around his whitewashed bedroom with its black quefaracho-timber rafters and tile floors. E-presence was very different from the physical world. It liberated the id. Maybe the people threatening to wear Watcher's intestines as suspenders wouldn't harm a fly in reality. But with all the bombings and beatings and vandalism going on, who could be sure anymore?

  John checked out the address at the top of Watcher's messages and found it a dead end. But, he thought, there are other ways of finding you, buddy. After a tedious half hour he found the time Watcher had logged on, then correlated that with an IP address. That brought him to the MIT Web site in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Cool, he thought, and not surprising. It was pretty obvious from his posts that Watcher was pro-technology.

  Narrowing it down to the university was good, but he'd need some power to get the information he wanted. He constructed a password that got him into the operational side of the MIT site—a little lockpick-and-insertion program that

  Dieter had brought with him from the Sector was very useful here—and registered himself as a systems administrator. That essentially made him a system god, giving him access to all the on-site users' real tags.

  He continued to trace Watcher, which was turning out to be a job and a half. This guy knows how to cover his tracks, he thought in admiration. Very definitely a good recruit if all worked out. Finally he located Watcher's origin.

  Aha! A freshman student at MIT, Watcher was Wendy Dorset. John hacked into her school records, finding a picture. Cute, he thought. Not important, but nice to know. He pulled up an encrypted talk request and sent it to Watcher.

  *I'd like to talk with you,* he sent.

  There was a long pause. Finally she accepted the request, creating a secure shell in which they could speak. John's screen split into he said/she said columns, as did hers. Now they could communicate in real time.

  *Who are you?* Watcher asked.

  John's tag was AM, which stood for Action Man, not necessarily something he would ever reveal.

  *I could be a friend,* John typed. *Why don't you blow oil these bozos. I think we have similar interests.*