He raised his glass in salute. "I've asked for nothing more."
Vera returned from her business appointment feeling depressed and thoughtful.
The South American side of her affairs was doing all right, but hardly spectacularly well, and she was disappointed. Maybe it was time to do some pruning of her investments.
She leaned against the yacht's railing and sighed. It wasn't just business that had her down. This whole thing with von Rossbach/Ingolfson certainly hadn't lived up to her daydreams. She got so sick of people hitting her up for cash for this or that project.
Though with his money von Rossbach hardly needed to do that. Which made his appeal for money somewhat puzzling.
Though the appeal of those shoulders and that chest… Vera sighed again, this time in pleasure at the memory. Two million, hmm? That was a lot to pay for just a peek. She could tell by the way she was thinking that he was going to have to go begging for his money to somebody else. I do so hate being used, she thought, pouting.
On the deck below, a pair of hands grasped the railing, followed by von Rossbach. Vera stood back and stayed very still, watching as he came over the rail, soaking wet and… He's naked! Vera thought in disbelief.
She suppressed a laugh, watching as he looked all around, confident that he couldn't see her. She'd had this balcony at the back of her private quarters constructed so that she could see the deck below while being hidden herself.
There was something odd about von Rossbach, besides his being stark naked, but she couldn't put her finger on it. He finally moved off.
I have got to call him on this! she thought. If they were going to be cited for public nudity by the local police, she'd be the one blamed, and ticketed. She had some standards after all, the last thing she wanted was the reputation of running a floating brothel. She hurried out of her quarters, meaning to catch up with him.
Vera smiled as she imagined the expression on his face as she gave him a dressing-down while he stood there beautifully undressed.
The Terminator moved down the short, narrow corridor on its way to the crew quarters. The design of this yacht, with the exception of the owner's quarters, which were customized, had been on the builder's Web site, so it knew the layout of the ship. After observing the boat for two days it could also identify everyone on it. One of those humans was Dieter von Rossbach. The I-950 had affirmed the request to terminate.
Hearing voices coming from the stairway leading to the engine room, it pushed the volume on its microphones to high and hastened to the end of the corridor.
The T-101 flattened itself against the bulkhead and peered around the corner, looking down the stairs. A man turned at the door of the engine room and leaned in.
"I'll be back," the one called Arnie shouted.
"Don't be too long."
Voice-recognition software confirmed that the second speaker was von Rossbach. This was excellent. As it listened to Arnie's footsteps moving down the corridor, it could hear only one other set of footsteps within the engine room.
Its quarry was alone. There was a violent clash of machinery from the engine room and it lowered its volume to protect the sensitive auditory device. Then it moved quickly down the stairs.
***
Dieter was wishing the engine room were air-conditioned; his body was covered in oil and sweat and only a drenched headband kept it from stinging his eyes.
The captain had decided that while they had a few days they should perform basic maintenance on the yacht's engines. Essentially a tune-up with an oil change on a massive scale. Von Rossbach assumed he wanted it done here because local regulations about used oil were a lot less strict than they were in San Diego.
Right now he was steam-cleaning the engine and resenting Arnie taking off, leaving him to, literally, take the heat. He grabbed the handle that would move the crankshaft and leave another area accessible.
The Terminator found a box of tools beside the door and pulled a two-foot-long pry bar out of it. As it had neither gun nor knife, this should do for a weapon.
Though it should be able to destroy an unarmed human with its bare hands, mission parameters stated that any and every available advantage should be used. The soft clatter of machinery being manually cranked succeeded by a sound like a compressed air blast led it to its prey.
Dieter sprayed the upper part of the engine with the steam, watching the muck run off with a sense of satisfaction. He was almost done with this. It had been a long time since he'd pulled maintenance on a marine diesel, and it made him feel nostalgic, in a way. Another half hour or so and he'd be able to go up on deck for some of the comparatively cooler air there. Then a shower. He imagined the shower stall would look something like the engine did now, with black goo running down its sides.
He squatted to get the lower side and a pry bar hit the engine with enough force to dent the metal.
Dieter fell onto his butt and reacted instinctively, turning the steam jet on his attacker.
There was no scream of pain and the figure dimly seen through the steam didn't stagger back. Instead, the bar came down for another blow.
Dieter rolled to his knees and shoved at the man while he was overbalanced to make his strike, and his opponent went down. The Austrian rose to his feet and stared at the man, astonished to see that he was naked. Then the man turned over and began to rise, the pry bar still in his hand and—
That is my own face. Red and covered with blisters, the eyes white and peeling from the steam blast, but still terrifyingly familiar.
The Terminator reached up and plucked the cooked flesh from its eye sockets, revealing the red lights and black plastic of its eyes and allowing it to see.
"Oh shit!" von Rossbach said, and turned, running for the door. He needed a weapon; something in the way of high explosives would be nice.
The Terminator's hand flashed out and the hooked end of the pry bar locked around Dieter's ankle, bringing him crashing to the metal floor. The Austrian scrabbled forward, reaching for the toolbox, intending to throw it. Then the pry bar hit his thigh glancingly and von Rossbach shouted with pain and went down again. His hand reached out and came up with a five-pound sledgehammer.
Dieter rolled onto his back just in time to block a blow from the pry bar aimed at his neck; the force of it was shocking, slamming the head of the hammer into the slatted grillwork of the engine-room deck.
I'm going to die, he thought as the Terminator raised the bar for an impaling stroke.
Vera heard someone cry out and she hurried down the narrow stairway, listening with alarm to what sounded like a fight. She arrived in the hatchway just in time to see the Terminator place its foot on Dieter's injured thigh, causing him to cry out again.
She shouted "no!" as she saw the pry bar come up for a blow and the Terminator turned toward her.
For Vera everything stopped in that moment—sound, breath, thought. A terribly burned face in which blazed red, glowing eyes turned to her, hesitated, then the Terminator began to bring the bar down toward the man on the deck.
Dieter swung the hammer, knocking the bar out of the Terminator's hand, then
brought it down on the T-101's knee. It crumpled, and at that moment Vera realized that the sound was… metallic.
As it adjusted its leg von Rossbach rolled free, coming up against the bulkhead, seeming to rise to his feet in one fluid motion. He grabbed the power cables that had been rigged to test the engine and hit the switch with his elbow as the Terminator lunged toward him, its big hands reaching for his throat.
Dieter pushed the live cables into its reaching hands and the Terminator almost flew backward to lie twitching on the deck. Instantly von Rossbach scrambled to the wall, took up an electric arc welder, and went to work on the twitching, recumbent form; he didn't have much time until it reset.
Vera sank to the deck with a little cry, her eyes so wide the whites showed all around, her hand to her mouth in horror.
Ignoring her, von Rossbach cut through the
metal neckbone analogue, watching with grim satisfaction as the red lights behind the thing's eyes went out. Then he stood panting for a moment before he turned his attention to the frightened woman in the doorway.
"It isn't human," he said to her.
She looked up at him, uncomprehending.
Dieter knelt beside her and spoke very gently. "Look," he said, pointing. "You can see the metal. It wasn't a person."
She looked at the fallen Terminator, then turned to von Rossbach and back
again. "Not human," she said, her voice shaking.
"Are you all right?" Dieter asked her. He hoped she wouldn't go into shock. "Do you know who I am?"
Slowly Vera frowned. She was shocked, and badly frightened, but she was also very tough. "Of course I know who you are. I'm not an idiot! What the hell is that thing? Why does it look like you? And how the hell are we gonna get rid of the body?"
He leaned back and studied her, assessing her condition, and decided that she was going to be all right. As all right as anyone was after meeting their first Terminator anyway. "It's a Terminator," he explained. "Its mission was to kill me in order to protect that AI program that I told you about."
Dieter watched as her eyes turned to the fallen Terminator. Its skull showed metallic gleams through the mass of crushed flesh, and the spine was a mass of gleaming cut metal and sparking wires.
She licked her lips and then looked up at him. "How did it know where to find you?" she asked. The she straightened with a gasp as an idea struck her. "Are there others?" She grew pale. "Could there be another on the ship? I mean, right now?"
He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and shook his head. "It's unlikely that there are more around right now. They're not all that common. As to how it found me"—he shook his head—"I don't know. It probably picked up something on the Internet and came looking."
Vera shuddered and turned away from the Terminator, burying her head on his shoulder. She began to shake. "Oh God," she said.
Dieter put his arms around her and let her rest for a moment, then he urged her to rise. "I'll dispose of this," he said, planning how ho would do it even as he reassured her. "You should go have a brandy and lie down. I'll come and talk to you later."
"Don't," she said, rising to her feet, her face determinedly turned away from the Terminator. "I need to be alone."
She walked away like an old woman and Dieter watched her, frowning, uncertain what to do. His options were limited; stay and risk her turning him away, or go on his own. He didn't think she'd mention the Terminator to anyone; she was intelligent enough to imagine the consequences of that.
Dieter looked at his disposal problem and decided to stay. With such unequivocal proof presenting itself to her, she just might come through for him.
CHAPTER TEN
MIT CAMPUS
Snog's small room—bed-sitter with kitchenette—was surprisingly neat. Maybe that was because everything that wasn't a computer or a book had been eliminated.
"Can't work in clutter man." Snog himself said in response to John's initial, evaluating glance around the room. "Makes me feel like the inside of my head's
messed up."
John raised his brows and nodded. The answer to his unspoken comment made sense to him. After two years in a military academy he found it difficult to tolerate mess himself.
There were five of them besides John in the cramped room, Wendy the only female. Two of the guys were long and thin with unruly mops of hair, one dark-haired, the other a redhead, both with glasses. The other two, one of them Snog, were on the hefty side, both bearded, with even longer, wilder hair and no glasses.
Wendy pointed to the dark-haired skinny guy. "Brad," she said. He and John nodded and smiled at each other. She indicated the big fella who'd passed them the word about this meeting in the student union. "Carl." Carl nodded, too.
"Yam," Wendy said with a nod at the redhead.
"Hi," John said.
"So you're the mystery man," Snog said—sneered, rather.
"Yup, that's me," John said. What's your problem?
"Kinda young, aren't you?"
John's heart sank a bit. These guys weren't exactly senior professors, for cryin'
out loud. He'd have thought that people who probably got a lot of "you're so young!" stuff thrown their way would be more tolerant. At least toward similarly young people.
They all looked at him as though waiting for a speech. John looked around and took a seat on the bed next to Yam. "Don't let me interfere with your meeting, guys," he said.
The others all looked at Wendy, who shrugged and took off her jacket, then settled down on the floor. "So," she said, "has anybody got something to report?"
She looked around. "Snog?"
He pointed to his beefy chest. "Me?" He sounded surprised.
"You called the meeting," she pointed out dryly.
With a snort he said, "That was before I knew it was going to be the children's hour."
"Just how old are you?" John asked without looking at him.
"Nineteen," Snog said. He tilted his head toward John. "And you?"
"Eighteen." In February, John added mentally. "A whole year younger than you are. I can't believe you're making such a stink about it—you're not exactly a geriatric case yourself."
"Thing is," Carl said in a soothing voice, "you're not even out of high school."
"And I never will be," John said, giving him a direct look. "High school is a luxury I can't afford."
"Is that because you're from… South America?" Wendy asked sympathetically.
John stared at her for a moment, then laughed; he couldn't help it. It was such a typically North American assumption. And they were all so naively arrogant!
But smart. You could feel that they were smart. If he could recruit these people it would be a very good thing.
"Of course not!" he said, grinning. "I meant that I don't have the time to waste."
"Oh," Snog said, "so I guess that means we're wasting our time, too, huh?"
"No. It means I'm not you. My genius, if I even have any, lies in other directions." John met his eyes until Snog casually looked away. Maybe it was time to take a risk.
"Who the hell do you think you are, kid?" Snog asked, gazing at the ceiling.
"I'm Sarah Connor's son."
ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE
Dr. Silberman's nervousness was affecting the group. Most of the participants were scowling, and fidgeting to an even greater extent than nicotine withdrawal usually produced. They cast glances around the room looking for the disturbance and those glances usually landed on Sarah, where they became accusing. Clearly the participants liked their doctor.
That came as a surprise to Sarah; she remembered him as condescending, not at all a lovable trait.
It was something of a mixed group. Few of these people were severely mentally
ill. Those that were functioned very well if they kept up their medications. One was a recovering drug addict. Sarah supposed that she must be listed as one of the most severely ill, given her record.
The session had been going on for a while, through obviously well-worn channels; the participants didn't even seem to be paying attention to what they themselves were saying. Eventually the discussion petered out and all eyes were on Sarah again.
"Yes, I'm sorry, Sarah," Silberman said at last. "I'd meant to introduce you immediately, but we began rather quickly. Group, this is Sarah Connor."
"Hey, I've heard of you!" a man said. "You blew up that company, right?"
Sarah's head flopped forward as though she were embarrassed and she looked up through her bangs, smiling shyly. "I'm afraid so." Straightening up, she asked,
"What can I say?"
She let them draw the whole story out of her. She squirmed and hesitated and made them work for it. Through it all Silberman just watched her.
Well, he always did have her number. Her best efforts to tell him what he wanted to hear had always failed. He knew she
still believed in Skynet and Judgment Day—which probably meant he still thought she was a homicidal loon. Busting out of the violent ward by breaking his arm, taking him as a hostage, and threatening to hypo his carotid full of drain cleaner had probably reinforced that conviction, and God knew he'd had enough time to rationalize away the glimpse he'd had of the T-1000 pulling its liquid body through a door of steel bars.
Silberman could barely take his eyes off her. Sarah Connor evoked feelings that made him want to call his own therapist. In fact, he should call her. He should also not have allowed himself to become involved in her therapy. Precisely because he knew she didn't need therapy. She needed to be believed. He now understood, all too well, how that felt.
But that little pissant Ray had made noises about how good it would be for him to face her, face his fears, and so on. So he'd decided to play the good little professional and include her in his group. Besides, he'd rather slit his wrists than let Ray see how rattled he was.
After her escape he'd told anyone who'd listen exactly what he'd seen. He completely forgot that he was the only one left conscious except for the Connors and their big friend. So he was the only one who'd seen that thing squeeze itself through the bars, then turn its hands into pry bars to open the elevator doors.
He'd seen it shrug off a shotgun blast to its chest.
Obviously they'd sent him on medical leave; also obviously they hoped never to welcome him back. To them his story represented a severe psychotic break brought on by trauma. You don't want a crazy doctor trying to treat the insane.
Though to be honest he hadn't wanted to go back. Being unwanted was unpleasant enough—but Pescadero was the scene of the most terrifying events of his life. It had been very easy to turn his back on the place.
He'd taken a long break from work, as long as his benefits and his savings would allow. And since he wasn't working with patients, he worked on himself, trying to put himself back together. He'd sought therapy and willingly allowed the doctors to convince him that he'd imagined the whole thing. They assured him
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