Rising Storm t2-2

by S. M. Stirling

  It had been child's play to hack into the halfway house's security system and begin monitoring the place via its own cameras. The team had planted a few of their own as well. But so far all they'd collected was endless, boring footage of what Consigli thought were hopeless cases and self-centered winners; losers with a capital L.

  "What's administration say?" he asked.

  Delfino pulled a face. "This guy is in the computer and all the stuff that needs to be in the computer to get him to Encinas and on the payroll is there. Even the paperwork, for want of a better word, that has to be done for a deceased employee had been done. The only thing is"—he shrugged elaborately

  —"nobody admits to doing it, Nobody even knew that this guy Ralph was dead.

  Weird, huh?"

  Leaning back in his chair, Consigli shook his head.

  "What isn't weird about this assignment? Hey, maybe Connor's bunch just wised up and decided to send somebody less conspicuous."

  Delfino laughed. "Yeah, that'd be smart. 'Cause wherever that big guy goes, hell follows."

  They sat quietly for a few minutes, watching the monitors, contemplating the footage they'd seen of the "big guy" in action. Truth to tell, it wouldn't have surprised either operative to find out that the head office wanted to find this guy so he could teach them to shoot as well as he did.

  "So we're doubled up for the time being," Consigli asked.

  "Yep."

  "Kewl," Joe said. "Someone can go out for burgers. I was getting sick of brown-bagging peanut-butter sandwiches."

  Delfino gave him a look. "You've been alone in this room too long if you think I'm gonna play errand boy, buddy. You want a sandwich you can go and get it yourself."

  "Kewl," Consigli said, grinning at his fellow operative's suspicious expression. It would be nice to get some fresh air once in a while.

  ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE

  Sarah met the new janitor as she came out of the large, battered kitchen where she had been given a "training opportunity" while she "adjusted to her new environment." In a few weeks, they'd gently promised her, if all went well she'd be "encouraged to find a job of her own." Sarah wondered how long it took to learn to speak in pat phrases like that. It made all the staff sound weirdly alike, as though their thoughts came prepackaged.

  The kitchen job was fine with her; since she still tired easily, she didn't mind taking it slow. Running the dishwasher and putting things away was about the extent of her duties, so she couldn't complain, except about boredom. Which was all a matter of perception, she reminded herself.

  Oh God, she thought, I'm beginning to think in happy-talk phrases, just like the staff. If she'd felt hotter physically… that alone would have made her run for cover.

  But for now this place was about her speed. She could read—light fiction and self-help books—or watch TV. She'd never seen so much Disney in her life. The house had racks of their videos and someone always seemed to be halfway through one. Nothing violent or jarring or unpleasant was allowed in here. As

  long as she didn't forget there was life on the outside of the halfway house, she was content for the moment.

  As she was leaving the kitchen she was vaguely thinking about her hair. It had grown out considerably and the light hair above the dark looked very odd. The light part was getting long, so cutting it was a good idea, she thought.

  Sarah almost bumped into him as he came around the corner. He effectively blocked the doorway, he was so broad; for a moment she felt trapped. It was obvious he was the janitor; he had the gray uniform, the bucket and mop, all the usual accoutrements. He wasn't, though. A nice old guy named Ralph was.

  They stood there for a moment, looking at one another.

  "Who are you?" Sarah asked, trying to put a pleasant tone into the question.

  The face was unfamiliar, though its shape rang a distant bell. His body seemed wrongly proportioned, with the limbs too short for the long torso. He was certainly much too short to be an agent. But he was truculent enough for a species of janitor she'd encountered one or two times in her life.

  The appearance of a strange new face—and he was strange—shook her from her boredom like the scream of an air-raid siren. But it was the way he looked at her, his stillness as he blocked her way, that sent a chill down her spine and raised the hair on her neck.

  * Subject Sarah Connor found,* the Terminator sent to the new base in Utah. *

  Terminate?*

  * Negative. Orders to watch subject remain in effect,* came the response.

  The Terminator stepped back, its eyes still on Sarah.

  She glanced at the narrow space that would allow her to pass and then back at the strange man. "Who did you say you were?" she asked, making her voice hard.

  "The janitor," he answered. Then he turned and went back down the hallway.

  She stood still after he was gone, breathing a little hard, like some-one who has faced a dangerous animal that had inexplicably decided not to attack. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  "O-kay," she muttered through her teeth. "That was interesting."

  Maybe he was a patient. Or maybe he was just a very weird little guy. And yet…

  there was something about him. Her first impression had been that his face was unfamiliar; in fact, she knew she'd never seen him. But there was something about the way he moved, or rather, didn't.

  H/s eyes, she decided. She'd seen eyes like that before. His eyes were dead, without emotion. There were men like that; God knew she'd met too many of them in her travels. But this man's eyes were especially cold.

  At first she resisted the idea, wondering if her old madness—she was far enough from it now that she could admit that she had once been insane—was rearing its head in Silberman's presence. But over the years she'd trained herself to be honest, to look events in the face, even when a thing was painful, even when it was impossible.

  His eyes were the eyes of a Terminator. As was his stillness, and something in his voice.

  Her heart sped up, her mouth went dry while her palms grew moist; it was the old fear, the nightmare that kept coming back. Sarah felt the last of her resistance crumble under a sudden, sure knowledge; the female Terminator had left an ally behind, and it had found her. Like they always found her.

  It hadn't attacked her on sight and she took hope from that. It had been less than a foot away from her, it could have torn her in half, but it hadn't.

  It backed off. So what did that mean? It's hoping to make a clean sweep, she thought. It's hoping John will come to get me out of here.

  Sarah bit her lip. She had to contact Jordan; he would get in touch with John and Dieter, warn them that she was under a more deadly surveillance than any the government was willing to throw at them.

  Then, if possible, it was time for her to get out of here, before the Terminator was too firmly entrenched.

  Well, Silberman said he believed me, that he wanted to help me. This is as good a time as any to take him up on it. But carefully. His sudden desire to be helpful could easily be a trap. She wouldn't put it past the good doctor to be trying to get some evidence that her obsession was still alive.

  If only he knew how gladly I'd give it up.

  Sarah headed for the doctor's office. Waiting wasn't going to make things any

  simpler.

  She tapped on the door and entered when he called out his permission.

  Silberman looked up and flinched as he always did when he first found himself alone with her. That she still scared him somewhat pleased her. She knew it shouldn't, but it did. He had, after all, given her a very rough time.

  "Oh, hello, Sarah," he said, smiling pleasantly.

  Long training had helped him to recover quickly, but he knew she'd seen his fear. It annoyed him that she affected him this way, but she'd hurt him so many times. She'd broken his arm, driven a pen through his knee, and threatened to kill him in a particularly horrible way. It was hard to forget things like that, no matter how professi
onal you were.

  Sarah stepped in, closing the door behind her, then came to stand before his desk, looking shy. "I was wondering if I might ask a favor?"

  Silberman leaned back. "Of course, Sarah. What did you want to ask me?"

  Inside, excitement twisted his stomach. This could be it.

  "I'm nervous as a cat today," she said, looking down at his desk. "It feels like the walls are closing in on me." She looked up suddenly. "I was wondering, if I could arrange it, if it would be all right for me to go out to dinner with Jordan Dyson."

  The doctor's face jerked into a grimace. "You know the rules, Sarah," he said.

  "Any visits or excursions have to be cleared at least one day before they're to take place. I can't just go around making exceptions, you know."

  So much for your generous offer of help, she thought. "You'd be welcome to come with us," she offered. "I think you'd find Jordan a very interesting man.

  He's a former FBI agent and Miles Dyson's younger brother. Miles Dyson was the project manager killed at… Cyberdyne."

  "Oh really," Silberman said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. He'd read about Dyson's interest in Sarah Connor, but he hadn't understood it. This would be an excellent opportunity to find out why he was being so helpful to the woman who had killed his brother.

  "Dr. Ray had several sessions with him," Sarah said.

  Silberman blinked at that. He had to admit that he felt a certain rivalry with the younger doctor. If Ray thought it worthwhile to speak to this Jordan Dyson, perhaps he should see why. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "perhaps we could categorize this as a sort of informal therapy session."

  Sarah smiled. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll go and call him, see what arrangements we can make." Sarah turned at the door to look at him. "I appreciate this," she said.

  IBC OFFICES

  "Hey, Paul," Consigli said, bustling into the anonymous rented office wired like the "after" picture in a cocaine commercial. "Looks like we're taking this show on the road!"

  Delfino looked up from the hand of solitaire he was playing, thankful for a chance to stop struggling with the bus tickets luck was dealing him.

  "Connor just asked the doc if she could go out to dinner with Dyson."

  "Exxxcellent!" Paul Delfino said. "I could use a change of scenery. I'll go get the van."

  CAFE VERICE, LOS ANGELES

  Jordan saw them enter from the bar and went to meet them. Sarah reached out her hand, smiling. He took it and pulled her to him, enveloping her in a one-armed hug. Then he turned to the doctor, keeping his arm around Sarah's shoulders.

  "This is Dr. Silberman," Sarah said.

  Jordan reached out his left hand and the doctor took it awkwardly. Before they could speak the maitre d'hotel approached them, menus in hand, and gestured toward the dining room.

  "Oops." Jordan put his hand on his midsection. "That's my beeper. Would you excuse me for a moment?" he asked.

  In the corridor next to the rest rooms was a pay phone. As he made his way toward it Jordan opened the note Sarah had slipped him.

  Possible Terminator watching me, she'd written. Warn John and Dieter to stay away.

  Jordan let out his breath in a little "huh!" of surprise, as though someone had poked him in the stomach. His mind immediately crowded with questions.

  Possible? What did that mean? He'd seen them, and in his opinion there was no mistaking one. And Sarah was the world's longest-lived expert on the subject, so if even she wasn't sure, what did that mean? Possible? He shook his head. Okay, he thought.

  Digging in his pocket he pulled out some change and dropped coins into the phone. He dialed Consuela, a college student he knew who was delighted to pass along his cryptic messages for the fifty-plus-expenses he slipped her.

  "Yo!" It sounded like Jennifer Lopez was singing backup to Consuela's studies tonight.

  "Hi," Jordan said, "it's me. I've got a message for you. This time I'll need you to make the call."

  "Sure," she said. "Shoot."

  He rattled off the number first. "Ask for Dieter or John. If neither of them is there I still want you to leave the message, but you've got to stress that this is very, very important, and that they have to be given the message as soon as possible, okay?"

  "Ok."

  "Sure," she said; you could almost hear the shrug in her voice. "For fifty bucks I'll make them think it's the only way to save the world."

  Close enough, he thought. "Good, excellent," he said aloud. "Here it is. 'Vital—

  avoid halfway measures at all costs. Let the package come to you.' "

  She repeated it back to him. "Sounds like a fortune cookie," she said.

  "Everybody's a critic. How's your Spanish?" he asked.

  "Better'n yours, chico."

  "Good," he said, smiling. "Because you'll probably be speaking to people with no English."

  "No proh. That it?"

  "Yup. I'll slip the money in your mailbox," he said. "Good night."

  "Night."

  Jordan went to their table and sat down with a smile. "Well, that's taken care of, we shouldn't be interrupted again," he said.

  Sarah's smile was radiant as she said, "The specials are veal piccatta and fettucciniprimavera."

  "Sounds good," Jordan said. He smiled at Silberman. "What are you having, Doctor?"

  ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE

  The Watcher/Terminator had searched the house and had not found the subject Sarah Connor. It had even asked one of the humans if he had seen her. The man responded by describing a sexual fantasy that even the Terminator knew wasn't healthy.

  It hadn't yet gone to Dr. Silberman's office. Calculations had indicated that it would be best to avoid the doctor since the Watcher/ Terminator's estimation of Silberman's reaction to their first meeting signified a 48 percent chance (plus or minus 5 percent) that the doctor had found it suspicious. But now it seemed best to override that decision; this was fast becoming an emergency situation.

  The glass panel in the doctor's door was dark, indicating that he wasn't there. The Terminator tried the door and found it locked.

  "He's gone," a young woman said.

  The Terminator recognized one of the other psychologists who worked here. "I was going to clean his office," it said.

  "Don't you have a key?" the woman asked.

  "No," it said.

  She shrugged. "Then it'll have to wait till tomorrow. G'night," she said cheerfully, and walked off.

  It watched her go as it sorted through the information it had. The doctor was gone, Connor was gone. By the rules of this place she couldn't go off on her own; therefore it seemed likely that they were together.

  Given Connor's history with Silbennan, there was a good chance that she'd kidnapped him. The question was, why? Escape?

  The Watcher's appearance was very different from that of other Terminators, and

  with the death of the only I-950 that Connor knew about, she had no reason to suspect that she was in immediate danger. Its inspection of her file in Silberman's office showed that she was being treated very gently here, eliminating abuse as a reason for escaping.

  The Watcher's processor offered the possibility that John Connor and their ally von Rossbach had come to collect her, giving that scenario a fifty percent chance of being correct.

  It needed more information. The Watcher had tapped the pay phone that the patients used; now it accessed those recordings. And there it was. She was meeting Jordan Dyson at a cafe on Sunset Boulevard. It headed for the small, elderly sedan that had been assigned to it.

  OUTSIDE CAFE VERICE, LOS ANGELES

  Joe Consigli and Paul Delfino sat in the van watching Cafe Verice on a monitor, trying to decide which of them should haunt the bar by way of keeping a closer eye on their quarry.

  "I should, I should," Joe insisted, stabbing a finger at his chest. "I spent a month in the dead zone watching lobotomy candidates while you were out walking around in the real world. So I get to go inside."

 
"Yeah, but you've been going in and out of that building right next door to her. If she's going to recognize one of us, it's going to be you."

  Consigli held up his hands. "She never saw me, man."

  "Joe, you walk into that bar, I betcha ten bucks she buys you a drink."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Yeah!"

  Consigli was thoughtful for a moment. "Okay, so neither one of us should go in.

  But one of us should watch the back."

  "No, no," Paul said, shaking a finger. "I am not spending several hours soaking up the ambience of a garbage-and piss-and puke-soaked alley. No, no, not me, pal. Unh unh."

  Joe looked at him. "Y'know, I'd forgotten what a pain it was working with you."

  "I'll tell you what you forgot, you forgot our rule," Paul said. At Consigli's puzzled look he snapped, "Whoever thinks it up has to do it!"

  "Okay, fine!" Joe said. Anything to get away from this bullshit. He pushed himself to his feet when something on the monitor caught his eye. "Hey," he said, pointing. "That's the new janitor. Isn't it?"

  Delfino looked. "Yeah, it is." He glanced at Consigli. "Not exactly dressed for fine dining, is he?"

  The Watcher, still clad in gray coveralls, came down the street, its gaze fixed on the Cafe Verice. It walked up to the van and stationed itself so that it could look through the van's windows into the restaurant.

  "Sometimes they just beg to be arrested, don't they?" Delfino asked.

  Consigli flashed him a look. "You think he had something to do with the other janitor's death?"

  "Did you see the size of his hands?" Paul asked by way of response. "And going by his arms and shoulders, he could bench-press a bull, never mind break the neck of some sixty-something-old guy. Now he's eyeballing the place where our subject is having dinner. My guess, he's here to either help her out or to take her out."

  "Either way we'd better do something," Joe said. "But carefully, we don't want Connor to see. Hey!"

  The Watcher had quickly become aware that the van it was hiding behind was tenanted and began to move away. Both Consigli and Delfino piled out of the van, guns drawn, to move in pursuit.