"Stop!" Delfino shouted.
The Watcher froze, weighing its options, and Consigli moved toward it. Looking at a restaurant was not illegal; neither had anything in its manner been threatening. Yet the extreme caution these humans were using, as well as the drawn guns, indicated that they suspected him of being dangerous.
"Hands on the van, spread your legs!" Consigli snapped.
"Why?" the Watcher asked, not moving. It concluded that they suspected him of
—
"You're under arrest for the murder of Ralph Kurtz," Delfino sa.id, reaching behind for his handcuffs.
"Just do what you're told," Consigli said, and pointed at the van.
With one hand the Watcher slapped Consigli's gun hand hard enough to crack several of the small bones; with the other it shoved him into his partner, knocking both men to the street. Then it turned and fled.
Sarah's eye was caught by the motion of the back doors of a van flying open across the street. Two men in suits piled out and another, framed in the van's side windows, turned to look at them. Instantly she recognized the new janitor from the halfway house, and the moment froze. Even before the brief fight began, she was in motion.
"I have to go," she said.
Jordan and Silberman looked up from their meals and their uneasy conversation to stare at her.
"Close your mouth, Doctor, and give me the keys to your car." Sarah held out her hand.
"What's wrong?" Jordan asked; his eyes swept the room. Then he saw the action outside. "Government agents?" He rose and pulled out his wallet, dropping several bills on the table.
Sarah's eyes were on the street; she watched the brief scuffle, her lips a thin line of anxiety. She gave her head a brief shake. "No," she said. "That's the new
janitor from the halfway house."
Jordan looked up in time to see the man sprint away. "Shit!" he said softly.
Silberman stood, finally. "What do we do?"
"I take your keys and get out of here," she said briskly.
"No. I'll go with you. Mexico?" he asked.
Sarah frowned and nodded.
"It's just a few hours, no one's expecting me back at Encinas tonight, and since this was such short notice probably nobody will notice you're gone. That should give you a few more hours before you're missed. And if they see you drive off with me they'll assume I'm taking you back to Encinas." He could see the "no"
forming on her lips. "Please, Sarah. I want to help."
Jordan took the rest of the cash from his wallet and the small pile he'd left on the table and handed it to her. "I'll get this with my card," he said. "Right now that's the most help I can give you. But the doctor is right, Sarah. If you think you can trust him."
Sarah looked into Silberman's face for a long moment, biting her lips, remembering. Then she took a deep breath. He knew. He'd seen undeniable proof and had paid the price for it, just as she had.
"Okay," she said, her voice tight. "But we need to go now!"
Silberman stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth and followed her, digging in his
pockets for his car keys. Sarah went toward the service door to the kitchen and found the back door. The alley was, blessedly, open at one end. Sarah headed for the opening at a run, a startled-looking but game Silberman racing at her heels, already beginning to wheeze.
"Let me go first," he suggested.
Sarah looked over her shoulder at him and nodded. Silberman trotted to the mouth of the alley and stopped, looking both ways. A man came away from the wall he'd been leaning against with his hand out.
"Hey, buddy, can you spare some change?" he whined.
Silberman recoiled from the smell of stale booze and body odor. He held up his hands and took a step backward. "No, sorry," he said, feeling guilty.
"Hey!" the man said, suddenly happy. "I know you! Dr. Silberman!"
He reached out to touch the doctor's arm. "It's me, Douglas! We used to work together."
Silberman blinked. "Douglas, of course." The man had been an orderly at Pescadero. Sarah had whacked the stuffing out of him with a mop handle. He'd never known what became of him.
"My disability ran out," Douglas whined. He pointed to his neck. "Pain, alia time, Doc. Can ya spare some change?"
Sarah came up behind Silberman. "We've got to go," she said tersely.
"HEY!" Douglas shouted, pointing at her. "She hit me!"
"Let's go!" Sarah said, giving the doctor a nudge.
"She hit me!" Douglas insisted. He balled up his fists. "Bitch! Hit me, willya?"
"Jeez!" Sarah muttered, rolling her eyes.
She kicked Douglas in the stomach, grabbed his head, and rammed it onto her upthrust knee, then shoved him in the direction of the alley, where he lay still.
Then she grabbed the horrified Silberman by the arm.
"Let's go!" she muttered through her teeth.
TIJUANA, MEXICO
"Stop here," Sarah said.
Silberman pulled over to the curb, not seeing anything different about this particular street. There were a few shops, still open late, and a few restaurants, which looked like they might stay open all night, and a lot of people around.
Everything looked a little dustier and more chipped and scuffed than its equivalent over the border, and there weren't many Anglo faces around—not too different from L.A., in that respect.
They'd gotten over the border with no problem; as it happened, Silberman had Sarah's identification on him, her driver's license and a birth certificate, enough to get them waved through. Silberman had been right; he was a help.
But now it's time to send him on his way, she thought.
"Thank you. Doctor," she said, opening the car door.
"Wait! You want me to just leave you here?" He looked at her in horror. "I can't do that!"
Sarah smiled at that. To the good doctor a woman alone in Tijuana at night was asking for trouble. She couldn't help but be charmed by his chivalrous attitude, even if it was too late and grossly misplaced. She might be an obvious gringa, but nobody here—nobody dangerous, at least—was going to mistake her for a tourist. And once she got to the nearest cache…
"I'll be all right, Doctor, thank you. Dm. Could I have my ID, please."
"Of course." Silberman pulled out his wallet and gave the documents to her.
"Here," he said, handing her his cash as well.
"Thanks," she said, not even considering refusal.
"Sarah," Silberman said, his face absolutely sincere. "Is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all?"
She considered him, chewing on her full lower lip. Well, there was no harm in asking. "Yes. Buy some land in the mountains, with a house, maybe a barn. Buy medical supplies, the kind that will keep, and as much imperishable food as you can. Then hope we never need them. If you need to send us a message leave a note, nothing obvious, on a Luddite Web site. If necessary we'll get back to you.
Thank you, Dr. Silberman. Be careful."
He smiled and gave a soft laugh; it changed his whole face.
"You, too," he said. "Good luck."
"Thanks," she said. Then she turned and disappeared into the crowd.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MONTANA
The grave heaved, the loose soil humping and rolling. Finally the pale shape of a human hand, rotting skin ripped away from fingertips and knucklebones, emerged from the dark, damp earth. Another hand followed, flattened itself on the firm ground at the edge of the grave, and pulled. Immediately the soil seemed to boil faster as a head rose, followed by shoulders encased in a dark suit. With a last heave the Terminator pulled itself free of the confinement of its grave, rising from its knees to shake off the loose dirt like a dog spraying water.
It evaluated its condition. Mechanical functions were fully operative; its CPU
and energy cell were also optimal. Unfortunately its downtime in a low-oxygen environment had caused the slow death of its flesh sheath. Many portions of its skin were sloughin
g off and it smelled quite bad.
This eventuality had been foreseen, however, and preparations had been made.
At the cabin where it had worked, a car with blacked-out windows had been left.
The vehicle held medical supplies so that it could remove the dead flesh from its skeleton and a supply of the protein foodstuff that would rescue at least some of its skin, as well as clothes and money for the journey to the new base in Utah.
Its only problem now was getting to the cabin without being seen. It plucked at the decaying tissue that used to resemble human eyes, revealing the glowing red lights that were its visual receptors. Leaning forward, it poked the discarded flesh into the loose dirt, then carefully patted the earth on its grave into a less disrupted shape.
When it was satisfied it began to jog toward the cabin. *Checking in,* it reported to the new base in Utah. *All essential systems functional.*
*Affirmative,* the Terminator on watch confirmed. It provided an info dump of events up to the present moment for its off-line comrade, then closed contact.
From this point on it would be kept up-to-date daily.
The Terminator ran through the cemetery, remarkably quiet for such a large and heavy machine. A pair of teenagers smoking dope and making out saw it go past; the boy gasped, the girl shrieked. The Terminator glanced at them, narrowing its eyes, the translucence of its eyelids diffusing the red light from its receptors into a pair of glowing crimson orbs.
The shrieking rose to the level of a steam whistle, the boy joining in with an even more piercing scream. The two humans fled in the opposite direction, stumbling and howling.
The Terminator decided that it didn't need to do anything about what they'd seen.
Given its present location, the scent of marijuana, and human superstition, no one rational would believe them. At most, a rumor of zombies would run through the neighborhood.
NEW YORK
Clea lay on her hotel bed, quite tired but unable to sleep. She had differentiated herself from her progenitor as much as possible with hair coloring and makeup; she'd even acquired a pair of eyeglasses, made with plain glass, to break up the shape of her face. So Roger Colvin shouldn't immediately think of his former security chief when he met her. Besides, the dress she'd chosen for the gala was designed to focus male eyes below her neck. Clea hoped it wouldn't put Mrs.
Colvin off.
Skynet help her, she hadn't thought of that until now! Should she get another dress?
What would Serena do? Enjoy herself thoroughly, in all likelihood.
Clea felt herself veering toward frustration and despair, an emotional response that should be outside of her experience. Her computer was working overtime to keep her fight/flight indexes under control. This lack of social skills was yet another indicator that she was inferior. It would be good when Alissa was able to take over for her.
*Clea?* Alissa's voice came from Clea's communications matrix.
Clea smiled; it was as though her thought had brought her sister to her. *Yes?*
*I regret to report that the Watcher/Terminator has lost track of Sarah Connor.*
Alissa's voice was emotionless.
Fury and alarm raced through Clea's system, almost instantly suppressed by her computer regulators. Rage was followed by the thought, Are even my Terminator CPUs faulty?
*The fault is not yours,* Alissa went on, seeming, eerily, to respond to her thought. *The CPU was one of those brought through by Serena, and, as you saw, the Watcher's features and body had been greatly altered. It is unlikely that Connor recognized it as a Terminator.* The younger I-950 paused. *The fault was probably mine,* she confessed. *I instructed the Watcher to terminate the janitor of the halfway house in order to infiltrate the premises by taking the human's place. It was observing Connor in a restaurant when two men, apparently police officers, attempted to arrest it for the killing. The Watcher escaped and there's an eighty percent probability that the scuffle was observed by Connor and that it spooked her into flight.*
Clea lay still and permitted herself a sigh as she felt herself seeming to sink deeper into the bed. She thought, Despair seems a completely appropriate response to this circumstance. And yet, even if the response was appropriate, it was still not useful. Concentrate! she ordered her chaotic mind.
*I'm sure we have only lost track of her temporarily,* Clea said. *She will probably return to Paraguay. What about John Connor and von Rossbach? You were keeping track of them, weren't you?*
*Yes!* Alissa's response was triumphant. *I have no word for you on John Connor, but von Rossbach has been seen in several places in California over the last two weeks. He is being pursued by his former colleagues.*
*Excellent work,* Clea congratulated her. *Why are they hunting him?*
*They know about his association with Sarah Connor and want to question him.
There has been no information about whether they intend to charge him or not
with aiding and abetting. But he seems determined to stay out of their hands.
They've come close several times to capturing him, but he's slipped through their fingers.*
I know how they feel, Clea thought. *No mention of John Connor?* she asked.
*None,* Alissa instantly confirmed.
*Call the number of von Rossbach's estate in Paraguay, ask for Connor. If they tell you he isn't there, then it's likely he is in the United States. There's been no report of him with von Rossbach?*
*None,* Alissa answered. * And von Rossbach is traveling by motorcycle. He would have been observed.*
*If they're not together, they're certain to join up at some point. Keep alert for any report of von Rossbach's being sighted. I want you to assemble a team of Terminators and have them ready to go at a moment's notice. It is essential that you immediately acquire a helicopter—a Blackhawk utility. It's the fastest, most convenient method of transport. Empty the Cayman account if necessary, but get it by tomorrow. The next day at the very latest. Pay them a bonus if you have to.
* The Cayman account had grown very fat indeed; they should be able to acquire what they needed with relative ease. *Is there anything else?* Clea asked.
*No. I will keep you informed.*
*Excellent. Thank you. Good night.*
*Good night, older sister.*
Clea smiled at that. Their affection should rightly gu to Skynut, but as it didn't exist yet, they had only each other. She had been right to praise her sister for what she'd done right and to curb her anger over what had gone wrong. Clea might not be the I-950 that Serena Burns had been, but she was raising her little sister right.
PHOENIX INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,
ARIZONA
John exited the plane feeling like he'd only gotten halfway back to reality. The Brocks of Minnesota, a family of survivalists with whom he'd spent the last few days, were very nice people for the most part, but on a few subjects it was like they'd come from another dimension. Just say the word government to them and they were off and running. Running in a direction he really did not want to go.
But—and it was an important but—they knew their stuff. Their survival skills were second to none. They were like a family of Green Berets or navy SEALs.
Even Suzette, the youngest, a blue-eyed little girl of seven, could handle light firearms with efficiency and survive in the woods on small game she brought down with a throwing stick, plus gathered material. He'd drawn the line at her maggot stew, but he supposed if he had to…
He'd raced her one day at field stripping a FN Minimi and she'd come within an ace of beating him. They'd really gotten on well; John could relate to Susie on a level that he couldn't with most people. Of course, how many people have been raised by ordnance-collecting parents convinced the world is going to end? The fact that my mother was right and her parents really are crazy is irrelevant.
He stepped out of the line of disembarking passengers and looked around the usual glass-crowds-and-monitors ambience seasoned with the smell of burnt jet
fuel. There was Dieter, leaning against a pillar. He was dressed in full motorcycle leathers and wearing wraparound sunglasses, his arms crossed over his massive chest. Jeez Louise, Dieter, could you be a little more obvious?
As he walked over to the big Austrian he struggled to slip his arm through the hanging strap of his backpack. By the time he'd hoisted it onto his shoulders and settled the weight, he was standing in front of him.
"A wet bird only flies at night," he intoned.
"You bet your bippy," von Rossbach answered grimly. Then he smiled. You got some old television programs in Paraguay. "Good to see you, John."
"And you," Connor said. He looked his friend over. "You're looking dangerous."
"I don't feel dangerous," Dieter said. "I feel tired, and dirty."
John glanced at him. He did look grubby; three days of stubble, at least, decorated his strong jaw.
"I would have changed to meet you, but I was held up," von Rossbach went on.
John raised a questioning eyebrow, but said nothing.
"We'll talk in the car," Dieter said.
MONTANA
The cabin had been trashed, windows broken, furniture ripped apart, some of it partially burned. Needless to say, the car, with the keys left in it, had been taken.
The vandals hadn't found the hidden basement lab, however, where a few emergency supplies, including a Beretta 9mm and some money, had been stashed. The Terminator reported the loss.
*Steal a car,* Alissa instructed. *Acquire some meat paste; baby food is ideal; liver, if there is such a thing, would be best at preserving your remaining flesh.*
*Understood,* it sent.
If the Terminator fed, the surviving patches of skin would eventually recover and spread through the matrix that underlay its protein sheath. That would save considerable downtime in a vat. The command made excellent sense. It nodded to itself, a mannerism cultivated during its contacts with humans.
Then it went hunting.
NEW YORK
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