about to do. On the one hand, she admired him; on the other, she was convinced they'd all gone barking mad.
John turned to Wendy and gave her a thumbs-up, smiling encouragingly as he did so, even though she couldn't see his grin. He couldn't see her expression either since they both wore balaclavas and huge dark goggles, not to mention skin-protecting ointment that smelled bad and made them look like ghouls three days dead. But he could tell by the position of her head that she was giving him a blank and puzzled look.
She's so slender, an easy candidate for hypothermia. She seemed to be growing weaker, too, despite all the chocolate and PowerBars and buttered bread they could force on her. He was looking forward to their day of rest when she could languish in her sleeping bag inside the tent for as long as she wished. Not that it would be a visit to the tropics, by any means, but it was a damn sight better than what she was experiencing now. Not that she'd uttered one word of complaint.
Moved by her pluck, he gripped her shoulder and she bent her head to touch her swaddled cheek to his gloved hand. Dieter recalled his attention by slapping his shoulder. The big Austrian signaled that there was no one around and the little gizmo in his hand detected no listening devices. So why. John wondered, aren't we talking?
Then he decided it wasn't worth asking. It seemed the cold was getting to him, too.
The two men rose and trundled over the gentle rise toward the windmills. The few supplies necessary for the sabotage were in insulated packs that they had stuffed inside their parkas to keep them from freezing. Time to take out the
target.
The windmills stood on a slight rise, where the basalt rock beneath crested up beneath the ice. The inhuman whine of their giant blades came whickering down through the frigid air, like a mechanical snarl beneath its chill.
"Why do operatives say things like like 'terminate' and 'take out' instead of 'kill'
and 'blow up'?" John asked.
"The business is hard enough as it is," Dieter answered.
John unscrewed the panel that led to his first windmill's inner workings.
Awkwardly, he attempted to unscrew the cap on the bottle he'd carried inside his jacket and found it impossible. Stripping off the heavy outer gloves, he allowed them to dangle from cords attached to his sleeves, leaving only his polypropylene glove liners to protect him from the cold—which, since that wasn't what they were designed for. they didn't. Almost immediately his fingers began to go numb. But at least he could handle the small bottle. Removing the
"eyedropper" top, he sprinkled a liquid onto the plastic seal at the top of the unit's hydraulic pump. The liquid was supposed to break up polymer chains, causing the seals to disintegrate.
Putting the liquid back into an inside pocket, he brought out a calculator-sized instrument that he would use to reprogram the windmills' computerized governor. He pulled out the motherboard and attached clips, then set to work. By the time he reinstalled it in its slot, the windmill was already pumping faster, spreading the damaging liquid and on its way to dashing itself to pieces.
Putting his gloves back on, John screwed the protective panel back on and
moved to the next one. There were twelve in all, modular units about fifteen feet high and built sturdy to survive the frequent high winds and the bitter cold. But no attempt had been made to protect them from sabotage. Why would there be?
Who would be out here looking to commit acts of vandalism in Antarctica?
Li’l ol me, John thought. Just li'l ol' me. Well, and Dieter. Oops, looks like the big guy spilled some. Von Rossbach's glove liners were in shreds where the liquid had touched them. John watched him peel them off, wincing at the heat caused by their destruction.
"It felt good at first," Dieter said when he noticed John watching him, "but now it's burning. He shoved the ruined gloves into his breast pocket, then worked his reddened hands. "Could just be the cold," he muttered, slipping his outer gloves back on.
John looked around. Dieter was finished and he was halfway through with his last one. Checking the watch attached to the outside of his sleeve, he raised his brows. Good job! he thought. They'd obviously allowed more time for this than necessary.
In less than five minutes he was tramping up the low rise to rejoin Wendy.
Behind him the windmills had begun to run crazy, spinning like tops in the wind.
Soon the governors would burn out and without the seals so would the hydraulic pump, while the blades broke up under the stress.
Which meant that the hidden base would be completely out of power in less than a day, turning the place into a deep freeze. But just in case the base had some other means of generating electricity, their next stop would be a visit to their
water-pumping station. Behind him the level whine was grating higher, turning into a protesting squeal as the ultra-tough composites began to stress beyond their design parameters.
CRACK! Dieter and John both spun and began to drop, an automatic response to what their trained reflexes interpreted as an explosion. They completed the movement; one of the windmills had disintegrated, and lethal splinters might well reach across the three hundred yards to the two men.
"Didn't think it would happen that fast," John said.
Dieter looked up, brushing himself free of snow. "The wind is picking up," he said. "Must be nearly fifty by now."
Wendy was already seated on the snowmobile, and when she saw them come over the rise she started it up. The movement of her head looked a little wobbly to him, and her hand as it reached for the starter had seemed clumsy and slow.
Suddenly he noticed something he'd missed while working below. His haste had kept him relatively warm, but the temperature had dropped. And Dieter was right. It is getting to be storm level. John looked up at the sky and realized that the hurrying clouds were also thicker and more threatening.
He glanced at Dieter.
"We'd better hurry if we're going to make it before this storm breaks." The Austrian looked from John to Wendy. "I'll ride in front of Wendy to shield her from the wind," he offered. "Also, I'll probably throw off more heat than you would."
John nodded and headed for the sledge. As they rode away he saw one of the blades on the second windmill fly off and strike the one behind it, breaking two of its blades and starting a chain reaction of destruction that brought a smile to his weary face. A job well done, he thought with satisfaction.
After her blowup in the Skynet lab Clea had gone to her own lab to work on her abandoned projects. For one thing, it gave her more freedom to watch the three mystery travelers. For another, it gave her some relief from Viemeister's irritating possessiveness.
He'd been avoiding her conspicuously in the cafeteria, which had given her an opportunity to meet some of the other scientists. To Kurt's great annoyance, which of course she enjoyed. His self-imposed distance meant he was less likely to burst in on her while she was spying on the travelers. A small bonus that did little to make up for the disappointment the human had caused her.
One of the seals, the smallest, had dropped dead of exhaustion after nearly thirty-six hours of humping its way across the ice—the animals weren't designed for overland travel. It had made a useful snack for the others, though. Fortunately the humans allowed themselves rest and meal breaks, and so the other three seals were able to keep up, though they were hardly thriving.
The I-950 had begun to suspect where the travelers were heading several hours ago and so she had let two of the animals rest while sending the third, and she hoped strongest, one on to watch the intruders.
The humans stopped the skimobile and hiked toward the top of a low rise. Just before they reached the top the three of them dropped to their bellies and
crawled the rest of the way. Well, Clea thought, that's significant. The only wildlife out there was behind them—watching their every move—so they certainly weren't naturalists being careful not to startle the animals, and geologists rarely felt compelled to sneak up on their object
s of study.
Just above the rise where the three humans lay, the seal's weak eyes made out a number of vague somethings making sweeping, repetitive motions.
The wind farm, the I-950 thought. I knew it! Unless she missed her guess, the base was about to become much, much colder and darker. I'm glad I've got Kurt's latest backup. He hadn't done much work since she left but had sat brooding for the most part. Poor Kurt, she sneered, he has so little control of his emotions.
Clea got up and shut down her lab, then headed for her quarters. She might as well get out her cold-weather gear while the lights were still on.
The lights flickered and Tricker glared up at the fluorescents as it in threat.
Unimpressed, they went out. "Shit," the agent muttered.
He got up, feeling his way around his desk, and opened the door to the corridor.
Outside emergency lights provided dim illumination and other doors began to open. Then the lights flickered again and went on; less bright, but at least they were steady.
Tricker went back to his office and his phone rang even as he reached for it. It was the base commander. "We're on emergency power," she said crisply.
"According to the boys in the plant, the power from the wind farm fluctuated and then suddenly cut off."
Well, what do you want me to do about it? Tricker thought. Since when am I an electrician? Though, to be fair, having all the windmills stop producing electricity at the same time was suspicious, and suspicious events were his bailiwick.
"Depending on what's gone wrong, we might need to evacuate," she continued.
"If we cut back on our power consumption we have up to seventy-two hours of fuel to run the emergency generator, or thirty-six at our present rate."
He heard her breath hiss into the phone. "If we're going to be gone I need you to make this place secure. Do you understand?"
Duh! "Yes, ma'am," he said briskly.
"You'll coordinate the evacuation with your counterpart at McMurdo. And you'll be responsible for the scientists' backup material. I don't want any sensitive material left around."
It's in the manual, lady. Something I've had plenty of time to memorize incidently. "Yes, ma'am," he said aloud. "What about the weather?"
"They're predicting a severe storm within twenty-four hours," the commander said. "So it's important that we get our charges to safety if necessary."
"They're in good hands," Tricker said.
Silence greeted his assurance. "They had better be," she said coldly, then hung up.
Bitch, he thought, and hung up the phone. He'd learned long ago not to indulge in open comments about a superior. Besides, he well knew that the entire base was wired for sound—he and the commander had duplicate recordings. But as yet they couldn't monitor his thoughts. Thank God.
He turned off his computer and headed off to ride herd on the sometimes eccentric and often degenerate geniuses under his care.
Four and a half hours later his pager vibrated; a glance at the readout informed him that once again the commander wished to speak to him. I never thought I'd be happy to hear from her. But after spending the morning telling these people that they had to back up their work and erase their hard drives, he was ready tor a break.
He returned to his office, picked up the phone, and punched in her number.
"Tricker," he said when the phone was picked up.
"We have another problem," the commander told him.
Tricker waited, feeling stubborn. If there was something to tell him she would just spill it if he waited long enough. Meanwhile he was in no particular hurry.
"The water pump has broken down." she explained, a slight edge in her voice.
Tricker rubbed his face with his free hand. Sabotage? he wondered. "Wait a minute. Wouldn't it shut down anyway with the power off?"
"The water pump has an independent system. We're sending someone out to investigate."
"What about the windmills?" Tricker asked. "Anybody gotten back to us on those?"
"They're destroyed," she said. Her voice sounded thoughtful.
"My first thought is sabotage," he said honestly.
"As it should be." The commander sounded amused. "However, initial investigation indicates that the seals were degraded. The investigator said they'd basically turned to powder. The windmills had nothing to control them, so when the wind rose they just broke up."
"Do we have replacement parts?"
"Not enough on hand to meet our power needs," she said. "We didn't anticipate all the seals going at once, and then the rotors destroying themselves. So obviously the evacuation is on. Even if we had running water, which we don't, we couldn't stay here. Round 'em up, Mr. Tricker, move 'em out."
"Just Tricker," he said impatiently. Then he realized she'd hung up.
Excited, Clea decided to risk contact with home base; the humans would be busy with the power crises and so might miss the transmission. It was important that this information be passed on. To her surprise Alissa was awake.
*Are you well?* Clea asked.
*As well as can be expected. I'm not yet fully mature. I estimate that I'm the human equivalent of fifteen years old. But I look adult with the right makeup and
accessories.*
*Excellent,* Clea said. *I have news.* Silence greeted the announcement.
Naturally, Clea thought, feeling embarrassed. She wouldn't have made contact for no reason. I've been around humans far too long if I actually expected a different reaction. *I have reason to believe that von Rossbach and the Connors are here and busily performing acts of sabotage.*
*What reasons?* Alissa demanded.
Clea responded by showing her the crucial moment in a recording of her augmented-seals reconnaissance. A tall, slender figure, male by his movements, exited a shed, his face concealed by goggles and a balaclava. Behind him a taller male came: this one's face was exposed, briefly, to the weather.
Clea stilled the picture and allowed her computer to enhance it. Shadows and shapes refined and rearranged themselves until they resolved into the image of a T-101. Which, since she and her sister could account for every Terminator on earth, meant that this was none other than Dieter von Rossbach.
The recording began again and in a few movements von Rossbach's face was obscured by fabric and goggles. The two males walked over to a skimobile to be joined by a smaller figure that was undoubtedly female.
*That was definitely von Rossbach,* Alissa agreed. *Which means the younger male probably is John Connor. But the female is not Sarah Connor.*
Startled, Clea asked, *Then who is she?* There was a silence from her sister and Clea realized she should have asked a different question. *How can you tell?*
*This woman's body is looser, indicating that she's much younger than Sarah Connor. Her shoulders are narrower as well.*
Alissa froze a picture of the woman with her back turned toward the seal and superimposed an outline of Sarah Connor's body over her frame. There was a difference of four centimeters at the shoulders.
Clea was dumbstruck. She knew without checking that there were only three humans in this party. If the female wasn't Sarah Connor then where was she?
*She would never let her son come here on a mission so dangerous—* Clea began.
*Unless she trusted von Rossbach implicitly,* Alissa finished. *Meaning she may well be at his home. Going by Serena's recordings, Connor was badly wounded, she may still be recovering. She is, after all, only human.*
*That makes my task a bit less daunting,* Clea said.
*Good,* her sister replied. *You deal with these invaders, I will deal with Sarah Connor.*
***
At the water-pumping station they'd treated the plant's independently functioning windmill the same as the others, then carefully burned out the conductors for the heating system, causing the water to begin freezing in the pipes. Soon those pipes would burst, far underground, where they couldn't be easily accessed. By tomorrow morning the base should be uninhabitabl
e.
For now they rested in the relative comfort of their tent a little less than a mile from the base, stuffed into their sleeping bags, their combined body heat bringing the ambient temperature up to almost fifty degrees. John and Dieter bracketed Wendy, who'd eaten as quickly as she could and then crawled into her sack and dropped off to sleep instantly. Now she began to emit a cute little snore and John smiled.
"She'll be all right, John," Dieter's voice rumbled from beside her. "This is hard on her, but she doesn't want to fail you and that will make her strong."
"I know," John whispered back. "But thanks." After a moment he asked, "How are your hands?"
"Slightly burned," Dieter answered. "I don't know if it's from the cold or the chemicals, but it's nothing."
John nodded once. "Good."
Dieter woke, instantly on guard. He lay still, listening, alert for what he could learn in the darkness. The wind had come up and the tent frame creaked as it moved, sounding vaguely like stealthy footsteps. Beside him Wendy and John breathed in the slow, steady cadence of those deeply asleep. None of these sounds was out of the ordinary; it had to have been something unusual that had wakened him.
He was just about to surrender to sleep again when a scent tickled his nostrils.
Von Rossbach inhaled deeply and recognized what he'd been smelling. Blood.
He opened his eyes and looked at Wendy, though he couldn't see her. Perhaps
the girl had begun her menses; it would explain why she'd been so weak today.
Then he heard a soft sound outside the tent and what sounded like an animal's whine. Moving quietly, Dieter began to dress. It was easy to find his gear; most of his clothes were in the sleeping bag with him. He put on his parka, then his boots, and last he extracted his handgun from one of the parka's many pockets and checked to make sure it wasn't frozen solid.
He stood hunched over and looked at the two sleepers. Then he-decided to let them rest. He must have heard some odd sound the weather was making, but it needed to be checked out or he'd never get back to sleep. Dieter unzipped the tent flap and stepped into the freezing darkness, zipping it back up behind him.
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