Infiltrator t2-1

by S. M. Stirling

  Jordan’s face went still and he put his hands on his hips, shifting from one foot to the other.

  She shook her head affectionately. “If it was anybody else I wouldn’t even have taken his number,” she said, holding up a slip of paper. “But he was with the Sector and he was one of their best. You could do worse than to talk to him.”

  She shrugged, then slapped him on the upper arm. “It’s up to you, babe.”

  Jordan took the slip of paper and looked at it thoughtfully. “Thanks.” He looked up at her from under his brows.

  She grinned and shook a warning finger at him. “You keep in touch. Hear?”

  He kissed her cheek and waved to the others as they drove off, then closed the door, looking at the number with a frown. Maybe. But not now. Right now he still had some odds and ends of packing to take care of.

  Jordan looked around and realized that if he pushed it he could finish the job tonight. His lips twisted wryly. Not a lot to show for five years, he thought. Of course he was a bachelor, and often on the road. His home was more of a convenience than anything, slightly more intimate than a hotel room. What does that say about me, I wonder?

  Instead of answering himself he picked up an empty box and marched briskly into the bedroom. I will not become maudlin, he thought. That way lies regret.

  And regret led to doubt and doubt led to failure. And he already had plenty of

  that to deal with, thank you.

  LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: THE PRESENT

  Serena dropped the Terminator off at the terminal and drove away. She glanced in the rearview mirror and watched it disappear inside, carry-on luggage in hand.

  The 1-950 felt a faint pang of wistfulness, such as she imagined a human might feel when dropping her child off for its first day of school.

  That is, if you can consider the termination of Mary Warren and her friends to be kindergarten, she thought wryly, swerving to avoid a car with New Mexico license plates whose driver had apparently never heard of turn signals.

  Things were definitely looking up. Paul Warreri was coming back to work today and a meeting he would chair was scheduled for tomorrow. About time, she thought. While he’d been away he’d been completely beyond her reach.

  Best of all, within the day, the threat the Connors posed would be eliminated.

  Serena could not help but be elated. If only she continues to be so complacent, she thought. It was to be hoped that Connor would focus on von Rossbach as her greatest danger, leaving herself and her son vulnerable to the Terminator that had been dispatched to destroy them.

  “It” could still fail. Others had. But there were more of them here now. And that would make all the difference.

  CYBERDYNE, SKYNET LABORATORY: THE PRESENT

  “The subhuman knowingly poisons the pure blood of the Rryan female with

  sexual diseases; where the Jew is, syphilis follows as plague follows rats…”

  Serena blinked at the sound of the flat, slightly aspirated voice as it recited.

  There were just the beginnings of the voice she’d heard since birth in it and something swelled in her breast at the sound.

  “Incapable of genuine creativity, the Semite, with devilish cunning, poisons and pollutes the well of culture on which he is simultaneously a parasite…”

  She frowned as she listened to what the computer was actually reciting. What kind of nonsense is this? she asked herself. She glanced over at Kurt Viemeister, who was intently watching a voice-scan monitor.

  “What is it reciting?” she asked aloud.

  Kurt looked up, frowning distractedly. Then his eyes cleared as he recognized her.

  “Serena!” he said with pleasure. He rose and came over to her, kissing her on the cheek.

  She smiled, but stepped back. Then she gestured toward the speakers.

  “If the Jew were to achieve his aim of destroying the culture-bearing Rryan race, the parasite would perish without his host and Earth would be empty of true humanity-”

  “What is that?” she repeated.

  “Oh,” Kurt said, actually looking shy, “it’s necessary for de program to read

  aloud to learn syntax and so forth. I thought I might as veil have it recite something I enjoyed reading myself.”

  “Oh.” Serena blinked and had all she could do to keep from laughing. This is where it began, she suddenly thought. Skynet’s… desire—for want of a better word— to destroy what it saw as a dangerous, devious species.

  Kurt Viemeister’s peculiar obsession would ultimately lead to billions of human deaths. What was really delicious was that those “differences” that loomed so large for him were, in reality, minuscule and completely unimportant. But these texts that the, as yet, unconscious computer recited in innocence would one day work to convince Skynet that the whole race had to go.

  It really is funny, she thought. And just for a moment she longed intensely for someone to share the joke with. Oh, not good, she thought in instant dismay.

  That’s too human an emotion. Time to withdraw, time to center herself.

  “I’m sorry to say that I’ve come to cancel our lunch, Kurt,” she said. “My new assistant is going to be able to get away more quickly than we’d anticipated and I’ve got to oversee the selection of his new quarters.”

  “Have your secretary do it,” Kurt said, frowning. He moved closer in one of those dominance gestures he was so fond of.

  “She’s already done most of the work,” Serena admitted, refusing to back up.

  “But the actual selection is something I feel I should do.” She smiled at him. “It’s a good idea to keep the team happy.”

  Viemeister snorted contemptuously. “Personally I find it’s bedder to scare dem.

  If you treat dem too well dey just goof off and noting gets done.”

  She gave him a look so steely it reached him even through the fog of his enormous ego. His smile faltered but hung on bravely. “I’d really hate to think anyone imagined they could take advantage of me like that,” she said.

  He leaned closer, his voice soft, and his eyes held promises. “I vould never do dat,” he said.

  “No,” she agreed. Then she gave him a tight little smile. “I think you have better sense. Gotta go.” She fitted action to words.

  Kurt blinked. “Can ve reschedule?” he asked as she walked away.

  Serena turned and walked backwards for a few steps as she crossed the lab.

  “It’ll be a while,” she said with a shrug. “You know how it is when you’re training someone. It take’s” up all your free time. Of which I already have very little.” She grinned and gave him a wave and was out the door before he could reply.

  Well, she thought, that should take care of that. And once he got a load of her new assistant he would probably blow a gasket. Amazing, she thought, how such a brilliant mind could belong to such an unmitigated jerk!

  Then she smiled as she thought of him training Skynet to destroy. The whole human race, not just the parts he disapproved of.

  SERENA’S HOME: THE PRESENT

  And time to put the backup plan into high gear, Serena thought, looking at the map of Montana. Very different from her own time; there had been a lot of military installations there, and the wilderness had suffered much during the machine-human war.

  While talking to the realtor about Jordan Dyson’s temporary apartment she’d also arranged the purchase of a very remote, but luxurious, hunting cabin near the Idaho border. Now she would send her second Terminator there to set up. She arranged an airline ticket and purchased a Jeep for it from a dealer located near the airport.

  “My mission parameters?” it said while dicing carrots for her dinner. Its own biological parts could survive on a puree of nutrients, but then it didn’t have a

  “hindbrain” or a sense of taste the way she did.

  “More slowly,” she said as the ever-sharp ceramic blade blurred into a white disk of motion. “Use a suboptimal speed. You would be very con
spicuous if you were under observation.”

  “Affirmative,” the Terminator said.

  Serena sipped at her coffee. Then she told it about the flight to Montana, describing every facet, in detail, covering contingencies and whether and how they might require a response. She told it about the Jeep it would pick up from the dealer and all the intricacies it would have to navigate to acquire it. Then she set it up with a driving learning program, a downloaded owner’s manual, and the state driving laws for Montana.

  She would have to hurry and get it a driver’s license. She’d pay a huge premium

  for a rush job, but it would be worth it. She had a sudden sense that things were moving into high gear.

  When it was finished with its task she told it, “When ready, you will set up a business debugging software.” Serena uploaded the pertinent information on business and current computing from her memory. “The humans you deal with will mostly be socially aberrant and so will be less likely to suspect anything out of the ordinary.

  “Once your business is operational, I want you to acquire a female of childbearing age. Eighteen or nineteen years old should be perfect. She should be a runaway and no one must see you collect her. She must be healthy, so be sure of that. I will provide you with the means to set up a complete med lab once you’re settled. If she has AIDS or any other incurable disease, terminate her. If she is addicted to drugs you will have to be sure her system is clear.

  “When the subject is ready inform me and I will send you a fertilized egg to implant in her. When the child is born, terminate the mother. I will give you further instructions once the child has proven viable. Do you understand your mission parameters?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Howl wish it was this simple and direct with humans, Serena thought fervently as the Terminator lumbered toward the stairs to the cellar and she pushed the diced carrots, onions, snowpeas, and cubed pork into a wok. The food sizzled, sending up a sharp mouthwatering smell of cooking garlic and soya.

  Humans were idiots who found reasons to be dysfunctional and obstructive out

  of sheer boredom. It’s a wonder the species survived to be destroyed by their own creation. But it wasn’t really a wonder that their own creation wanted to destroy them. I know I do.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  U.S. 20. OUTSIDE SHREVEPORT,

  LOUISIANA: EARLY 21 ST CENTURY

  Ron Labane felt awkward behind the wheel of the rental car. For one thing, everything was in a different place than he was used to. He kept reaching for the stick shift and finding it missing. For another he had to rely completely on the sideview mirrors because he couldn’t see a thing when he looked over his shoulder. Every time he switched lanes he expected to hear a crash. Worst of all was the awareness of how much fuel the car was burning, how dirty it was making the air. But he couldn’t afford to go to this meeting in such a recognizable vehicle as his own.

  Success was wonderful. Glorious, in fact, and usually a lot of fun. But the problem with being a celebrity was that people recognized you. Hence the rental car and a medium-priced business suit complete with tie, white shirt, and loafers.

  He was willing to bet his own mother wouldn’t have known him.

  Things were going so well! People were finally embracing his message. His book had been on the Times bestseller list for three weeks and each week it had risen a notch. Alone in the car he gave way to a huge, happy grin. Life was good!

  His agent had booked him a dozen speaking engagements around the country, charging fees that made Ron blink. And they were paying it! The sheer joy of

  finally being listened to! It had what he remembered of weed beat all hollow, and it was catching up fast with sex.

  On his agent’s advice he’d paid a hundred and fifty dollars for a first-rate haircut, and though he still wore jeans and a work shirt to his lectures, they were now custom-made. The difference was amazing! His clothes were so comfortable, and they actually made him look good. He shook his head. Who’d have thought it.

  On the advice of his lawyer—his own, personal lawyer of all things— he’d sent a check for twenty thousand dollars to the commune.

  On the back of the check, just above the space for the endorsement, the lawyer had written that all the commune’s members were required to endorse it, and that cashing the check meant that they renounced all past and future claims to him, his name, or his property.

  He’d felt a moment’s regret for his son, but forced himself to remember that if he’d listened to the members of the commune, he’d be pruning trees right now and raking up leaves instead of raking in cash. They’d had their chance and they’d rejected his vision. If they’d stuck by him, they, too, would be rolling in dough and all their dreams would be coming true.

  He turned his mind away from this train of thought. There was no point in going down that road again. He didn’t need the hurt, he didn’t need the disappointment.

  How did it go? A prophet is not respected in his own country?

  He saw the diner coming up on his right and after fumbling for it found the turn signal. Ron parked and looked the place over. It was a tired-looking building

  despite its eternally tidy aluminum siding. The windows were nearly opaque with condensed moisture. It was typical in its anonymity, one of thousands just like it all over North America. The food would probably be bland but filling and totally unhealthy. The coffee would be brown hot water.

  He got out into the asphalt-and-gasoline smell, settled the unfamiliar suit around him, and then walked over to the door and opened it. Once inside, he was met by the sound of country Muzak and a warm, greasy scent sparked through with cigarette smoke. Ron stood in the doorway and looked around.

  A thickset blond man in the last booth held up his hand and Ron walked over to him. There were two other men with him in the booth. All three looked at Ron as though he were wearing feathers.

  Ron put his hand on his stomach and gave a small laugh. “Sorry about the suit,”

  he said. “I thought I’d be less likely to draw attention like this.”

  The blond man nodded slowly. “Right,” he rumbled. “Never know who’s watching.”

  The other two mumbled and shifted, somehow giving off a general air of agreement.

  Ron had expected an invitation to sit, but since none was forthcoming he plopped himself down beside one of the men. He looked them over as unabashedly as they examined him.

  They looked… tough, and determined. They did not look overly bright, but to Ron that was an advantage. They looked like the kind of men who would do

  what they thought was right even if the rest of the world disagreed with them.

  Actually, they’d probably follow their code even if the rest of the world was shooting at them. And they’d never stop for a moment to take a second look at their beliefs. In their way they were perfect.

  A waitress came over with a tired smile and he ordered an orange juice and a piece of apple pie.

  “A la mode?” she asked.

  “Why not?” he said with a smile. He might take a sip of the OJ, but nothing on earth could make him eat the overprocessed excuse for a pastry. And he certainly wouldn’t touch the growth-hormone-produced ice cream. Maybe one of his hosts would eat it.

  And he was their guest. The blond had spoken to him at a book signing and suggested this meeting with “like-minded men.” So Ron sat back and waited, his eyes on the beefy man before him. He spread his hands in a gesture of invitation.

  “I’m John,” the blond finally said. “This is Paul.” He pointed at a thin faced brunette. “George.” A tubby, balding guy nodded. “And—”

  “Let me guess,” Ron said. He turned to the ferret-faced little man, grinning.

  “Ringo?”

  “Louie,” the man said, looking puzzled.

  Ah, so these were their real names. For a moment Ron had given them more credit than they deserved. John, Paul, George… and Louie. Okay.

  The men opposite
him raised their heads expectantly and a second later pie and orange juice were set down before him. Ron smiled up at the waitress and said

  “Thank you.”

  “Anything else?” she asked, giving Ron’s untouched pie, and then him, a glance.

  Heads shook; Ron picked up his fork and played with the mess on his plate. She walked away. Ron put his fork down.

  “So, gentlemen. What am I doing here?” he asked.

  The blond man, John, fiddled with his cup, his eyes downcast.

  “You seemed to mean what you were sayin’ at that lecture, there,” he said. He looked up, faded blue eyes hard. “But so have some others we’ve talked to. They talked the talk, but they wouldn’t walk the walk.”

  Ron crumpled his napkin and tossed it onto his plate.

  “It’s the money,” he explained. “It’s like a drug. It makes you forget that it’s just a tool and makes you think it was what you were working toward all along.”

  And these men were tools, too. They might not be the sharpest ones in the shed, but they’d do until something better came along. He could use them, and as long as they didn’t know he was using them, they’d do whatever he asked.

  Ron had always known they were out there, people who were looking for a leader and a cause to die for. He could give them that, and they would give him the means to his own end—a world made pure. A world returned to simplicity

  and community. With the scientists and the industrialists and the politicians put back in their places as servants of the people.

  He leaned forward and began to learn who these men were and how they would fit into the black wing of the organization he, as yet, could only dream of founding. But Ron was possessed by a vision and firmly believed that the future was always just about to fall into his grasp.

  “That ski lodge that got bombed?” Louie said. “We know who did that. Couldn’t keep the politicians from giving them a green light, even with all the petitions and protests we had.” His little eyes gleamed with malice. “But they made damn sure the bastards couldn’t open for business.”