Terminator 2_Hour of the Wolf
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They were exchanging concerned, alarmed looks now.
Cruz shook his head and turned to Leo. He held out a hand. “Only management can terminate an employee.”
Leo gave him one of his rare, thin smiles, and handed over his pistol, already fitted with a silencer.
Cruz turned.
“Anyway, it’s been really good working with you.”
He shot each one in the head. Sometimes he marveled at how calm he could be, how precise his actions. He had to work up to it occasionally, but Cruz felt pride at his ability to come through under pressure.
One shot each. Only one of them tried to act. Cruz could tell that he intended to throw himself to the floor, beneath the table. What he might do after that, Cruz could not say.
But Cruz caught him mid-motion, blowing a hole in his temple.
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Blood spattered the floor, the tabletops, a little bit on the wall.
He handed the pistol back to Leo.
“When the trailer is unloaded,” Cruz said, “have it and the SUV taken out to where the others were stopped. Leave them there. Let the government explain it.”
“Blow them up?”
“No. Let it look like they were assassinated.”
He sighed. Dumping problems on other people was not his usual style. But in this case, it would cause Jack Reed a little more trouble.
He left the room with a renewed sense of job security.
243
TWENTY-TWO
John stared from one man to the other. He was less surprised than he might have been. The vagaries of time travel produced improbabilities like this as a matter of course. He had personally fought beside his older self in a future that might never come to pass. Even the language produced unlikely equivalents and unwieldy inversions of tense and causality.
But the older Porter—the man who now claimed to be a Jeremiah Porter of the future come to find his younger self—claimed not to have known who he was until this meeting. The resemblance was undeniable—John had recognized the same resemblance with himself as a twenty-five-year-older manifestation when he had gone to the future—but not conclusive. The memory thing bothered him.
It would be easy enough to run a DNA scan. Destry-McMillin possessed the equipment as part of its security apparatus; the technology was common. That would prove consanguinity. What about the rest?
Sarah joined him at the far end of the table. John recognized her skeptical expression. “Reserving judgment,” she called it.
“Where did you find him?” John asked.
“He found me,” she said quietly, folding her arms. “At Ms. McMillin’s apartment.” She jerked her head, indicating that he follow her. She led him into the corridor. Door 244
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closed, she related the events of the day, quickly and efficiently.
John grunted. “How you decide to trust someone, I’ll never figure out.”
“We keep people at arm’s length but never out of our sight,” she said. “He saved my butt.”
“Yeah, that was sloppy of you.”
“It happens. The rest of his story…I don’t know, John, it feels like the truth.”
“Which part?”
“The time travel part, the enemy of Skynet part. I’m not qualified to judge the rest.”
“But?”
“This selective memory thing bothers me.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one. Do you think he’d let us do a physical on him?”
“What? Blood samples and everything? I don’t know. It would go a long way toward proving his loyalties.”
“That’s an odd word to use.”
“Do you have a better one? Loyal to Homo sapiens, loyal to Skynet.”
“Which brings up another thing. What is this with human operatives? You say the four men at Deidre McMillin’s apartment were human. We were talking about the murders and the artificial circumstances. Terminators—real ones, like Uncle Bob—wouldn’t care—”
“But people would. I don’t know. Obviously Skynet has allies now. Willing? Or programmed?”
“Which means there’s another TX-A operating.”
“Or it’s Oscar Cruz.”
“All by himself?” John asked.
The complications were piling up. This was not playing out like any other incursion by Skynet’s machines. This looked more like a complicated conspiracy. John knew his mother, knew that she wanted nothing better than to take a rocket launcher to the new threat, but for now she would not know where to aim it.
“This is all academic,” John said. “We already have a 245
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candidate for new top monster. According to young Bobby Porter in there, this Casse from Cyberdyne can reform his hand into a machete and is pretty agile with higher math.”
“Reed mentioned him a couple of times,” Sarah said. “But I thought he had a history? I mean, his resume goes back twenty, twenty-five years.”
John nodded. “Which means he’s been in this time frame at least that long. He may predate Kyle Reese and the first one that came after you.”
Sarah paled. John rarely saw her react this way. She was frightened.
“Shit,” she said.
McMillin stepped from the conference room, Paul Patterson behind him, closing the door. “Excuse me, Ms. Connor.
The police want to talk to you.”
“What the hell for?” John snapped.
“Someone reported the license of your car after it was overturned in our driveway. Also, they wanted to know if I knew Sarah Connor.”
Sarah stared at him. “How the hell…?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. They have an old photograph, had to have been at least fifteen years old. It’s you, certainly, but only barely. Hair, eyes, wear-and-tear—forgive me, but you may well pass as Julia Philicos.”
John’s cell phone rang. Annoyed, he flipped it open.
“Yes?”
“John, this is Reed. I’m in town. There’s an ongoing operation I’m personally supervising. We need to talk.”
“How soon?”
“Now.”
“We’ve got a situation, Jack. Where are you?”
“On my way to your new place. Be there in about half an hour.”
“Can you tell me what this is about?”
“I’ve found Cyberdyne’s new location. We tracked convoys from Colorado Springs to Los Angeles. I stopped most of them, but we let one truck get through. It led us straight to them. But I’m at the end of what I can officially do.”
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“I’ll be there when I can. I’ll get back to you.” He closed the phone. “Never just rains…”
“—they wouldn’t tell me,” McMillin was saying. “But they asked to speak to Julia Philicos.”
Paul Patterson said, “We’ve changed the booth guards.
The others were unconscious. They’re being taken care of.
The ones the police just spoke to told them one of your CV
joints gave as you were making the turn and the car struck the concrete pedestal of one of the booths. It flipped over.”
Sarah grunted. “That’s thin.”
“It’ll have to do,” Patterson said. “We’ve got your car in our garage and a mechanic is making sure that’s what the police see when they inspect it. It’ll take about fifteen minutes before that’s ready.”
“I’m impressed,” John said. “Do you do this often?”
“Perhaps I can help.”
They looked around. Lee Portis stood in the doorway to the conference room, watching them.
“What do you mean,” Sarah asked, “you can help?”
“I can alter your eye color completely and change your fingerprints. You’ll have to trust me, though. The procedure is related to what you have already seen me do. I promise that these minor alterations are all that I will do.”
“How lo
ng will they last?” John asked.
“They’ll revert eventually,” Portis said. “But they’ll last long enough for the police to satisfy themselves.”
Sarah considered for a few moments. “What did you tell them we’re doing for you?” she asked McMillin.
“Private security investigation,” McMillin said. “Confidential.”
“Good. All right.”
She faced Portis.
“Do you always eavesdrop through closed doors?” she asked.
“Only when the future is at stake,” Portis said. “Step in here.”
They entered the conference room with the others where 247
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Portis indicated that Sarah should sit down. He pulled out another chair and sat facing her.
John anxiously watched the man rub the fingertips of his left hand together, then reach for her face.
“Don’t blink,” Portis said.
She stared at him, eyes wide, as he extended two fingers toward her eyes. The strain was visible in the line of her jaw. Suddenly, she flinched back, blinking furiously.
“Damn!”
“If she’s hurt—” John began.
But Portis grabbed her hands and pulled her closer. He raised first the left and placed his fingertips against hers, then repeated the action on her right hand. Sarah stepped back, shaking her hands.
“That stings,” she said.
“Open your eyes,” Portis said.
John stepped between them, taking Sarah’s shoulders.
“Come on, open them. Lemme see.”
She blinked as if sand had been blown into her eyes.
Gradually, she controlled it, finally looking up at him.
“They’re brown,” he said. “Reddish brown.” He took her hands, raised them palm up. Her fingertips looked red, as if she had scrubbed them hard. “Just have to take your word for the fingerprints.”
“Great,” Sarah said, raising a hand toward her eyes. She hesitated. “Can I rub them?”
“Of course,” Portis said.
Sarah did so lightly, then headed for the door. “You wouldn’t happen to know a good lawyer, would you, McMillin?”
McMillin smiled. “Thomas Secomb is already in the lobby, waiting for you. He’s my in-house company attorney.”
“Thanks.”
John followed her out.
“Okay,” Sarah said. “What did Reed want?”
“He didn’t say exactly,” John said. “He’s on his way to the new offices. If he’s here and he needs us, we need to 248
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keep you loose. His people tracked a convoy from Colorado Springs to Los Angeles.”
“He let it get here?”
“No. Just one truck made it through. He knows where Cyberdyne is now.”
“Good, then he can take them out.” She punched the elevator button.
“Unfortunately, no. He can’t. There’s a complication.”
“Figures. What kind?”
“Political, probably. He didn’t specify, buy we know Cyberdyne has protection. Reed could stop the convoys and be within his authority, but a raid on Cyberdyne’s new headquarters is out of the question.”
The doors opened. “For him, you mean.”
“That’s what I mean.”
They entered the elevator. The doors closed.
“Well,” Sarah said as they began their descent, “I was beginning to wonder when I’d get to shoot something.”
Detective Russo questioned Sarah in the lobby, in the presence of John and three uniformed officers. Sarah introduced John as her brother, and though Russo looked skeptical, he accepted it. He had a photo John recognized from Sarah’s 1994 arrest. The hair was much lighter, eyes pale, face thinner. They had been living hand-to-mouth then, John recalled, and Sarah smoked constantly. The resemblance his mother bore to that former incarnation was vague, but Russo was bothered by what he saw. He wanted her to come with him for further questioning.
Both John and Sarah knew that refusal would make Russo more curious.
“We have work to do, Detective,” Sarah said, “so if we could make this quick I’d appreciate it.”
The lawyer, Secomb, gave no indication of his reaction.
Secomb was a tall man with hair going white around a deceptively young face. “I’ll accompany Ms. Philicos to expedite matters.”
Detective Russo frowned ever so slightly. That had not 249
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been the response he expected. But he gestured for one of the uniforms to escort her to the car outside.
“Do you need me?” John asked.
“No, not at the moment. What kind of work do you do again?”
“We troubleshoot private security.”
“These people have trouble with their security?”
“No, they have good security. But it’s never a bad idea to check that independently.”
“Uh-huh. I see. Thanks for your time, Mr. Philicos. If we need you any further—”
“Whatever you need, Detective.”
Russo’s gaze lingered on John. Then he wheeled around and walked off.
John’s scalp tingled. He had a feeling Detective Russo would not simply let it go. Someone had put him on this and if nothing happened, that someone would prod the police. John could only hope Reed’s work covering their past worked well enough to keep Sarah out of jail. At least for tonight, when they took her fingerprints, she would turn up negative.
That presented another problem, but he could deal with it later.
He opened his phone and punched a code. Three rings brought an answer.
“Lash.”
“Ken, it’s John. How close are you to completion?”
“We’re doing fit and finish now, Mr. Philicos. Everything is operational.”
“Good. Jack is in town. He’s on his way there. I’ll be coming back shortly. Initiate the security package.”
“Yes, sir. We’ve already been contacted by Mr. Reed.”
“Great.”
He closed the phone.
In the conference room, he found McMillin now huddled with Jaspar at the far end of the table. Deirdre and Bobby sat apart from everyone, near the door, his right arm around her, her hands clasping his left. Patterson talked intently 250
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with the two security people, standing midway along the wall.
Portis sat by himself, now nursing a styrofoam cup of coffee.
McMillin stood when John entered.
“They’ve taken my mother to be questioned,” John said at once. “Your lawyer went with them.”
“He’ll have her out before midnight,” McMillin said.
“Good. That’s when I need her.” He walked over to Portis.
“And you.”
The older man looked up. “Yes?”
“We’ve found Cyberdyne.”
“Since they have corporate offices listed in various phone directories and on the Internet,” Portis said, “I gather you mean the one they don’t want anyone to know about.”
“You’re quick, I’ll give you that,” John said sardonically.
“Yes, that one.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Your participation. Are you up for a raid?”
“Are you planning to blow everything up and get yourselves on the national news again?”
John smiled. “Not this time.”
“Then I think I might be some help to you.”
John leaned close to Portis. “You’d better be a lot of help to me.”
“So this is a test?”
“Among other things.”
“I am on your side.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see.”
Casse waited in the car parked opposite the Destry-McMillin driveway. Night came, the guard booths glowed brightly.
As he observed, two police cars arrived soon after dark.
Twenty minutes later, they left again, followed by
a black Lincoln.
What do the humans say? If you want something done correctly…
Cruz’s instructions had left the Gant unit vulnerable to 251
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faulty interpretations. After losing its carrier wave, Casse knew it had been shut down. Somehow. That fact alone was troubling, but even more was the thought that it was being studied by humans.
Casse stepped out of the car. Casse surveyed the ground.
Dirt on the concrete sidewalk formed a partial shoe imprint.
Size and proportion appeared consistent with a T-800. More footprints appeared in the grass separating the road from the parking lot, just across from the guard booths. Casse had reviewed police communications and knew about the report of an overturned vehicle in the driveway. This had also been the last known location of the Gant unit. The likelihood that the T-800 had been taken into the Destry-McMillin complex was very high. The carrier wave ended in this area.
Casse reluctantly decided to enter Destry-McMillin to continue the search. The risk of detection was low compared with the complications arising from humans learning how to build their own T-800s—the main reason Casse continually refused Cruz’s efforts to start such a program.
Casse knew the layout of Destry-McMillin very well—he had uploaded the information directly from Ian Destry before the man died. True, certain things might have changed, but he doubted anything significant.
He walked along the roadside for one hundred thirty meters before crossing. The thick shrubbery hid a detection grid. Casse recognized the type and estimated its sensitivity.
Checking the road for any traffic, he stood close to the wall of flora and melted into the ground. He sank deep, finding the pores in the earth, then sliding as thousands of minute droplets beneath the boundary, past the sensors, emerging finally several meters inside the perimeter. He reformed into the shape of a night watchman in the khaki uniform worn by Destry-McMillin personnel.
Inside, undetected, he proceeded toward the main building. He thought he had a good idea where to begin his search.
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“You don’t trust me.”
John glanced at Portis, sitting beside him in the car. “No, I don’t. Neither does Sarah.”