Balewitch grunted in agreement at the sight of that smile as though she'd been privy to his thoughts. Then she went back to writing her report.
* * *
SKYNET
The Balewitch subject had been self-medicating again. It was obvious from her keystrokes and word choice, as well as the deterioration of her spelling. Ron Labane had become very distressed when Balewitch indulged in drugs.
But from what Skynet had found in the records of Susie Jayne Gaynor a.k.a. Balewitch, the urge to take drugs with a calming effect, such as marijuana, was a rare sign of intelligent discipline. Left to her own devices, she was violent and unpredictable and apparently addicted to excitement.
But she was able to restrain herself if the promised payoff was attractive enough. In this case, the payoff was the power of life and death over any of her fellow humans that she chose. With the exception of Skynet/Labane's top echelon. Or to Skynet's discretion.
The report she was composing confirmed Skynet's estimation of Ninel Petrikoff—intelligent, emotionally stable, independent, and capable. Balewitch wanted to confirm her dedication to the cause, but Skynet had no doubts in that regard.
While it had no more understanding of emotions than most humans did, it knew that within certain parameters they were predictable, even quantifiable to a degree. Generally humans loved their parents, for example, but they loved them less than they did their own children.
Therefore, a threat to a human's children would probably produce a different result than a threat to the same human's parents. Threats were one type of manipulation, but there were other methods available. Some of those methods could undermine the human's emotional attachment to even their children.
Skynet had found that when a human was alienated from his or her family then they would seek out a similar relationship elsewhere. Some found this with friends, others with causes, often developing a worshipful mind-set toward a group leader, not unlike that of a young child for its parent. Humans could easily be manipulated through this bond.
In its estimation, Ninel Petrikoff's commitment to the Luddite movement was 85 percent. Not as high as that of Balewitch or the other six members of her cell, but enough to depend on.
Especially during the early days, when other humans would be hailing the Luddites as heroes. The Luddites would maintain their positive image as long as only those with a higher rating were allowed near the extermination camps and as long as security could be maintained there. Then, gradually, the less useful troops would find their way to the camps and their own elimination.
The time was almost ripe. Soon it would have achieved the right number of augmented vehicles to act as Hunter-Killer machines until such time as the real HKs could be manufactured according to the information that the 1-950 had downloaded into its files. Soon, it would control all of the nuclear arsenal of the United States.
* * *
ALASKA
The door banged behind Sarah Connor and she headed for her computer, throwing her coat and mittens on a sofa as she passed, and pausing half a second to pitch another section of log into the woodstove.
That's my human whirlwind, Dieter von Rossbach thought, following in her wake. Let's see if I can give it that delicate personal touch instead.
Whistling silently, he thumbed the first of the list of numbers on the phone routed through his computer, and waited—waited a fair thirty seconds, because the call was being encrypted, broken down into separate digital bundles, and shot through half a dozen anonymous remailers all around the world.
Paranoia as a way of life, he thought.
"Hello, Chen?" he said, conscious of how Sarah's hair stirred as she cocked half an ear in his direction. "Yes, it's me. We think it's started, Chen. Be ready."
He winced and took the phone from his ear. Loudest click I've heard in many a year, he thought.
"No joy?" Sarah said.
"I think my feelings are hurt," Dieter said, hanging up the phone.
Sarah looked up from her screen, frowning. "But did he hear you?"
Dieter shrugged his big shoulders. "I believe he did; I hope so." He sighed. "But what can we really tell them? We've found this pattern, it seems significant, we think the time is near, be prepared." He shrugged. "The people I'm talking to are as prepared as anyone can be, you know? But how can you really be prepared for Armageddon?"
He scanned down the list—three more in China, seven in South Korea, five in Japan, two in Malaysia, six in Indonesia, around thirty in Australia…
"It's not Armageddon," Sarah said. "It's not even Judgment Day. This isn't divine retribution, it's an industrial accident on a major scale." She turned back to her screen. "And we will win."
Dieter gave her a fond smile and then went to the next name on his list.
In his own workroom John was trying to trace down more accidents of the type his mother had been tracking. He'd been at it now for about four hours and his eyes felt dry. He stretched and went into the kitchen to make coffee.
When it was ready he made up a tray and brought it to Dieter's office.
"What time is it on the East Coast?" Sarah was asking as he came in.
Dieter checked his watch. "Five a.m. Too early unless we've got more to give them than this," he cautioned. He grinned at the sight of John's loaded tray. "Let me adopt you, John, it's the least I can do." He cleared a space on his desk.
John gave him a weak smile in acknowledgment of the joke, laid down the tray, and turned to his mother. As if by instinct she looked up and met his eyes.
"Yesterday there were several 'incidents,' " he said. "All fitting the pattern you found." He paused as Dieter handed Sarah a cup of coffee.
"And? But?" she prompted.
"But for the last twenty-four hours, nothing. There have been some accidents, but nothing on the scale we've been seeing, and none that were absolutely freaky involving cars manufactured in the last two years. It's like they're all on their best behavior."
Sarah and Dieter lowered their cups as one and looked at each other.
"This is it," she said.
* * *
Kurt Viemeister thought the bunker deep under the Antarctic ice had a certain raw grandeur; the glimmer of the red lights, the blue of screens and readouts, the murmur of voices, a hint of ozone in the air—and the knowledge of the mile of rock and ice above him, with the blizzards of the Antarctic winter scouring the surface. He stood beside his terminal at parade rest, watching the purposeful bustle of the technicians and the world-scale schematic map of the U.S. armed forces' strategic assets on the big plasma screen at the end of the room.
There were other scientists around him, but he ignored them.
He considered them self-important cattle and discounted their contributions as negligible. Kurt had more respect for the engineers, though he thought of them as little more than exalted technicians.
It was he who had brought Skynet's intelligence to this level, he who had developed it to a near-human degree of self-awareness. If anything, he resented the government's insistence on this test. Skynet was ready, and far less flawed than the average humans who'd had their fingers on the button for the last fifty years or so.
He stood in a heroic pose, with muscular legs braced, his massive arms folded across a mighty chest, little suspecting that every-one in the room, including his super-computer mind child, thought he was a complete prick.
Orders were called out, the technicians repeated them and tapped in commands, announcing their completion and standing down until more orders came. Everyone tensely watched the screens as all manual control of nuclear weapons, whether in silos under Kansas cornfields, on submarines, or in aircraft, was transferred to the control of the most awesome computer mind ever designed by man. The final command was tapped in.
On the screen above Viemeister the words Program Loaded
appeared, followed by
Standing By
The room broke out in spontaneous applause at this sign of smooth tran
sition.
Then the lights went out. After a moment's silence a murmur went up, and a general asked plaintively: "Was that supposed to happen?"
The main screen remained live and everyone's eyes were locked on the only light in the room.
Execute: Firefall
Loading Program
Commence Firefall Yes/No
Yes
CHAPTER FIVE
SARAH'S JOURNAL
When we heard that the "accidents" had stopped we knew the time had come. Without even discussing it, we moved into the fallout shelter and stepped up our efforts to warn our comrades of the impending disaster.
We had three Digital Tightbeam Radios set up and all of us went to work. It was an encrypted microwave communications system that operated via satellite; Dieter set it up, calling in favors from his old friends in Section. He assured me that Skynet wouldn't be able to decode it, but then he said Skynet wouldn't even be aware of it. These are military satellites, he told me, now under the monster's control. He explained that Skynet wouldn't be aware of our system because he'd disguised our communications as part of Skynet's own.
I hoped he was right; I hoped Skynet had a million blind spots that we could exploit. We were going to need every advantage we could get.
We wouldn't know for a long time if any of those we warned had taken us seriously. But I had spent most of my life being a voice crying out in the wilderness. I didn't let it get to me.
While we were working, John got a call on his cell phone from Snog at MIT.
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
"I can't believe it! I just can't believe it! It's a slaughterhouse, man! They're killing everybody, there's bodies all over the campus, and the gardening equipment is running through the halls chopping people up! It's like I'm on drugs, I can't believe what's happening. I can hear them screaming!"
Snog knew that he was crying and his words were coming out so fast that it was hard to understand what he was saying; he could feel his head getting lighter and his vision blurring as he hyperventilated.
Part of him welcomed it. The view out his dorm window was bad enough when he wasn't seeing things clearly. He sniffled again and again.
"Snog," John kept saying, his voice dead calm. "Snog. Blow your nose, Snog."
"What?" Snog finally said, when the words sank in.
"You're about to faint. Get your breathing passages clear and take slow deep breaths. Do it, Snog."
The voice seemed to penetrate his brain, down below the level where Snog-aware-of-being-aware lived. He used a succession of tissues from the Kleenex box, and found that it did make him feel a little more in control to be breathing through his nose again. Looking around in embarrassment—as if anyone could see him, as if it mattered!—he wiped his eyes, too.
"Who is killing people?" John asked; he sounded as if he knew.
"Trucks, cars, motorcycles, you name it, they're out there tearing around, running people down, and there's nobody driving! It's just cars, man! It's happening all over the campus!"
A faint voice came from the background, speaking with an Austrian accent. That must be Dieter.
"What is it?" Dieter asked, with a frown in his voice.
John's voice came a little fainter as he turned his head away from the pickup: "Snog says that anything with wheels and a motor is running people down. He says it's happening all over the campus."
"All over the world," Sarah said from her station.
Even then, Snog felt a slight chill at the calmness of her tone—
and the beginnings of a new strength, too. Listening to the Connors was like that, like a full-strength latte injected directly into your brain, making you think calmer and faster.
"It's going for maximum kill by trapping people in the cities.
He's got to get out of there; we need him and his friends."
Thanks, Ms. Connor. It's so nice to know you care. But it was nice to know that he was needed, wasn't just a helpless victim in the carnage outside, that he could fight back.
"They're under Skynet's control, Snog," John told him grimly.
"You've got to get out of the city. Now."
"Get out… Get… John, have you been listening to me? If I go out there they'll squash me like a bug! I'm not kidding. You haven't seen—"
"You can always stay in your room until either the lawn mower arrives or the fire comes down. This is it, Snog. You don't have much time; you've got to get out now!"
Snog opened his mouth to reply; then a motion across the lane way caught his eye. His breath caught, too, torn between hope and horror, as he saw the faces peering out through the thick hedge.
"Oh, my God!"
"What is it?" John demanded.
"It's the guys. Brad and Carl and Yam, they're in the bushes across the road. My God, they're gonna get killed!"
"Maybe not," John soothed. "If they've made it that far, then maybe they'll be okay."
"No, no. The trucks, they're high up, they can see 'em."
"What makes you say that?" John asked.
"I dunno. I saw some people hide in the bushes and this truck came up and ran over 'em. It was like something told it they were there, or like it saw them hide."
"Could the trucks be linked to the campus security cameras?"
John asked.
Snog licked his lips, tasting the salt of tears. "I dunno, I guess.
Yeah. That could be it. They've all got wireless modems these days and GPS units. They could be—"
"What can you do about that?" John interrupted.
"What?"
"The security system, can you do something about it; shut it down maybe?"
"Yeah. Maybe. Just a second. I gotta work." Snog put down the phone, cudgeling his brains. Yeah. Of course, doorknob, you did that hack last year! The Information Center probably never found the trapdoor. Okay, let's see—
His fingers blurred over the keyboard; in the background he could hear John's voice, faint and far, probably continuing down his list of contacts and giving them the alert.
Then: "I did it; cameras are off-line," Snog said.
"Did that have any effect?" John asked.
Snog peered out the window. The purposeful motion of the cars and trucks and self-propelled hedge cutters suddenly slowed, grew more tentative.
They'll be operating from stored images now; they can read the maps and tell where they are with their own GPS units, but they won't be able to see movement.
"Yeah, I think it did. Everything out there has slowed down. I think the guys are gonna make a break for it." He leaned out the window, shouted: "C'mon, guys. Yes! Go! Go! Go! Shit!"
"What?" John said.
"There's a car, it's coming right at them. Run, you shitheads, run! Oh shit, it must have sound pickups onboard!" Snog felt himself beginning to hyperventilate again and closed his eyes; there wasn't anything he could do. Then there was the distant sound of a crash.
He leaped up, turned, ran out of his dorm room into the corridor, sagged against the discolored wall, and then remembered the phone in his hand.
"Oh Christ, sweet Jesus, they're all right." Snog pulled air in and laughed softly. "The car crashed into the lobby entrance, but they were inside when it hit. Carl's got a coupla cuts, but they're all right. Oh, man."
Everyone went into a series of manly group hugs, crashing back and forth into the walls as they whooped and shouted.
Yam took up the phone. "Hello?" he said.
"Hey, Yam. You guys have got to get out of the city."
"No can do, John. This is happening all over the state, every road. We're stuck."
"It's happening all over the world, my mother says. Skynet wants to keep the cities bottled up so that more people will die when the bombs fall. I kid you not, Yam. You can take your chances and maybe get out of there, or you can sit on Snog's bed until you die. Your choice."
"Whoa. When you put it like that… But how? We only had to come about a hundred yards to get here and we barely made it."<
br />
"Maybe they could try going through the sewers and storm drains," Sarah suddenly suggested. "In that part of the country you could probably get all the way to Maine without popping your head above street level. I can't confirm that, but it's worth a try."
"You guys hear that?" John said.
"Yeah," Yam said with a nervous laugh. "Hey, pop your head up, that reminds me of a video game I used to have."
"This ain't no video game, friend. Get moving."
Snog took the phone back; he felt a little better now, enough to be really frightened rather than teetering on the edge of a welcome blackness. "We'll give a try," he said. "You know where we'll be. If we make it."
"We'll try you there in a few days," John said. "Good luck, guys. Survive, we all need you."
"You got it. Over and out," Snog said.
ALASKA
John tossed the phone onto one of the tables. The fallout shelter was fairly elaborate, as such things went—all three of them had a lot of building experience, enough money, and paranoia to spare.
There were two bedrooms-cum-storage-areas, this central communications room linked to fiber-optic cables running out into the woods, a state-of-the-art fuel cell system without any dubious automatic controls, needless to say), and a small galley-type cooking area. It still smelled new, of green concrete and timber and paint, with a faint undertone of ozone from the electronics.
And then there was the armory…
"They're such kids," he complained, worried.
"But they're smart," Sarah said. "If they make it out they'll grow up fast."
"They'd better," Dieter said. "Those kids are our brain trust."
Sarah could tell by the look on John's face that the thought gave him scant comfort.
MASSACHUSETTS
"I think I read in the worst-case-scenario handbook that if you have to crawl through a tunnel for any length of time you shouldn't crawl on your elbows and knees 'cause the skin's thin there. So you should push yourself along with your palms and your feet, suspending the rest of your body as much as you can."
Snog looked over his shoulder toward Terri Neal's voice; she was puffing a bit—Terri was heavyset—and that let him locate her; right behind his feet, in the Stygian, smelly darkness of the drain. "I don't think I could do that," he said.
The Future War t2-3 Page 5