"I'd say we're either nearly there now, or else we're totally beaten. If it can be done at all, we'll have a prototype nanoprocessor ready for testing in two weeks. Yeah, I'd bet we could make an announcement by August."
Their coffee arrived, and Oscar said, "That could make a big difference."
"It's been bugging me, though. The damn thing's been a bitch to wrestle with, but we've almost got it licked."
"Okay, I appreciate it." Oscar sipped his coffee thoughtfully, then put the cup down, half empty. "There's someone I want you to meet. His name is Jack Reed and he's high up in Washington, working in the Defense Department."
"Uh-huh. That figures."
"It's about time I introduced you to Jack. The North American Aerospace Defense Command is looking at building a new facility in Colorado, something smaller and even more hardened than its HQ in Cheyenne Mountain. NORAD is very interested in the idea of radical new computer hardware, if we can deliver it. You've been saying for a long time that the new nanochip will make ordinary computers look like desk calculators. Well, Jack and his people like the sound of that."
"Right. So why does something tell me there's a catch?"
"It's not necessarily a catch, but it may help us deal with fanatics like Sarah Connor. Jack's people are talking about including a top-secret facility for advanced defense research. Cyberdyne and some of the other contractors would be given space within the new facility. In a place like that, our most sensitive projects would be invulnerable. Naturally, I'd want you involved." Having said that, Oscar sat back in his chair, relaxed, and quickly finished his coffee.
"You mean that's the catch? You want me to move to Colorado? I'd have to talk that over with Tarissa. That could be a problem for us, Oscar. I'm not sure we want to move Danny to another school, just now, if that's what you're suggesting."
"That's okay, it's not a problem." Oscar held up both hands in a temporizing gesture. "We could base you here, but you'd still be overall supervisor of Special Projects. You'd probably have to live in Colorado for a few weeks a year. I'm sure we could work something out, arrange for Tarissa to go with you for some of it, or whatever." He laughed. "I'm not trying to break up your marriage. Okay?"
Miles considered the possibilities. Oscar was so smooth. He always let other people get their way—on things that didn't matter to him. Sometimes he seemed just a bit too oily for Miles's taste, but he was good to work with. The small stuff always went along like it was supposed to. Maybe they could come to a good arrangement.
"But there is a real catch... maybe," Oscar said.
"All right, here it comes," Miles said. He gave a broad, knowing grin. What else did Oscar want? "Well?"
"You're not claustrophobic, are you?"
Miles worked it out in a flash.
"We're talking about a hardened defense facility here," Cruz said, "like the NORAD Command Center, only more so."
"Gotcha."
"Yeah, you'd have to work half a mile or so under the ground."
Miles laughed. "You know, boss, that's probably the least of my worries."
"Good. I hoped it would be."
"I'll talk to Tarissa tonight."
CHAPTER THREE
JOHN'S WORLD
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA MAY, 1994
In John's reality, the Cyberdyne site was in ruins. Sarah Connor and the others had blown up the second floor with a massive array of Claymore mines and plastic explosives. Now the site was ominously quiet. Though the morning was bright, with just a scatter of streaky clouds, it seemed to Oscar Cruz like the end of the world had come to pass.
His world.
A tired-looking police detective escorted him from the roped-off area, and wished him well. Oscar shook the man's hand. "Thanks for your trouble," he said.
"No," the detective said. "Thank you. You've been very helpful. Please don't hesitate to call us if you think of anything more, or if there's anything we can do."
"Of course. That's appreciated."
"And certainly if anything suspicious happens. You can't be too careful."
There was little more Oscar could do here. He felt numb, shocked, as if he'd survived a personal assault from the maniacs who'd done this. It was hard to fathom their motivation, or believe the outcome. Miles was dead. So much of their work was gone. A dozen police and emergency vehicles had arrived at the scene, crowding round the building's wrecked shell, like African wildlife round a waterhole. Then there were last night's vehicles, waiting to be towed away: the shattered husks of squad cars, destroyed by heavy-duty military weapons. Riddled with bullet holes, wrenched and stretched out of shape by grenade explosions, they lay derelict among the blasted rubble and shards of glass.
Overhead, the long arm of a mobile crane swept silently through the air. A shiny purple tow truck was parked to one side, its driver waiting for permission to help clear the wreckage. A tractor growled and inched forward in low gear, then stopped, as the police negotiated with emergency workers about what evidence could, or could not, be disturbed. Occasionally, someone yelled out a request or an instruction. Nothing seemed very hurried, but Oscar knew how stressful it all was: the dangerous condition of the building; the detail of the inspections; the inevitable conflicts between solving the crime and following safety procedures.
Oscar decided to take some photographs—for business purposes, certainly not for souvenirs—then talk things through with Rosanna Monk. He took the digital camera from his black leather briefcase, and checked the scene through the viewfinder.
He took some close-ups of the damage and some distance shots, getting the scene from directly in front of the building, then from both ends of the street. He got a good side-on view from the right, but no rear angle on the building, because the way was blocked off. These shots would have to be enough—they'd be useful for his own records, and for briefing the Board.
It was only 9:30 a.m., but he'd already put in a long morning, dealing with police, press, politicians, lawyers, insurers, employees, company consultants, customers, city, state and federal officials, and, worst of all, Cyber-dyne's Board members. He'd made one statement for the TV news networks, and expected to make many more before the day was over. Right now, he had to pick up the pieces. The company's headquarters were in ruins, its future uncertain. There were endless legal questions to sort out with insurers and customers. Even if Cyberdyne survived all this, there was also his own future to think about, for a process of mutual blame was beginning within the company.
Amongst it all, only one thing had turned out right: no one seemed to have been killed except Dyson. The Cyberdyne guards who'd been on duty were okay, and no one else had been working back late. Some of the police had suffered serious injuries, but they'd live. One officer had fallen from a helicopter, and was badly hurt. He claimed to have no memories of what happened to him. Someone had hijacked the helicopter and crashed it miles from the scene. No body had been found.
Mystery after mystery.
He carefully packed away his camera, and found his cellphone, then walked to a small diner a couple of blocks away. He sat in a quiet corner, and ordered a chicken and lettuce sandwich for breakfast, plus a coffee. While he waited, he phoned Rosanna Monk.
"Oscar!" she said. "How is everything?" Like everyone else she sounded under stress, an edge of desperation and anxiety in her voice. Before he could answer, she said, "That's a dumb question, I suppose."
"No." He shook his head, though she wasn't there to see. "There's no such thing at the moment."
"What do you think will happen?"
"That's a tough one, Rosanna. Not dumb, just tough."
She laughed nervously at that.
"I've just been to the site," Oscar said. "I'm in the Yellow Parrot Diner, just round the corner from Cyberdyne."
"Yeah. Okay."
"How about I get a cab over to your place and we can have a proper talk about this? There's a lot to go through. If we can get the whole mess sorted out, you could have a very impor
tant role in the company's future."
"Oscar, you don't have to sound all positive and cheerful. I know how you must feel."
"Yeah... Thanks. All the same, we'd better talk through the implications. Besides, I need your advice."
"You need my advice?"
"That's what I said."
Rosanna paused, and the waitress brought Oscar's order. He nodded as she placed it on the table, with the folded check.
"All right," Rosanna said. "Come on over. Just give me a few minutes to tidy up."
"Fine. While you're waiting for me, just think about one question." The waitress had gone. He looked round to make sure no one could overhear.
"Fire away." Rosanna still sounded nervous.
"It's this: Miles's nanochip project..."
"The nanoprocessor? Yes, what about it?"
"It looks like all his work is gone. You know more about the project than anybody."
"I suppose I do."
"The question is just this: Without Miles, or any of his records, is the project still viable? You don't have to answer now, but think about it. We can talk when I get there."
"All right, Oscar. But I've already been thinking about it I can give you an answer now."
"You can?"
"Sure. It might take a few years to catch up. I don't know if you have that sort of time."
"Assume we do. What are you saying, that we can do it?"
There was another pause on the line, then she said in a definite way, "Yes. Yes, I'm pretty sure we can."
WEST OF ROSARIO, ARGENTINA
JUNE 1994
Willard Parnell was waiting for them at the Retiro bus station in Buenos Aires. He helped them with their luggage, and they got in his orange Jeep Cherokee. Soon they were cruising out of the city, heading for the Tejada estancia. It was all quick, neat and efficient. No one had looked at them suspiciously on the bus or at the station. It still seemed like no one had recognized them since they crossed the Mexican border and started working their way south.
John sat in the back of the Cherokee, while his mother talked to Willard in the front. Through the Cherokee's tinted windows, John watched the Pampas roll by, mile after mile of pasturelands, seemingly endless. They headed towards Cordoba on Ruta Nacional 9, then turned south after 100 miles or so, passing through more grain and cattle country, stretched out under a cold, clear winter sky.
Sarah was lost in her thoughts, and Willard kept quiet for a long time. Then he said, "You must have had lots of problems getting this far."
Willard was a tall, redheaded man in his twenties, one of Raoul Tejada's most trusted operators: a cattleman, cook, courier-a streetfighter when needed. He loved vehicles and aircraft. Clearly he enjoyed driving the gutsy Cherokee, keeping the accelerator down and overtaking the occasional vehicles that they met.
"A few," Sarah said grudgingly.
"Your ID work out fine?"
"Sure," she said. John and Sarah were traveling under false names. According to their passports and other papers, they were internationalistas, originally from the U.S., who'd lived in various parts of Central and South America for the past eight years. That much was almost true, for they'd seldom stayed in the U.S. for long if they could help it. Sarah was supposedly a nurse named Deborah Lawes. John was used to being David Lawes, though his identity was no secret from the Tejadas and their people.
"So, what, other problems, then?" Willard gave a knowing chuckle, as though he could guess what troubles they'd been through. But he didn't know anything.
Physically, it had been tough, especially with Sarah's bad leg. They'd used an assortment of trains, buses, choppers and cars—some hired, some borrowed, some stolen. Whenever possible, they'd relied on their contacts, particularly the Salcedas' network.
"Only what you'd expect," Sarah said. "We holed up with Enrique and Yolanda for a few days about three weeks ago. They got us on a chopper ride to Mexico after that. Since then, we've hardly stopped moving. It took a full week just getting from Panama to Colombia." She glanced behind her. "John was great. He hasn't complained, all the way through."
"Hey, thanks, Mom," John said, embarrassed by the praise, but grinning all the same. "You've been pretty cool, too."
"It's not easy doing this when you don't want to be recognized," she said. When necessary, they'd hiked their way south, covering some long distances on foot before they got to Bogota. Mostly, they'd traveled overnight, trying to nurse themselves in the daylight hours.
"Anyway," Willard said, "it's good to see you guys back. Raoul can do with another pair of hands, just now. Or two pairs, if it comes that, right, John?"
"Yeah, sure," John said.
"Business is good, Sarah—you know what I mean?" Willard made a pistol shape with his right hand, taking it off the steering wheel. He squeezed back an imaginary trigger a couple of times, laughing. "Kapow!"
"I'm glad Raoul's doing well," Sarah said non-commitally. "I'm looking forward to seeing him. Gabriela, too."
"Don't worry, you'll get a hero's welcome. That was pretty cool what you did back in L.A. What happened to the big guy that was with you, the one on CNN?"
"He had to go away," Sarah said.
"Yeah?" Willard gave her a sideways look, just to let her know he'd asked a fair question and she was jerking him around. But then he shrugged. "All right, keep your secrets. I'm just asking."
"I'll tell you about it later," Sarah said. "But you won't believe me—that's the trouble."
"No? You might be surprised what I'd believe."
"In that case, you've been hanging around with Raoul too much."
"Could be. Raoul's ideas are kind of infectious. Anyway, forget it. I did some good business before picking you guys up-I dropped off a consignment to a big customer back in Buenos Aires. Better still, Raoul's made some contacts in Croatia. Things are looking up round here."
Raoul and Gabriela Tejada ran a huge cattle estate, but their sideline was selling firearms, imported from the U.S. Most of the business was legitimate, but they also provided guns to customers who didn't like legal formalities, mainly private security firms. John wasn't sure he liked that, but he'd grown up with guns and other weapons. For as long as he could remember, he'd been hanging out in helicopters over the hills and jungles of Central America, or in compounds with underground weapons caches—or actually getting down and dirty with the guerrilla fighters in Nicaragua and El Salvador. It was something they'd had to do, part of their training for Judgment Day.
"Anyway," Willard said, "we'll look after you. You're in safe hands now."
"Thanks. Just a long, hot shower would really help."
"Yeah, I expect we can manage that."
The good thing was that the Tejadas' estancia was pretty neat—luxurious compared to most places John had lived. They were going back to civilization.
Sarah tried to avoid any more conversation, looking out the window, away from Willard. After a few more attempts to get her to talk, he left her alone. "Sorry, Willard," she said. "I'm tired." But John could tell that it wasn't just that. She was thinking. Something was bothering her, maybe lots of things.
She hadn't sounded too happy about Raoul's gunrunning to Croatia. The trouble was, they'd had to join up with whatever groups would accept them, and give them the kind of experience they'd need to face the nuclear winter and Skynet's machines. They couldn't be too choosy. From time to time, they'd found themselves hanging out with different groups who had totally different aims. As he'd gotten older, John had figured out that the American mercenaries who'd befriended Sarah in Nicaragua had nothing in common with the El Salvadoran compas they'd stayed with for months when he was five or six, learning how to melt away from a military attack.
He still didn't understand the politics behind it all, and didn't care about socialism and capitalism and all that stuff; he'd work it out when he grew up. Maybe his mom didn't understand it either, or not all of it. But all those people did actually have one thing in common. They had skills
to pass on, skills that might come in handy when Skynet was in control, and humans were forced to fight back or be exterminated.
But hadn't they stopped that from happening, back in L.A., when they took out Cyberdyne? So what good were all those cool skills now?
That was assuming they'd succeeded when they blew up Cyberdyne, actually stopped its research. That Oscar Cruz guy had sounded pretty confident that Cyberdyne
wasn't finished yet. And there was still that other Terminator arm, left behind at the steel mill. John and Sarah had talked about it for the last few weeks, wondering how much it would help the Cyberdyne researchers follow Miles Dyson's work, if they ever got hold of it.
After a while, Parnell tried once more to talk to Sarah about the raid on Cyberdyne, but she gave the shortest answers she could, mostly just "Yes" or "No." She'd entered a new zone, John guessed, trying to work it all out. Then she said, "Willard?"
"Yeah?"
"You must think I'm crazy, like everyone else does."
"Maybe." He changed lanes to the left, to pass an empty cattle truck. "But maybe you know something the rest of us don't. Jesus, Sarah, who knows what that government of yours is up to? If you say that this company-"
"Cyberdyne."
"If you say it had a defense contract to make killer robots, or whatever, how can I argue with you?" He pulled back into the right lane. "We all know they're hiding things from us. What about those aliens they've got in Nevada?"
"They're certainly hiding things," Sarah said in a flat voice.
"So maybe you know more than you're telling us? Fair enough, too. You don't have to tell all your secrets to me. Raoul feels the same way, don't worry. We can keep our mouths shut about what you do tell us. And we won't pester you. It'll be cool. You'll see."
Sarah didn't say another word for the rest of the journey.
When the Terminators appeared from the future, John had worked out that his mom was not crazy, after all.
T2 - 01 - The New John Connor Chronicles - Dark Futures Page 4