Infiltrator

Why, he wondered, am I doing this? Over the years he had met some criminals for whom he'd felt a certain sympathy. He acknowledged that sometimes circumstances drove individuals to insane extremes. But that sympathy and understanding had never kept him from hunting down and bringing to justice those who had broken the law. You couldn't simply let them get away with it.

And yet… here he was about to go in and talk, when he should have simply called the authorities and put in a claim for the reward. Why? Simply because Sarah Connor was a woman he was attracted to?

No, he'd found some of the women he'd hunted over the years to be attractive,

but never alluring enough to let them go. It could be that his every instinct said that Sarah Connor was a good person, one who could be trusted, and, despite what he'd read, completely sane.

Perhaps the reason was simple gratitude for breaking through the boredom that was crushing him into a reasonable facsimile of the cows he raised. Even before he suspected that she was Sarah Connor, he had found her intriguing. From the first he had wanted to find out everything he could about her.

Then it's curiosity, he suggested to himself. That must be it. So did that mean that when his curiosity was satisfied he'd turn Sarah and her son over to the authorities? Something in him rebelled at the thought.

This is senseless, Dieter thought, and opened the car door. You couldn't let people get away with the kind of destruction Connor had helped to cause. And yet he knew that he would. Knew they'd at least get a head start from him. He'd never even contemplated such a thing before.

"C'mon, boy," he said softly.

An older puppy of mixed breed perked up its ears and moved from the passenger seat to the one he'd just vacated, licking its nose as it came. He lifted the puppy up and cuddled it against him as he slammed the car door.

The porch light was on but no one had come out to greet him. Odd behavior in this country, where everyone was so hospitable. And Connor worked hard to fit in. For one brief moment he wondered if he was going to be shot the moment he crossed her threshold.

The puppy wriggled slightly, then looked up at him, as though it had just wanted to remind him that it didn't like having its feet off the ground. Dieter spoke gently to it and walked slowly toward the portal.

"Hello the house," he said at last, uneasy at the lasting silence.

"Hello," Sarah said from inside the darkened doorway. She saw the puppy and her brows went up.

"May we come in?" Dieter asked.

Sarah frowned slightly, as an ordinary working mother might at being put upon like this. After a fractional hesitation she opened the door. "Of course," she said, with a wry smile.

She had stayed in the same clothes she'd worn to work, a full skirt in dark maroon and a simple white blouse. Dieter was no more formally dressed in khakis and a checked shirt. Just like neighbors having a friendly visit, Sarah thought. If only that were true.

John blinked at the sight of the dog in von Rossbach's arms and shot a questioning look at his mother over Dieter's head when he bent to put the puppy down. She shrugged in mute answer.

"He's about four months old," von Rossbach said. "And housebroken. At least, he hasn't had any accidents in my house. But that could be because he's afraid of Marieta." He looked up and grinned at John. "He's still young enough that you could give him a new name if you wanted."

John opened his mouth, then turned his head to the side.

"I can't have a dog," he said simply.

"You can't go your whole life denying yourself friendship or love, or a dog, based on one experience, John." Dieter stood up. "He will be good company for your mother while you are away at school. And when you come home, he'll be here."

Sarah and John locked gazes, then looked at him.

"We need to talk," Dieter said simply. He moved into the living room and sat on the couch. "Sit down, Sarah."

She walked over and took the basket of knitting that marked her place off of a side chair and put it on the floor. Then she sat, shifting slightly as the Uzi she'd concealed under the cushion dug into her backside. She looked up, startled.

"What did you call me?" she asked.

"Sarah." Dieter held her eyes with his. "Sarah Connor."

John shifted slightly, squeezing his hands shut. The puppy noticed him and trotted over to give him a sniff. John squatted down and began to pet him, keeping a wary eye on the man on the couch.

She opened her mouth to speak and von Rossbach raised one big hand. "Don't bother to deny it," he said tiredly. "I know. I knew before Griego shouted out your name."

Sarah turned her head slightly, caught John in her peripheral vision, then looked back at Dieter. "What game are you playing?" she asked quietly.

Sarah stayed perfectly still, hands in her lap, ankles crossed, but wanting to shout defiance, fiercely wanting to take him down to punish him for this betrayal.

Something in her recoiled at that, setting her off-balance.

She was glad she didn't have a gun in her hand at this moment, because she genuinely wasn't certain what decision she'd make. She brought her emotions back under control quickly. They needed to find out what this man was up to, getting emotional wouldn't help them do that.

He shook his head, his eyes steady.

"No game," he said.

"Really?" Sarah asked, turning her gaze full on him. She glanced out the window behind the couch, but saw only herself reflected in the glass. The sun was already down and dark had descended. "So you're alone?"

"Except for Harold there," Dieter said, gesturing toward the puppy, "it's just me."

John and his mother studied him in silence for a long time.

"That's not the usual way for the Sector to operate, now is it?" Sarah said, noting the slight flaring of his nostrils as he realized that she knew what he was. "What do they want, if not to arrest us and bring us in for prosecution."

"As far as I know, that's exactly what they want, Sarah." He looked her in the

eye. "But I no longer work for them."

John and his mother looked at him in open astonishment until the puppy got impatient with being ignored and butted him. John dropped onto his butt and began to massage the little dog's ruff.

Sarah blinked at Dieter and tried to read his eyes.

"Meaning?" she said at last.

"Meaning that I don't have to jump when they whistle. Meaning that I believe there's something behind all that you did that I very much want to understand.

Meaning that I don't believe that you are a madwoman or a terrorist. I've met enough people of that stripe over the years that I can usually recognize them by the third meeting." He shook his head slowly. "There's something different about you."

"So you're just curious?" Sarah tipped her head to one side and began to drum her fingers on the arm of her chair. "Would you like some… coffee?"

"Yes." He smiled. "I would, thank you."

When Sarah left the room John didn't even attempt to talk to von Rossbach, but played with the dog. Dieter sat quietly, watching them and listening to the sounds from the kitchen. His mind was in a resting state, receiving input but not thinking about it, simply waiting.

In about ten minutes Sarah returned bearing a tray with coffee and slices of pound cake. She put it on the low table before the couch and began to pour. John

drifted over and sat in the other armchair. The dog lay down at his feet, bright eyes moving from one human to the other. When Sarah had poured them each a cup they sat and sipped in silence, as though participating in some meditative ceremony.

After a few minutes Dieter put his cup and saucer on the table beside him and said, "Let me tell you how I found out about you. If you'll remember, our first meeting was somewhat dramatic."

Sarah's full lips lifted in a half smile and she nodded.

"I didn't believe a word you told me," he said.

She closed her eyes and shrugged.

"I didn't think you did," Sarah said. "But I didn't know then that it would be a problem."

"I sent my old partner a drawing that I did of you and asked him if there was anything on file about Suzanne Krieger." Dieter went on to tell them about the information Jeff had sent, explaining that Griego was his friend's idea as well. "It was when he sent me the case histories that I became confused," he explained.

"One time you're fleeing the man with my face, the next he's your accomplice.

And then when you first saw me you bolted, and that was real fear I saw on your face. I don't understand, how could that be? And who is he anyway?"

Sarah and John glanced at each other, then Sarah looked at von Rossbach, her expression weary. "You won't believe me," she said.

"I have an open mind," Dieter said.

John snorted. "Hey, I didn't believe her until the Terminator showed up."

"The man with my face," Dieter said.

"It wasn't a man," Sarah said. "It was an 'it.' A machine. And there were two of them. The first one was programmed to kill me, the other to help John."

Dieter nodded. He'd get back to that later.

"When he— it got you out of the asylum, why didn't you just run for the border then? Why go to Cyberdyne and kill Miles Dyson?"

"I didn't kill Miles Dyson," Sarah's eyes bored into his. "I couldn't. And in the end I didn't want to. He was a good man, and a brave one. The police killed him

—or at least they shot him enough times to kill him." She winced, her eyes on her coffee. "I'd like to believe that, because it would make me less guilty.

Otherwise the explosion did it. But it was never my intention that he should die."

Dieter nodded, then glanced at John, who was looking down at the pup, sound asleep on his foot. "But why go to Cyberdyne at all? You could have gotten away clean. All of you, but you risked it all, even your son, to destroy a computer company. I don't understand."

Sarah smiled to herself, she let her eyes roam her comfortable living room. This was so civilized, a nice chat about chaos over coffee and cake.

"If you know anything about this," she said, returning her gaze to Dieter, "then

you must have heard about Judgment Day."

He nodded. "Yes. I read about it in your medical records."

Her brows went up. ,

"You've read my medical records?" He nodded. Sarah grinned at his uncomfortable expression. "Boy, I'd love to read them myself."

"They're very interesting."

"I'll bet they are," John muttered. "A first-class piece of fiction writing. Science fiction."

"Horror, if you want to specify the genre," Sarah said and smiled at him. Then she turned back to Dieter.

"I was never delusional," she said. "Everything I said was true, the Terminators, Skynet, Judgment Day, all of it. It's true."

"You gave the date of the world's end as—" Dieter stopped speaking when Sarah held up her hand.

"We destroyed Cyberdyne because, according to the Terminator, Cyberdyne was going to create Skynet and Skynet was going to start a nuclear war. By eliminating all of their records as well as the two items they harvested from the first Terminator, we eliminated their ability to continue the project."

She settled herself more comfortably into her chair. "Which ended the threat."

Sarah took a sip of her coffee.

Dieter shook his head.

"What?" John snapped, sitting forward in his chair, frowning.

The pup lifted its head sleepily at his tone, with a muffled wrufff? of protest as its warm communion with a friendly human was interrupted.

Von Rossbach continued to look at Sarah, who was staring at him, frozen-faced.

"Tell us," she said. Her scalp felt too tight suddenly and the hand gripping her saucer turned white at the knuckles.

"They've started up operations again on an army base. An underground installation this time. I've also been told that they have recovered some item you were supposed to have stolen during your raid." Dieter watched the color slowly drain from both their faces.

"That's impossible," Sarah said quietly. "We destroyed those things, threw them into a vat of molten metal." She shook her head. "There's no way they could have survived."

"The arm," John said, sounding strangely far away. "When he came up the conveyer belt with the grenade launcher he had only one arm left." He looked at his mother. "There were all these wires and shit hanging out of his other sleeve!"

Sarah flashed to her feet, spilling the cup and saucer onto the floor, and looked around her as though there were a fire but she didn't know where. "Oh no," she said, pressing her hands to her head. "No! Dammit!" She dropped her hands,

clenched them into fists. "How? How could they start up again? We destroyed everything, everything! Even Miles's personal papers. He said that everything was there—his work, his team's work, all of it." She dropped into her chair again and stared at Dieter. "How?" she asked.

"They secretly backed up everything they had," Dieter told her. "It's common procedure. They just didn't tell their employees that they were doing it. That way the backup records would be safe. You can't even torture someone into telling you things they don't know."

Sarah got up and began to pace slowly. She felt as though he'd just told her a loved one had died. Tears pricked at her eyelids and her throat grew tight. Get over it, she told herself fiercely. You have to move on. What are you going to do?

Think!

John sat in shock. He felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach, knocking all the air out of him. He watched his mother pace as though she were in another dimension, smaller somehow and far away.

Then, as one, they turned to Dieter, the same expression on their faces. Dieter had felt it on his own face more than once and seen it on colleagues' when they were faced with a job they loathed. But a job they would do with a determination even greater than their hatred for it.

BETWEEN ASUNCION AND VILLA HAYES, PARAGUAY: THE

PRESENT

Marco kept glancing at the Terminator until it asked him, "Why are you staring at me?"

"It's just… you look… do you know von Rossbach?" he asked.

"Yes. He's my cousin." It continued to look straight forward, its sunglasses remaining in place even as the sun set.

"Because you look just like him," Marco said.

"Like twins," the Terminator agreed. "Except for our eyes. Those are different."

Certainly its eyes were. They were glass, the very best available, but still noticeable eventually to even the most unobservant human. Hence the dark glasses.

"Oh," Cassetti said. Well, that explains a lot. This must be some family matter, he supposed. Dieter was probably getting into things they were afraid might disgrace the family. If he was freely consorting with gunrunners and terrorists they had reason to be fearful.

"How much longer?" the Terminator asked.

"About thirty minutes," Marco said. "It will be dark when we get there." There was no answer from his passenger, so Cassetti mentally supplied one.

Good.

About twenty silent minutes later Marco pulled the car off the main road and onto a narrow, but drivable track.

"If we go any further on the road," he explained, "they'll see us coming. There's a bit of a walk to the house, but I didn't think you wanted to be seen."

"No." The Terminator sat unmoving, the case in its lap.

That stillness was working on Cassetti, making him very uneasy. So were the bugs and the sounds and the indecipherable rustles and clicks. This wasn't how the world was supposed to smell, or feel, or sound.

If the guy didn't speak occasionally and breathe, he'd have begun to fear he was dead. He'd read that ninjitsu taught its adherents how to be still, but this, this was something he imagined would make even them look fidgety by comparison.

"So what's in the case?" he asked casually.

"Surveillance equipment," it lied. "So I'm going up alone. It's very sensitive and I don't have much time, so I don't want any more interference than necessary. It's rented," the Terminator continued. "So you'll have to return it for me. We won't have time to go back to Griego before my flight. My employer will pay you extra for your inconvenience."

"Oh, hey, that won't be necessary," Marco protested, pleased.

"She will insist."

Cassetti nodded absently as he worked out a new scenario. So this guy was von Rossbach's cousin, but apparently no relation to the beautiful blonde who had hired him because he kept referring to her as "my employer."

Maybe what happened was that von Rossbach had stolen something that he was offering for sale to all these underworld types and the blonde, who maybe ran an

old family company that manufactured weapons or something, was trying to get it back before von Rossbach could sell it and put innocent people in jeopardy.

And the cousin here was trying to recover his own family's lost honor by helping to bring his cousin to justice. Yeah, that worked. That sounded plausible. It had plot.

He turned off the headlights and cut the engine, coasting to a stop. "The house is a quarter of a mile that way," he said, opening his door.

"I'll find it," the Terminator said. "You stay here."

It would kill Cassetti at the airport, it decided. Unless there was noise during the termination of Connor and her son and the human panicked. Yes, it would keep this resource alive unless and until it became inconvenient.

"There's a ravine over that way." Cassetti pointed. "It goes right by their house and makes a good place to observe from."

The Terminator looked in the direction the human was pointing and saw it immediately. "Yes," it said. "Stay here." And it moved off. On-site, it sent to Serena. Approaching target.

Serena, at dinner with Jordan Dyson, was distracted for a fraction of a second.

Understood. Continue. Out. She felt a little shiver of pleasure pass over her skin as she contemplated finally, finally, seeing the end of that miserable pair.

As she looked at Dieter Sarah could feel Suzanne Krieger falling away like an old coat. In a way it was a relief. Even as she regretted the loss of her life here in Villa Hayes, she had to admit that Suzanne and her concerns were, well…

Suzanne was a hausfrau. Suzanne was content to vegetate in a small town.

Suzanne is boring. She had opened her mouth to speak when a noise interrupted her.

Growling.

The puppy had jumped up onto all fours and its nose was pointed to the picture window toward the slatted vents above it. It growled again, a shocking sound from an animal so soppy-friendly and so young, and its slightly shaggy brown-gray coat was bristling as if it had been plunged into a giant electrostatic generator. Then it barked, hard and hostile.

Mother and son looked at each other, with a dawning horror in each pair of eyes.

"John!" Dieter exclaimed, pointing. "Down!" And he threw himself forward off the couch.

In the split second before the big man's hands dragged him to the floor, John looked down and saw centered over his heart the telltale red dot of a laser sighting mechanism. A nanosecond before he moved, there came a sharp

"klack!" from the window, as though a pebble had been flung, hard, against it. A fuzzy-edged star appeared on the glass.

Sarah hit the floor and crawled over to the wall switch. In the moment before darkness fell she saw that Dieter had drawn a gun from somewhere. She hadn't even realized he was carrying.

My God, I've slowed down, she thought bitterly.

"Friends of yours?" she hissed, hoping against hope.

A glance at the cowering terror and teeth-baring rage of the puppy as it backed toward the kitchen killed… the hope that I'm being targeted by a ruthless covert-ops antiterrorist agency.

"No," he snapped. "Sector doesn't operate this way. It would be easier to simply arrest you, Sarah. And we definitely wouldn't deliberately target a sixteen-year-old boy!"

She didn't bother to answer.

The window was suddenly peppered with bullets, like a flurry of giant hailstones hitting the glass. It didn't break, but crazed into an opaque wall. Bulletproof glass, he realized. Clever. And, as it turned out, necessary.

John tipped over Sarah's chair, ignoring the hidden pistol, to rip out the fabric covering the bottom. Then he yanked the 12.7mm heavy Barrett sniper rifle out of the cradle that ran up its high fan-shaped back and crawled toward the kitchen, pushing the six-foot mass of steel and synthetics before him.

"Get ready," Sarah told him. "On three—one, two… three!"

She flung a switch and the outside yard was flooded with light.

Dieter opened his mouth and then closed it again with a snap. These weren't civilians, and he wasn't in command of the defense against whoever it was that was trying to kill them.

The feeling was reinforced as Sarah—he reminded himself to call her that—

came leopard-crawling back from the kitchen and ripped an M-16 rifle with a scope sight out from under the cushions of the sofa. Even her body language had changed as she slapped back the weapon's bolt, still graceful but with all softness gone from it.

"What have you got in the way of fixed defenses?" he said, for want of something better.

"Floods," she replied briskly. "Israeli surplus personal surveillance radar.

Reinforced doors and windows, with breeching alarms." Her eyes crinkled slightly. "Poor Dieter—I think you're going to get that proof you wanted. If we survive this." Then she shook her head. "No if about it. We have to survive."

"I was planning on it," he said, and smiled. "In a way, I am relieved."

"How do you spell relief…" Sarah said. Then: " Down!"

Before the word, the hollow choonk of a grenade launcher had already sent Dieter diving for the cover of one of the heavy leather armchairs. As he pulled it over on himself he saw Sarah burrowing under the couch. Here was a woman after his own heart…

BAADUMP.

Flame and splinters of tempered armor glass and a wave of heat washed over him; something stung his left hand. He sucked on the cut as he came up behind the thick chair, aiming his Glock out the empty space where the big window had been. A figure stirred beyond the lawn and flower beds, moving. He squeezed

off two rounds from his pistol—long-range, but he'd always been a good instinctive shot. Sarah's assault rifle gave a spiteful crack-crack-crack, firing on semiauto, but rapidly. He saw the figure lurch and spin, something flying from its hand.

"I knocked it down!" Sarah called—loud enough to sound like a shout, even to his battered ears. So John can hear, Dieter thought. "It lost the grenade launcher!"

"Knocked it down?" Dieter said. "Did you hit him?"

"It," Sarah said coolly. "Five rounds into the center of mass."

Even body armor won't stop rifle rounds at less than a hundred yards, Dieter thought: 5.56 rounds were high velocity; and they tumbled in a wound. That many would cut a man in half, spill his guts over the ground.

"That'll put it out for a minute or so," Sarah said. "It'll have to reboot. C'mon."

She'd fallen into English, unnoticed. Dieter reacted automatically, helping her push the heavy furniture into an improvised barricade against the ruin of the window; she stooped and threw the rug to one side as well.

"Heads up!" came John's voice, faint down the stairs.

"Won't he try another entrance?" Dieter said.

"No, he knows John and I are here," Sarah said, with a bleakness that added years to the age her voice sounded. "And he… it… will figure that the highest

probability is to head straight for us. They're hard to stop."

They must be, if they can take half a dozen assault-rifle slugs in the belly, Dieter thought. Cautiously he peered over the top of the couch into the glare of the lights outside.

An arm came over the edge of the retaining wall at the lower end of the lawn, holding the pistol grip of a rifle in one hand — Galil or Kalishnikov, he couldn't tell which. No problem, nobody could control —

The rifle's muzzle began strobing red in the night, precise three-round bursts.

One by one the floodlights died, and darkness settled over the estancia buildings… darkness, and more silence than usual. Many of the creatures of the night had prudently shut up, when humans were hunting.

Or things that look human, Dieter thought, feeling the eeriness of that impossibly precise shooting clutch at his stomach. No time. Think about it later.

Sarah slipped goggles down over her eyes, handed him a pair; he donned them, adjusting the strap for his larger head. Israeli manufacture; not the latest model but solid electronics. The night turned a bright silvery green, and he could see the man —

The Terminator, he thought.

— climbing over the edge of the wall, coming forward with the assault rifle in one hand and an Uzi in the other, using both as if they were light pistols. Just as the figure in the tape from the police station had done, the one that killed seventeen armed men. The clothing across its middle was shredded, the fabric

wet with blood. Beneath the gore he thought he saw something shining.

"How are we going to stop it?" he shouted.

"Draw its fire!" Sarah snapped back.

I defer to your knowledge, he thought, and emptied the Glock at the looming figure marching toward them at a brisk walk.

The bullets struck; he could see them hit, punching holes in the leather coat. The face was his own, but it didn't even twitch — just turned toward him like a turret swiveling, weapons coming up. A nightmare, in which he tried to kill himself and couldn't. ,

He ducked, and automatic fire chewed at the thick stone of the window ledge; ricochets whined and howled into the house. Sarah thumbed the selector switch of her M-16 to full auto, popped up, and hosed the clip into the approaching thing. It fell back, staggered, flopped onto its back… and began to move again.

Dieter's mind gibbered as his hands went through the automatic motions of reloading — sixteen rounds in a Clock, and he had only the one spare magazine.

Perhaps if we pump enough lead into it, it will be too heavy to stand?

Then a sound came from the floor above them. BRACK! The Barrett rifle firing; firing a heavy machine-gun round with a slug the size of a man's thumb, designed for use against armored cars and military helicopters.

Dieter had turned to fire again, feeling like he was using a child's slingshot; he saw the massive form of the Terminator fly backward six feet and flop down.

BRACK. Another of the heavy bullets slammed into the thing's body; the Austrian felt his eyes going wide. He'd seen armored fighting vehicles blow up from less damage. BRACK. BRACK.

The body lay sprawled fifteen yards from the window, spread-eagled, weapons gone. Dieter suppressed an impulse to empty his pistol into it and then go for a bulldozer and a load of concrete. He forced himself to take deep slow breaths, the scent of cordite paradoxically soothing, an element of normality in this nightmare. There was blood welling from the ripped leather and flesh of the dead… machine, he decided. But not nearly enough blood, and no bone fragments or coils of red-purple intestine. Instead, once again, he could see a gleam of metal, and now a spark, as if something electronic were shorting out.

"Well…" he began, turning to Sarah. Her face relaxed as well. Then she looked over his shoulder, and her teeth showed in a snarl.

" Fuck this!" she shouted as he turned and saw the outstretched arms lift, the fingers flex, the face like a death-mask wax of his own rising to look at them again. One eye glowed red in the bloodied, shredded visage.

" Fuck this dicking around. I'm gonna terminate that fucker!"

Sarah was scrabbling at the floor where the rug had lain. Dieter watched incredulously as a section of floor came up; Sarah reached within, and the ripped cloth of her blouse showed a swell of flat female muscle as she lifted out the long tube within. It was fat—88mm—and flared at the end, with two handgrips.

And an optical sight along the left side; the woman heaved it onto her shoulder and snuggled the rest home as she aimed. The Terminator was on its feet again, coming toward them with the stolid unstoppable grace of an avalanche.

Dieter slid down with his back against the wall, flinging his gun arm over his eyes and opening his mouth so that the overpressure of the back-blast wouldn't—

THUD-WSSSSH!

—shred his eardrums. Heat scorched him again, and a feeling as if he'd been hit very hard with a kapok-filled sack all over his body. Firing a recoilless rifle inside a confined space, even a big confined space, wasn't a very good idea.

There wasn't any recoil because the projectile was balanced by a backward blast of hot, high-velocity gas. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Sarah tumbling over on her back, with the Carl Gustav launcher clattering away, and everything left standing in the big living room that hadn't already been overset flying as if a hurricane had struck. From the sound of it, the same thing was happening out in the kitchen, and there was a piteous whining from the puppy cowering under the cast-iron stove.

And out on the lawn… well, a Carl Gustav was supposed to destroy main battle tanks. The Terminator had taken the shaped-charge warhead right on its breastbone, and a huge globe of magenta fire flared in the night. When Dieter blinked away the afterimages, the torso and legs were lying in a shallow crater, juddering with a horrible semblance of life.

The skull, shoulder, and one arm of the Terminator were a little closer to the house. Most of the lower half of the face had been burned away, leaving a sooty residue on what looked like chromium steel alloy that had been burned bare and shiny in spots. There was enough that the eerie resemblance to his own face—

the one he saw shaving every morning—was still there, and it made him want to

scrub the flesh away with acid.

Then the eyes opened, and looked into his. They were dead, starred like broken marbles, but they saw him; the head moved, saw Sarah Connor. A jerk, and the arm moved, too, reaching out, clawing fingers where flesh shredded away from steel into the ground, pulling itself closer.

Dieter gave a cry of loathing and shot again and again, but the mutilated thing didn't so much as glance back at him.

BRACK!

He hadn't even noticed Sarah's son coming up behind him; some detached part of his mind told him that was a sign he was going into shock, a mental fugue state.

The heavy slug slammed the Terminator over on what was left of its back. John's slight teenage form swayed back with the recoil of the massive weapon; even then, Dieter could admire the boy's marksmanship, firing from the hip like that.

Of course, if he fired from the shoulder standing up, it would knock him over.

BRACK! The vicious blue sparks of a hardpoint on steel, and the "skull" dropped from its severed metal spine. BRACK. This time the muzzle was close enough to the face of the killer machine that the muzzle blast burned more flesh from the eye. The bullet went in through the orbit and punched out through the rear, sending the metal bouncing into the night.

"Well," John said. "So—that proof enough for you?"

Dieter looked at him, and at Sarah, climbing groggily to her feet, blood running from small cuts on her arms and skirt stripped away by the blasts. He looked

down at the… can't call it a corpse, he thought. It was never alive.

"That," he said, "is more proof than I wanted to have."

John laid the empty weapon down and made a grab. The puppy dodged past him, threw itself at the remains of the Terminator, and began to worry at its leg. The boy—young man—scooped it up.

"And now you see why I can't have a dog," he said, and buried his face for a moment in the animal's fur.

* * *

Marco sat in the car, whacking the occasional insect and waiting. His stomach felt like it was wrapped around a jagged rock. He wanted to pace, but didn't dare lest it interfere with his passenger's equipment. And for the first time in his life he actually wanted to smoke.

He checked his watch. It had only been about fifteen minutes. It just felt like it should be midnight. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

Marco heard a sudden pop like a firecracker and he jumped. Then there was silence. He stared expectantly into the darkness as though he would be seeing fireworks any moment now. A flash and a hollow boom sound. Then there was another series of pops, and off to the side a bright light. It held steady, there were more pops and the light gradually began to diminish.

"Shots?" Marco said out loud, and instinctively knew he was right.

He got out of the car and moved toward the ravine, then stopped, uncertain what

to do. He was unarmed and now there seemed to be shots coming from all directions. Cassetti shifted from foot to foot anxiously.

Then he thought he should get the car started and be ready for a getaway. The big guy looked like he knew how to take care of himself. He'd come barreling down that ravine any second now, ready to jump in the car and make their escape.

Marco got into the car and carefully turned it around so that it faced the track. He sat in the driver's seat, but he was so wound up his butt barely touched the cushions. He stared into the darkness, waiting, listening.

"C'mon," Cassetti urged. "Let's go! Cut your losses and get out of there, man!"

Then there was a blast that blew a ball of flame over the low hill that hid the Krieger estancia from view. It was followed by complete silence.

Gradually insect noises returned and Marco let out his breath in a great gasp. It was time to go, he realized. If his passenger had survived that, he'd have arrived by now. Marco set the car into careful motion, the lights still out, finding his way down the track by the scant light of the moon.

He didn't turn the headlights on until he was a mile down the actual road and then he sped up to a downright dangerous forty. His mind ran around and around like a cricket in a jar. Should he stop in Villa Hayes and tell the police? Surely they would arrest him. What were you doing out there? they'd ask. And what could he say? Oh, I was just bringing Senor von Rossbach's cousin out there to spy on him. Really? And why did you do that?

It wouldn't do, he realized as he drove past the town. Someone had died out there tonight. There was nothing he could do to change that fact. The only thing he could change by telling the authorities would be his own future, and not for the better.

He would tell his client. And then that would be it. She'd have to get someone else from now on. He hadn't hired on for this. For all he knew the big man was supposed to blow him away, too.

Marco's mind went still at that. He remembered Griego's mysterious absence from his office—the intimidating man's too pat explanation for it. He gasped and stepped down on the accelerator, certain to his soul that he'd just escaped with his life.

Suddenly the restaurant business didn't look so bad.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SARAH CONNOR'S ESTANCIA,

PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT

Sarah stroked the puppy's velvet ears and laughed when he began to wag his tail and tried to lick her; a wiggling puppy amid the stink of burn propellant and scorched flesh.

"Actually this little guy is a good argument for why we always ought to have a dog," she said. "When it comes to Terminators, there's no early-warning system more effective."

"We can't take him with us, Mom," John said. He shifted the little dog's weight.

"Much as I'd like to. He's too young and he's completely untrained. He'd be a danger to us and to himself."

"I know." She leaned in and nuzzled the puppy, who redoubled his efforts to lick everything in sight. With a sigh she turned to Dieter. "You'll have to take him home with you. And, if you would be so kind, please take my horse, Linda, as well.

Looking over, she saw that he had a hitch attached to his car.

"Would you mind getting the trailer set up while John and I police the area here?" she asked.

"Police… ?" Dieter looked confused.

"We have to break that up into unrecognizable pieces," she explained, pointing to the defunct Terminator. "Then we'll burn the house down around it."

"You might want to hurry, then," Dieter said with a nod toward the house. "It looks like the fire in the living room is taking hold."

"Shit!" Sarah said. "John, get our stuff out of there. I'll take care of this."

" We'll take care of this," Dieter amended. He noticed that John put the dog down and jogged toward the house without a word. Good training, he thought, impressed by the young man's discipline. It was as if the faces of the people he'd first met were peeling away like masks, and beneath were… well, people pretty much like these, ready to fight or run for their lives at any moment.

Without asking, Sarah reached over, unbuckled, and pulled off Dieter's belt, yanking it from around his waist in one smooth move, startling him. Then she knelt and put it through Harold's collar, making a leash, which she then handed to Dieter.

Von Rossbach laughed. "I'll just put him in the car," he said, and led the puppy away. He looked over his shoulder. "I'll be back."

Sarah nodded absently. She went over to the woodpile and picked up the ax, then turned to the Terminator's severed legs, still jittering strangely on the ground.

"Damn," she said softly, and lofted the ax.

By the time Dieter returned she had the feet and lower legs separated and was working on the hips. He had brought a crowbar from the tool kit he kept in his trunk and a massive pair of bolt cutters. He placed his foot on one of the lower-leg pieces and began to work the crowbar, wrenching until it came apart.

The flesh and blood made it a gruesome task, despite the metal clearly visible beneath. He fought down his disgust and kept doggedly working the pieces apart. If Sarah could do it, so could he.

John came out in a few minutes and dropped a couple of cases. He was wearing a huge backpack; he swung it down to the ground with a grunt and then picked up the separated pieces of the Terminator, trotting back into the house with them.

Sarah looked up as he went in, her face grim. She evaluated the progress of the fire and redoubled her efforts at chopping the Terminator apart.

"Here," Dieter said, reaching for the ax. "I think I'll make more progress on that than you can. Why don't you start with the bolt cutters."

She nodded and handed it over without a word. He was right, and they had the fire to consider; time for discussion was a luxury. John came out and gathered a second load. He was back in a much shorter time.

"We'll have to throw the rest in," he said, shouting over the roar of the fire.

Sarah just nodded and kept on with her work. John hefted the crowbar and went looking for the head. He slid one end of the bar into an eye socket and lifted it up to examine it. Two rounds had gone completely through the skull and the components rattled around inside; some mangled pieces fell out through the holes. The problem with this thing was that it was a very solid piece of workmanship. Breaking it up was going to be a stone bitch.

"I think you'll get further using this," Dieter said from beside him.

He offered the ax and John took it. He checked the edge and found it very chipped and dull. He gave von Rossbach a lopsided smile.

"Maybe so, but not much further."

"There's a trick to it," Dieter said. "Put it down and I'll show you."

John lowered the head to the ground and worked the crowbar out of they eye socket. Then he made an inviting gesture and stood back.

Von Rossbach lifted the ax, the muscles on his arms bulging, and brought it

down lightly, just touching the Terminator's skull, lifted it again, and brought it down, as though making sure of his aim. John watched him attentively as Dieter brought the ax up a final time and brought it down with an unstoppable, irresistible strength that split the metal as though it were made of foil. He raised the ax again and split it crosswise, breaking the teeth into unrecognizable white splinters.

Then together they pried the remaining shreds of metal apart. John gathered up the escaped plastic bits and components from inside the skull, using part of the head as a bowl to hold them. Then he got as close to the burning house as he could and flung it into the flames like a Frisbee.

Dieter looked around; there was nothing left but a few bloodstains on the ground, and the bacteria and ants and monsoon rains would take care of those.

He shuddered, feeling slightly nauseous for a second.

"Reaction," Sarah said from beside him.

He looked down at her. The fake glasses were gone and he could see her eyes clearly for once, " fa," he said. "I could use a comforting hug." He opened his big arms and turned toward her.

Sarah looked at him in disbelief, momentarily disgusted at the thought of hugging what she'd just torn apart. Then she looked at his very human eyes and smiled, then laughed. "Of course," she said, and stepped into his arms. "We Connors provide full-service disasters."

She put her own arms around him and rested her cheek against his solid chest.

One hand patted his back, making circles, then patting, the way she had with

John when he was a baby. Dieter rested his check against her hair and she felt, rather than heard, him sigh.

We've been attacked by a Terminator, my house is burning down, and we have to flee Paraguay. But this is rather nice, she thought. Dieter's big hands began to imitate her own, gentle circles and pats. Am I going into shock? After a moment she decided she wasn't. After a longer moment she decided to let go of von Rossbach and stand alone. But she didn't. Instead she closed her eyes and sighed.

Von Rossbach moved his head to look down at the woman in his arms. He stroked her hair and Sarah lifted her head to look up at him. She lowered her eyes, smiling slightly.

"Comforted?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," he said.

"Guys?" John said.

They both moved apart as though he'd thrown water on them.

"Yeah," Sarah said, nodding. "You will take Linda?" she said to von Rossbach.

"Linda?"

"The horse," John explained with elaborate patience.

"Of course," Dieter said. "You two can come to my place so that we can make plans."

"I don't think so," Sarah said. "I think it's best we disappear now." She turned away. "I'll get Linda into the trailer."

He grabbed her arm and she spun, yanking her arm from his grip.

"I want to help," Dieter said, willing her to believe him. Feral as she seemed to be going that belief was going to come hard. "You can't just go off half-cocked.

You need to plan this and I have the resources to help you."

"Dieter," John cut in, keeping a wary eye on both of them, "I know you mean well, but you do realize that they probably found us because of you."

Von Rossbach's head snapped around to look at him. "You do realize that don't you?"

"I told no one," Dieter insisted. "I denied everything to my colleagues. They didn't find you through me, I swear it."

Sarah and John exchanged a look, and she gave a slight jerk of her head toward the barn. John hesitated and she gave him the look. He rolled his eyes and moved off; after a few yards she and Dieter could hear muttering.

Now Sarah and Dieter looked at each other. She lifted her hand to brush back her hair, then dropped it when she saw the caked blood on her fingers.

"Are you really that naive?" Sarah asked. She put her hands on her hips. "Maybe you are. After all, you've never had to fight machines that think before." Sarah drew in a deep breath and then let it out, her eyes on the fire for a moment. "You put my name out there. They'd be watching for that." She looked up at him.

"And, obviously, they can interface with other machines like no human being.

Maybe this one was just sent down to check out the possibility that you had seen me. But it isn't going home, and that, I assure you, will alert them to our whereabouts." She held up a finger. "And let's not forget that Victor wasn't too happy with either one of us when he left Villa Hayes the other night. Who knows who he's told."

Von Rossbach drew his mouth into a tight line and, frowning, stared at the bloody dirt beneath his feet. She was probably right. Worse, he didn't know the enemy the way she did. But she had learned and so could he. He nodded once and looked at her.

"I am going to help you," he said. "And I am going with you. I have contacts that you can use and, forgive me—this isn't a criticism—I have credibility that you do not." He shook his head. "Don't throw away a good tool before you've even examined it, Sarah. I can help you." He looked toward the barn. "And him."

Sarah's expression was troubled. But all she said was, "Why don't you drive your car down to the barn so we can hitch you up." Then she turned and walked away.

He would have preferred a direct answer, but he decided to believe that she was thinking it over. By the time the trailer was hitched and the horse loaded, she would have an answer for him. It had better be the right one, he thought.

Because I can be just as stubborn as she is.

"Dieter, we can't go to your estancia," Sarah began after shutting Linda into the trailer.

"Sarah," he interrupted, not letting her continue.

"Of course we can't go to your place," John cut in, with the eye-rolling exasperation that only a sixteen-year-old can show for adult obtuseness. "First of all, we can't drag a whole bunch more people into this without someone getting hurt. Second, we are like, wanted fugitives, on the run again. That doesn't stop, Dieter. That just goes on and on and on. Do you really want to taint your pristine reputation by associating with us?"

"I want to help you," von Rossbach said. "You need my help. The entire world and the human race in general need my help, if what you have said is true."

"We've done okay until now," John said, sounding cocky.

"You did okay until your enemies came back and started up the Skynet project at Cyberdyne."

Dieter stared at him with no expression on his face and John shuddered at how much he looked like the enemy.

"There's a good chance that I can get you in there," Dieter said. "Their facility is on an army base, underground. And they'll have backup, Sarah, just like the last time. I can help you find those locations." He leaned in close to her. "You need me, Sarah."

She looked at him and they stared into each other's eyes for a long time. "You'd follow us if I said no, wouldn't you?" she asked.

"And I'd find you." He straightened. "I was the best the Sector had, Sarah." He held out his hands. "Use me."

She gave a single, explosive laugh. "How could any girl resist that offer?" she said.

"Mo-om!"

She held up her hand and John subsided, reluctantly.

"Look," Dieter said, "I know you can't just come over and stay in my guest room. But there's a cottage on my property that you can use. It's primitive, but it should be safe for one night. Especially since it's over a mile from the house.

Tonight we can discuss our options and tomorrow we'll hit the road."

Sarah raised her brows, looked up at her house, burning merrily, glanced at John, whose arms were folded across his chest and whose frown spoke of his resistance, then smiled at Dieter.

"Sure," she said. "Sounds like a plan." She looked around, then gestured toward his Land Rover. "Just let us grab our gear and we'll go."

LOS ANGELES: THE PRESENT

Frowning, Tarissa Dyson put down the phone. She'd been disconcerted by the disconnect message she'd gotten when she called Jordan. But she was more troubled by the fact that, according to the phone company, he no longer seemed to have a number in Delaware.

Either he'd moved or he really, really didn't want to talk to her. He could be using a cell phone, I suppose, she thought. That way he could stay in touch with friends and work. Aha! Tarissa thought, and started dialing again. It didn't

connect.

She put down the phone again and rattled her fingernails on the coun-tertop as she thought. Well, if there's one place on earth that I can get in touch with him sooner or later, it would be at work. Tarissa was reluctant to do it; she thought calling someone at work, especially Jordan's work, was rude. But this is kind of an unusual situation. She tapped out the number, her mouth set.

"FBI."

"Agent Jordan Dyson, please," Tarissa said crisply.

"I'm sorry, Agent Dyson is no longer with the FBI, ma'am. Can I direct your call elsewhere?"

Tarissa found herself taking in a breath that wouldn't stop, as though some internal valve had become stuck. At last she managed to choke out a feeble,

"What?"

"Can I direct your call elsewhere, ma'am?"

Tarissa thought frantically. Who had Jordan mentioned that he worked with?

"Paulson!" she said after a moment's thought. "Pat Paulson." She identified herself to the secretary and in a few moments the phone was picked up.

"Paulson."

"Uh, Agent Paulson, this is Tarissa Dyson, Jordan's sister-in-law." Tarissa bit her lower lip. "This is a little embarrassing," she said with a little laugh, "but I don't

have his current phone number and I was wondering if you could help me out."

Pat felt the corners of her mouth tugging down in surprise. Jordan had always made himself out to be a family man, with his nephew and sister-in-law more or less at the center of his life. Could there have been an argument? Shit. If that was the case he wouldn't thank her for telling where he was.

"Agent Paulson?" Tarissa said anxiously.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm just surprised… that you don't know… his number or anything." Pat winced. That was smooth.

Tarissa felt her scalp tighten in apprehension. Whatever was going on here, she didn't think she was going to like it.

"Well, he said he had a surprise for us the last time he was here," she explained.

"I just need to talk to him about something and I can't find the stupid number."

Oh. Pat thought about that. Maybe Jordan just choked when it came to telling his sister-in-law that he was going to work for Cyberdyne. She could understand that. In which case he might be glad that someone else broke the news. And if he called to ream her out she could always plead innocence.

"We-el," she said, "he only left a couple of days ago and I haven't heard from him yet. Maybe you could get in touch with him through Cyberdyne."

There was a ringing silence at that and Pat winced again.

"Oh!" Tarissa said at last. It felt as though her eyebrows had disappeared into her

hairline. "Well… that certainly is a surprise." She narrowed her eyes and forced herself to sound jaunty. "But it will be great to have him living so close by."

Paulson relaxed a little. "I think he'll like that," she said. "He's always talking about you guys."

"Well, I'll try to get in touch with him at Cyberdyne, then," Tarissa said brightly.

They said good-bye and hung up. Tarissa leaned against the counter, hugging herself as she thought about this. Miles's project. Jordan had anticipated that the Connors would show up to put a stop to it.

And he's right, she thought, rubbing the knuckles of one hand against her lower lip. She dropped the hand with a sigh. I wish I knew where they were. I wish I could talk to them. She didn't want to stop them from destroying Cyberdyne; she only wanted to prevent them from killing Jordan. Who, meanwhile, will be doing his damnedest to stop them any way he can.

She brushed back her hair. Well, she couldn't talk to the Connors. But maybe she could talk to Jordan again. Maybe even get through to him this time.

She found the Cyberdyne number and called, was transferred and transferred again until she found herself speaking to Serena's secretary.

"I'm trying to locate Jordan Dyson," Tarissa said.

"He's not here at the moment, but I can take a message for him if you like."

Damn! Well, why not? After being switched hither and yon Tarissa figured this

was the best she was going to do today.

"Yes, please. Could you tell him that Tarissa asks him to please remember what she told him?"

The secretary's gossiping instincts perked up. "Certainly, Ms… ?"

"Dyson," Tarissa said.

"Ms. Dyson. I'll see that he gets your message, ma'am."

"Thank you." Tarissa hung up. Maybe that'll shake him out of his huff, she thought. Maybe not. Maybe only time would do that. I hope not, she thought. I miss him already.

CYBERDYNE: THE PRESENT

"So," Serena said, ushering Jordan into his new office, "we end the grand tour here."

"This is mine?" Jordan said.

The office was exactly the same size as Burns's, though more blandly furnished.

It was located directly across the hall from hers. Very nice, he thought. Here at Cyberdyne, where there were no windows, status came from the size of your space and this was about as large as an office could get here.

"Mm-hm," Serena said. "For the time being we'll share my secretary, Mrs.

Duprey. If it looks like that will be an unreasonable burden on her, we'll get you an assistant of your own."

"Thank you," Jordan said. He was used to sharing a secretary. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

"I'll leave you to get to work, then," Serena said. "I've posted everything we have on the Connor case onto your computer. If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask. I meant what I said when I told you I consider this to be top priority."

Jordan looked at the computer. "Great," he said. "I'll get right on it."

She smiled at him, a slow satisfied smile that sent a little shiver down his spine.

"I can see you're eager to get to work," she said. "So I'll leave you to it." She offered her hand and he took it. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Dyson."

"Great to be here, Ms. Burns."

With a nod Serena pulled his door closed behind her and crossed the hall. She stopped at Duprey's desk and the secretary looked up at her with birdlike brightness.

"Mrs. Duprey," Serena said confidentially, "I've told Mr. Dyson that you will be acting as his administrative assistant as well as my own for the time being."

Duprey's face and posture stiffened and it amused the 1-950 to realize that even a human could have read her displeasure. is it because of his race? she wondered.

Or does she think he might be an unredeemed sinner? Not that it mattered to Serena one way or the other. Perhaps she'd been too lenient with Mrs. Duprey.

But the woman was a veritable fount of illicit information. Still, maybe it's time

to, as she would put it, put the fear of God into her. After all, it wouldn't do to have her gossiping about what went on in the security office.

Serena straightened. "If that's not to your taste, Mrs. Duprey, perhaps I should have human resources"—how she loved that term—"send up a more accommodating secretary. Then you could work for someone else."

The secretary's jaw dropped.

"But I would hate to do that, Mrs. Duprey. I've come to rely on you. Your efficiency, your discretion—these are not common traits. Most of all I prize your loyalty." Serena allowed herself to look troubled. "I wish you would think about it before you decide." She smiled weakly. "I've very much enjoyed working with you."

"Of course I'll stay!" the woman said. "I've enjoyed working with you, too."

Serena smiled mistily and offered her hand, the secretary took it, and they had a special moment together. The t-950 squeezed the human's hand slightly. "Well, back to work," she said. "I'm sure Mr. Dyson won't need you to do things for him too often."

"Oh," Duprey said, rising, "I have a message for him."

"Why don't you go and give it to him," Serena suggested. "It will be a perfect opportunity to get acquainted. I'm relying on you to make him feel welcome."

"That's a good idea, Ms. Burns," the secretary said, rising. She picked up a slip of pink paper and started across the hall, then turned. "You know you can rely on

me, Ms. Burns."

"I do," Serena said seriously, then entered her office, grinning as she closed the door behind her. Ah, humans, she thought as she started toward her desk. They provided such great comic relief.

She sat down and probed the ether, receiving no answer from her Terminator.

Meaning that he has been… terminated. She felt anger spurt and suppressed it ruthlessly. Useless emotion. What was the point of anger? It interfered with clear thinking and as far as she could see had no productive results. Unless you were so primitive that you needed an uncontrolled spurt of hormones for maximum fight-flight efficiency.

Obviously the Connors had been ready for trouble. Due, no doubt, to the interference of von Rossbach and Griego. True, they wouldn't have been expecting a Terminator, but they were primed for trouble. With those two, as history had proven again and again, that was all it took. She felt a prickle of disquiet. Or quantum effects could be at work, the inertia of the time-stream seeking to bend events back toward the maximum probability, the time line that had originally seen John Connor destroy Skynet.

She hit speed dial for the number that Cassetti had given her. It had amused her at first to know it belonged to a restaurant and that he was some low-status employee there. Now she was simply impatient as the phone was answered,

"Mario's!" accompanied by the cacophony of a kitchen.

"Marco Cassetti," she said.

"Marco!" the man bellowed. There was a pause. "No," he said. Another pause.

"He's not here," the man said. "You tell him when you see him that I'm gonna fire him if he doesn't start showing up soon." Then he hung up.

Serena sat, phone in hand, and thought. Cassetti could have instructed his friends at the restaurant to say he wasn't there. Which would mean that he must have seen or known about the Terminator's… termination.

She hung up the phone as it began to bleat. She could hire someone to check it out, but decided not to muddy the waters any further. After all, the restaurant man might have been telling the truth. Which would mean that the Terminator had eliminated Cassetti before it was itself destroyed.

The important thing now was that the Connors were alerted and they were coming. Soon.

She smiled. A very comprehensive set of military-history records had been among her downloads. The history of the U-boat campaigns was among them. .

Submarines had been an unanswerable weapon, as long as warships tried to find them, hunting through the wastes of water. The ocean was too big-The answer was to group all the merchantmen into a convoy and surround it with warships. Then the submarine had to come to you.

NEW YORK CITY: THE PRESENT

Ron Labane opened the envelope marked "personal and confidential" and pulled out the newspaper clipping within. He checked but found no note, and there was no return address on the envelope. With a quirk of lips and brows he shook the

piece open and started to read. Soon he was chuckling richly.

The article concerned a university professor who'd been found, near-smothered by methane, tied to a stake driven into the middle of a lake of pig feces adjacent to a gigantic hog-factory farm. The good professor had conducted a study of such farms and had concluded that their impact on rural communities was minimal.

I wonder if he still feels the same way, Ron thought.

The article went on to list the complaints of the people who lived near the hog factory, including the horrible smell and the resultant drop in property values in the nearby town. A local environmentalist talked about how runoff from the lake of feces had contaminated local streams and the ponds and lakes they ran into.

He also suggested that the wells that many of the area farms relied on were no longer safe.

Ron folded up the piece and put it back into its envelope. It seemed the "fab four" had taken his advice. He looked forward to their next escapade.

He rose and took the article to his secretary. "How could we get this picked up by the wire services?" he asked her.

She took the envelope from him and read its contents, then laughed out loud.

"Let me take care of it," she said, her eyes dancing. "I know just who to call."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA,

PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT

What Dieter meant by "primitive" was a thatched-roof adobe cottage with a stamped-earth floor and a noisome pit out back sheltered by a broken-down lean-to. The well out front lacked even a bucket. Things rustled and creaked outside, and chirped and buzzed. The Chaco had a fine assortment of things that crawled, hopped, flew, and stung, and nobody here had been waging the continuous battle that was the only way to keep them out of a building. But it was dry and swept clean.

"Well," Sarah said, dropping her sleeping bag, "like you said, it will do for one night."

Dieter squatted down and lit the Coleman lamp. Light didn't make the place look more welcoming; less so, if anything. John came in with his sleeping bag and a satchel of oddments they always took camping with them. Then he went out to the vehicle to get the rest of their gear.

Dieter watched her lay out some plastic sheeting. "It's a good thing you store this stuff in your barn."

Sarah gave him a quick grin, gone so fast he thought it might have been a trick of the light.

"Never put all your eggs in one basket." She dropped her rolled-up sleeping bag onto the sheet and sat on it. "We have other stashes all over the place. I've probably forgotten where some of them are."

"Like a squirrel burying nuts," von Rossbach said.

Sarah grunted and took a sip from her canteen. "You should get Linda settled down," she said as she screwed the cap back on. "She hates being in that thing.

I'm surprised she hasn't freaked out yet."

As if the horse had heard and understood, there was a squeal from inside the horse trailer and the sound of a hoof hitting the back door.

Sarah raised her brows and gestured. "There she goes."

John came in looking worried. "Dieter, I don't know if Mom's told you or not, but

—"

"She did," von Rossbach said, rising. "I'm on it." He turned to Sarah. "I'll be back in one hour."

She nodded and watched him go. John spread his own plastic and sat down. He looked around uncertainly.

"Aren't there supposed to be these parasites?" he asked.

Sarah sighed and lay down on her back, her legs hooked over the sleeping bag.

"Yes, there are," she said. "But why talk about the idle rich now?"

Epifanio put down his little tot of cana and went to help the Senor unload the horse without being asked. First because it was his job. Second, but probably more important, he wanted to find out what was going on. Where had this horse and trailer come from? Marieta had told him that she thought von Rossbach was going to visit Senora Krieger. He thought she had a horse, but she certainly

didn't sell them.

It was a mare, he saw, and she was clearly unhappy. Epifanio caught the glitter of a rolling eye as she turned her head slightly. The mare's ears were back almost flat against her shapely head. She let go with a distressed little scream and his own horse, Sita, answered from the barn. That seemed to surprise and yet calm the little mare.

Von Rossbach stood with his hands on his hips and looked at her as though not certain what he should do.

"Let me start her out, senor," Epifanio offered. "I will fit better."

Which was true: he was about a third his boss's size. Also, he knew horses better, having lived and worked with them all his life. He knew right away from the way she was muscled that this little lady was a pet and not a working animal.

Epifanio could almost feel sorry for her, being taken from her home at night like this. He wondered why, and whether she was now to become a cow pony.

"Her name is Linda," von Rossbach said.

Epifanio got up to her head without incident, which disposed him to like her. He rubbed her nose gently and offered her a peppermint candy he had in his pocket.

She took it gratefully and rubbed her head against his chest.

"You are a fine lady, Linda," he said gently, scratching under her chin. "Let's get you into a nice stall and settled in for the night, eh?" He began easing her backward out of the trailer, petting her as he complimented her and soothed her with his voice.

Von Rossbach stood still and off to the side of the ramp so as not to startle the nervous animal. Though he was grateful for the help he was sorry that his foreman was here. His plan had been to just put Linda in the barn and leave without a word to anybody. Now there would have to be some sort of explanation.

"She is a pretty thing," Epifanio said, stroking the horse's nose. "What are we to do with her?" He looked at his boss. Surely he knew that she was too small for him to ride.

"She's just visiting," Dieter said. "If someone wants to ride her to ex-ercise her that would be good. But all she knows is being a riding horse, she doesn't know how to work."

"Oh," said the foreman. "I'll put her to bed then." He led her off without another word. So Senora Krieger was going away; that was interesting. He wondered why, but in a relaxed way; Epifanio knew he'd find out the rest in time. Once Marieta got started, he'd probably end up knowing more than the Senor.

Von Rossbach watched him go, grateful that his foreman had decided not to chat. He quickly unhooked the trailer, and leaving it where it was, drove toward the house.

Dieter returned to them with his own camping equipment, some food for the next day, a bunch of maps, and a lot of plans.

She watched him setting up with a closed expression on her face and he began to feel impatient. Though he understood her concerns, he also knew that she should

let him lead for now. How to convince her of the Tightness of this was going to be… difficult, he could see.

"Where had you planned to go?" he asked, rolling out his sleeping bag.

Though they'd agreed to accept his help, Dieter's presence troubled Sarah. First of all, he'd always worked for the authorities—the enemy— and if push came to shove she wasn't sure which way he'd jump.

Hell, I'll bet even he's not sure what he'd do if we have to get… unorthodox.

Second, he was used to being in charge, but then, so was she. I do not want a discussion about who's giving and who's taking orders every time we have to make a decision. Especially if that decision had to be made fast. Especially if that decision might involve damaging cops or soldiers. Not that she'd ever intentionally killed anybody herself. But there are times, she thought grimly, when you have to be mentally prepared to go to the next level. So that left her with two questions, would he surrender control, and could he be trusted?

"Look," she said out loud, "if we let you come with us you have to understand that your whole life has changed…"

"Sarah," he interrupted, "after what I've seen tonight my whole life has already changed. They have to be stopped. That's the mission. The mission comes first."

Sarah studied him for a long moment. Then she pursed her lips and looked at John. He gave her no help, just looked back at her blankly.

"Actually," she said, "we have two missions. One"—she held up a finger—"and

least important, try to keep Skynet from being built. Unfortunately, judging by the way it keeps coming back at us, that may be an impossible task. One thing I'm learning is that changing how things are supposed to be is like pushing on a rubber wall. It might take time, but it will return to its original shape, or close to it. Two," she held up a second finger, "keep John alive. This is vital. Not just because he's my son, but because he may be the only thing that saves humanity from the machines should we fail to stop Cyberdyne."

"I understand," he said.

"That means," Sarah continued, "that ultimately /make the final decisions on everything that we do. Can you accept that?"

"I suppose if John can, I can," he said cheerfully.

Sarah frowned at the implications of that remark and moved closer to him on hands and knees until they were almost nose to nose.

"Understand, Dieter. Everything that I have done for the last sixteen-and-then-some years has been to give John the skills to be the leader he needs to be. John is our only hope. Not me, not you—John. If necessary, we scrap the mission, go into hiding and let Judgment Day happen. I lost sight of that once," she said. "I won't do it again."

She closed her eyes and sighed heavily. "What I'm saying is, sometimes I'll let you lead and sometimes I'll ask you to follow. Those times might come up unpredictably. Can you make the jump between them?"

"Yes," he said with certainty. "I'm with you. I recognize that you're more

experienced with this… situation than I am. I'm not such an egotist that I won't let you tell me what to do, Sarah. All I ask is that you respect my opinion."

He'd never shared leadership before, but if she was willing to be flexible, so was he.

"All right," she said. Sarah settled herself more comfortably. "So, our goal, I think we can all agree," she looked at John, who gave her a brief smile, "is to get to the U.S. and stop Cyberdyne." She turned to Dieter. "So what have you got for us?"

Dieter shook out a map.

"We drive to Sao Paulo in Brazil," he said. "I have a contact there who can make us forged documents. Then we fly to Colombia and from there to Grand Cayman."

"Cool!" John said eagerly. He hadn't seen the ocean in what felt like a lifetime.

Sarah looked at von Rossbach, puzzled. "Okay," she said, "why the Caymans?"

"Hack in and trace Cyberdyne's financial records to find their remote sites," John said, surprising them both. "The ones that are used as off-site data storage for Cyberdyne's most sensitive material. Eliminate those and go for the main facility!" He and Dieter did a high five.

"But that will alert them," Sarah objected. "Whoever Skynet sent back will know immediately what we're up to. And while we can only strike these places one at a time, they must have the resources to cover all of them, as well as beefing up

security at the main site. I say go for Cyberdyne immediately, then we can pick off the storage sites at our leisure."

"Surely, when the Terminator doesn't return, whoever sent it will be alerted that you're coming, yes?" Dieter asked. At her reluctant nod he continued, "So they'll be waiting for you. But they might not be protecting these storage dumps. Hit a few of those and they might begin to spread their forces thin enough to give us a better chance at the main facility. Also we can perhaps learn more about that facility from these same storage dumps, and the more we learn about that the greater the possibility of success."

Sarah leaned her chin on her fists and thought.

"Yes," she said at last. "That makes sense. Especially since the cards seem to be stacked against us this time." She sat up straight, a rueful expression on her face.

"A buried facility on an army base. That'll be a pretty tough nut to crack."

"It will," von Rossbach agreed. "But let's take it one step at a time. Maybe we can hack into their system and do some damage that way, too. We'll see what we can do. I have friends in strange places, Sarah. You'll see; you'll be glad you let me tag along."

Sarah gave him a noncommittal smile and thought, I had better be or I'll take you down in a white flash. You won't even see it coming. She sensed a disturbing lack of conviction behind the thought. .Trouble is, I like this man. He wasn't like the flakes, nuts, and murderous eccentrics she'd associated with in her wilder days. In fact, he was as close to being a solid citizen as a trained killer could get.

And I suspect he likes me.

"All right," she said aloud. "I concede that it might be a good idea to eliminate these remote sites Cyberdyne probably has. Although, I'll say it now, touching Cyberdyne's computer system could lead them right to us." Sarah looked Dieter in the eye.

"But we can hack in from anywhere with a phone line. So, I repeat, why the Caymans?"

"Because I think we'll find those sites by studying Cyberdyne's financial records," Dieter explained. "Grand Cayman has over five hundred banks from all over the world. One of those is sure to handle Cyberdyne's business. Being inspected from there might be less conspicuous."

Sarah looked doubtful.

"Trust me on this, Sarah," he said.

She looked at him, considering.

"Hey guys, it's a long drive to the coast," John suddenly pointed out. "I suggest we all turn in and get some sleep. Leaving before dawn would probably be a good idea."

Sarah smiled and got up. "I'll be back," she said, and headed out toward the lean-to.

John and Dieter looked at each other.

"Don't sell my mother short, Dieter," John said. "She knows a lot about this end

of things. She kept us both alive and out of jail… well, mostly out of jail… for a long time."

Von Rossbach nodded. "I know she has her own resources, John." He smiled.

"This is going to be a learning experience for me."

"Not too painful, I hope," John said with a grin.

Dieter smiled slowly. "I think that will depend on your mother."

BRAZIL, ON THE ROAD: THE PRESENT

It was exhausting—over twelve hundred miles over some very rough road to Sao Paulo, without stopping for anything but bathroom breaks and an occasional meal. Sarah insisted that they push themselves. As far as she was concerned they were already playing catch-up.

They could see the smudge of polluted air that announced the city's presence from miles away across the pastures and coffee fields. Sao Paulo was an enormous city, bigger than New York, in fact, with a dirty collar of poverty around its outer edge. But when they saw its towers rising above the horizon they couldn't help but smile.

Once they entered the bustling city they searched for a mid-price hotel with parking and crashed for twelve hours straight.

Next day they shopped for business-type clothing and resort wear— nothing they would ordinarily put on—and went to visit an old acquaintance of Dieter's in the older section of town. Quiet low-slung buildings in the pastels and wrought iron

that Brazilians had used to announce prosperity in the balmy days of the first coffee boom a hundred and twenty years ago.

"Gilberto," Dieter said, when a maid had shown them into a room dim and cluttered and cool, "meet my friends Suzanne and John. John, Suzanne, this is Gilberto Salbidrez, one of the best forgers in South America."

"You're too kind," Gilberto said, smiling around his cigarette. He was almost von Rossbach's height, but rail thin and wrinkled beyond his sixty years. "Come in, sit down, tell me what you need."

"What makes you think we need something?" Dieter asked, grinning.

" Hombre!" Gilberto said, giving von Rossbach's cheap, conservative tie a contemptuous flip. "You come to me in this ridiculous outfit and I'm supposed to think this is a social call?" He gave Sarah a wink. "Besides, the senora and I have done business before."

Sarah grinned at Dieter's well-hidden surprise.

"Hello, Senor Salbidrez," she said, holding out her hand.

"You come with a friend," he said. Taking her hand, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You can call me Gilberto." He turned back to von Rossbach. "So?"

"We need passports that will get us into the United States, and health certificates that say we've had all our shots—"

"And you want them the day before yesterday," Gilberto said with a weary wave

of one tobacco-stained hand. "So, are you a family?"

"Better not," Sarah said. "We might need the flexibility of being strangers or business partners."

Salbidrez tugged down the corners of his mouth and shrugged. "Up to mischief, then," he said. "Okay, let's get started. I can have them for you in twenty-four hours."

"Good," von Rossbach said. "I also need someplace safe to stow my car."

Gilberto grimaced.

"Okay. I have a friend who owns a parking garage. He'll let you park it there and it will be safe." He looked up at Dieter. "But it will cost you," he warned.

Dieter snorted. "Everything costs," he said. "How much?"

"For my friend," Salbidrez shrugged, "Say a thousand a month. For me," he gave von Rossbach a straight look, "I want ten thousand each for the passports." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Two thousand for the health certificates."

"A thousand for the health certificates," Dieter countered. "We're buying three so you'll give an old friend a discount?" Gilberto made a pained face. "Besides, I happen to know an old friend gave you a lifetime supply of blank ones, so all you have to do is fill in the spaces."

The forger grinned and laughed until he coughed.

"What about my starving children?" he asked.

"I'll give you five thousand for the passports if they're Canadian," von Rossbach said. "And if your children are starving you should give up cane-brandy and cigarettes so you can feed them."

Gilberto chuckled, careful not to set himself coughing again.

"Five thousand isn't enough for Canadian," he said. "They're very expensive.

Canadian is very hard to get. Very easy to use. Canada is respectable."

"That's why we came to you," Sarah said.

He smiled. "Well, I am the best," he said modestly. "And you want them fast, which means my other clients must wait… Seventy-five hundred is more in line with what a Canadian passport costs."

Dead silence met that remark and Salbidrez's eyes shifted rapidly between his three visitors. The moment stretched.

"Fifty five hundred, you said," Sarah said at last.

Gilberto winced. "You are robbing an old man," he said.

"If you weren't an old man," Dieter rumbled, "I might be insulted at how you want to rob me."

The forger took the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it out. "And this is a one-off job," he went on.

"You'd give a lower rate if it were six sets?" Dieter asked.

"Of course—in that case, I could come down as low as thirty-five hundred. But as it is, six thousand for one set each for each of you."

"Excellent. Two sets—thirty-five hundred each. Both Canadian, but completely different backup. Different dates, provinces, the whole thing."

The old man gave a wheezing laugh. "Ah, you want to switch once you are in the U.S.," he said. "So that your documents don't match the ones in the customs computers."

"Yes," Dieter said, conscious of thoughtful, respectful looks from John… and Sarah. "And you are a pirate."

"A man must try," he said and gave them all an impish grin. "So, who's first?"

"Let's go out," Dieter suggested as they stood outside Gilberto's workshop.

"Paint the town red."

Sarah just looked at him. "Are you crazy?" she asked. "Under the circumstances…"

"The circumstances are the best reason I can think of for going a little crazy,"

von Rossbach said taking her arm and walked her down the street. "We may never get another chance to do this." He looked down at her. "I'm not suggesting that we shoot off guns in a public park, Sarah."

"What about John?" she said, glancing behind her at her son.

"He's eighteen," Dieter said with a shrug. "Or will be when his passport is ready." He looked over his shoulder and caught John's quick grin. "It's time he had a blowout night. We'll get a really good meal, then we'll go clubbing. How's that sound, John?"

"Cool!" the hope of the human race replied. "Like the man says, Mom, we may never get another chance."

BOGOTA, COLOMBIA: THE PRESENT

It had been a long flight to Bogota and they stumbled off the plane with swollen ankles and numb butts. All they'd brought with them was carry-on luggage with a few changes of underwear and a couple of changes of clothes apiece. The high-altitude air would have been cool and refreshing if Colombia's capital hadn't been in a mountain basin that trapped the diesel fumes that came with rapid growth and no public transport.

Sarah and John had been a bit uneasy about going unarmed, but Dieter convinced them that he could get anything they needed with very little effort.

For that matter, Sarah knew, so could she. So they'd left their arsenal locked in the car. If for any reason the car was investigated they'd stripped it of any identifying marks and used a false name when they brought it in to park.

Dieter spotted a restaurant up ahead as they walked through the concourse.

"Wait for me there, I'll get the tickets."

Sarah nodded and asked, "Shouldn't we make hotel arrangements, or something?"

"Not a problem," von Rossbach said. "We'll be staying with someone I know.

He's done money laundering for some pretty nasty characters. I've stayed with him before and I know that he'll cooperate enthusiastically without asking any embarrassing questions."

"Yeah," John said, "when you've got 'em by the balls their hearts and minds follow right along."

"You are wise beyond your years, John," Dieter said with a grin.

"Hey I'm old beyond my years according to my passport," John said. "That's got to have an effect."

Sarah smiled at him. "C'mon," she said nodding towards the restaurant. "Do you want us to order for you?" she asked Dieter.

He shook his head. "I don't know how long I'll be. Airport food is bad enough without being cold airport food."

He moved off and Sarah and John entered the restaurant. She watched him through the glass until he moved out of sight. This was costing a fortune and so far von Rossbach had paid for it all. She'd let him because it was easier. He seemed to want to do it and it meant that she and John weren't leaving a trail of false credit cards and counterfeit cash.

Once upon a time she wouldn't have cared, she'd have used von Rossbach as a resource right to the limit of what he'd allow, and then pushed for more without a second thought. But her years as sweet, innocent Suzanne Krieger had taken their toll. Now indebtedness made her uneasy. Besides, she was—almost—

getting to like him a little. Or at least I'm getting closer to ambivalent, she

thought wearily.

The waitress seated them, gave them menus, and left them alone. Sarah looked around, automatically checking exits, while John read the menu.

"How do we get out of here in an emergency?" she asked, mildly annoyed by his apparent obliviousness.

John pointed without looking up. Sarah turned and noted an exit she hadn't seen and turned back to him, smiling.

"You're a good teacher, Mom," he said. "Give yourself some credit."

She snorted. "Sorry. It's been a while since we were on the road like this."

"Hey, Mom, compared to the way we've been on the road this is first class. For starters, Dieter isn't going to fink on us to the cops, kill us for our wallets, or try to sell us both to a white slaver. I could get used to this."

"Don't," she warned. "Things could change at any second."

He made a face. "Burger," he said, closing the menu. "And fries. It's traditional."

Sarah smiled tiredly; that it was, even here. International airport food existed in a multinational Twilight Zone where difference was abolished.

"I'm going for something more substantial," she said. "Who knows when we'll eat again."

They decided to order drinks and to wait for Dieter before ordering. Sarah sipped

her coffee tiredly and watched her son. John was staring off into space, chin on his hand. His index finger tapping out a beat.

Sarah smiled slowly. No doubt he was remembering a certain rather lush Brazilian girl in a painted-on red dress he'd danced with the other night. It had been at least an hour of normal adolescence. She had been, ahem, very modern in her manner, so much so that Sarah had thought she might be a pro. But the girl had devoted most of her evening to John, who clearly had no idea of the possibility.

Sarah's heart suddenly filled with remorse and she took another sip of her coffee to suppress a sigh that would have come out more of a sob. It's so damn unfair!

she thought. He doesn't even get to have part of a normal childhood. No first girlfriend, no gentle, easy segue into an adult relationship. Will he ever have anyone? she wondered. Will he ever get to rest?

"Here he comes," John said.

Dieter entered the restaurant a moment later.

"What time does this place close?" he asked as he sat down and picked up the menu.

Sarah shrugged. The waitress came to take their order and then left them.

"The last flight is at ten," Dieter said. It was eight-thirty now. "So, if this place stays open we can have a nice leisurely meal."

"What time will we get there?" Sarah asked.

"By the time we get through customs, it will be well after midnight eastern standard," he said. "All the better for getting cooperation from my 'friend.' "

"It'll be good to stop traveling," John said. "I've got this weird feeling that I'm still moving."

GEORGETOWN, GRAND CAYMAN: THE PRESENT

Maybe it was the lateness of the hour, maybe it was the easy island way, or it might have been Gilberto's excellent workmanship, but they were waved through customs with only a few cursory questions. There were still a few cabs waiting outside despite the lateness of the hour, the cabbies leaning against their vehicles and talking in the soft Island patois beneath the dry rubbing of the palms.

Their driver dropped them off in front of a darkened modern-style house outside of Georgetown. There was a wrought-iron gate, but no lock. As he drove off, Sarah asked, "What if he's not home?"

"Then we break in," Dieter said. He hoisted his bag and headed for the house.

Sarah and John shared a look, shrugged as one, and followed him.

"Hold on, hold on! I'm coming already!"

Jackson Skye thundered down the stairs in his underwear, yanking on a silk bathrobe that had twisted itself into some kind of knot. It never crossed his mind that it might not be safe to pull open his front door at this time of night.

Georgetown was one of the safest towns in the world. Criminals came to the Cayman Islands, but they came to do banking business, not to burgle homes in

the middle of the night. In fact, they tended to be ferociously intolerant of ordinary crime. The native islanders felt the same way.

What did occur to him was that" he was going to clobber the asshole who was holding down his doorbell like that.

"WHAT?" he bellowed, and then almost swallowed his tongue. "Von Rossbach,"

Skye said, eyeing the big man nervously. Still the same old slab of beef, no fat blurring the outline of the hard muscles. "W-what are you doing here?"

Dieter gave him an affable smile. "I've come to stay for a few days," he said, moving slowly into the foyer, and moving Jackson back, step-by-step. "I have some research to do and I can use your help."

Skye's mouth dropped open. "Naw," he said desperately. "I can't, man!"

"Shhh." Dieter raised a calming hand.

"No, seriously! Y'know how volatile the market's been lately—"

"Shhh," von Rossbach continued, smiling.

"But, Dieter, if you take me off-line to do your research I could lose millions."

"Jackson"—Dieter put his hand on the man's shoulder—"you know that you can always do what you have to do. And you have to do this. We had a deal, remember?"

Skye remembered. And a deal with the devil it was turning out to be.

"It's just lousy timing is all," he said sullenly.

"Hey," von Rossbach said, patting him gently, "we might find out what we want to know in the first hour. You never know. So don't have such a long face, okay?"

Jackson smiled a blatantly false smile and started to close the front door.

"Hi," John said, blocking him. He came in lugging his small suitcase and looked up at the spiral staircase, the pale tile floor with scattered Moroccan rugs, the white-painted louvered doors looking out on pool and garden. "Cool," he said, reaching out and shaking Skye's hand enthusiastically. "Nice place, man.

Thanks!"

"Hi," Jackson said, looking him over and closing the door again.

"Excuse me," Sarah said, stopping the door with a firm hand.

Jackson blinked and then hastily tied his robe shut as Sarah looked him over. He glanced at von Rossbach.

"Friends of mine," Dieter said unnecessarily.

"Where's the washroom?" Sarah asked.

"Down that way, second door on the left," Skye said automatically.

"We can all have our own rooms, yes?" von Rossbach said.

"Yuh," their host agreed, somewhat bemused.

"Good. We'll turn in now, since we're all pretty tired," Dieter said. "When Sarah comes back you can show us to our rooms."

"Sure," Skye said.

"I would appreciate it if you would stay home tomorrow morning to answer any questions we might have regarding your equipment," von Rossbach said easily.

Jackson's shoulders slumped.

"Of course," he said with mock graciousness. "What kind of a host would I be if I considered my own welfare before your convenience?"

"A bad one," Dieter said, still smiling. "And I know that you would never do anything that might upset your guests. That might lead to your being off-line for more than a few days. Yes?"

"Yes," Jackson bit off.

Sarah returned, and paused, frowning at his tone of voice.

"Sorry," Skye said. He was a man who had always found it hard to be surly to an attractive woman. "It's just late and all like that."

"It is," she agreed. "And I'm sorry to have wakened you." She held out her hand and he took it. "I assure you, we wouldn't inconvenience you like this if it wasn't important."

Jackson stood a little straighter at that. "Thank you," he said, sounding honestly grateful. "I won't ask any questions, I know you can't tell me anything. But I

appreciate someone" —he glared at von Rossbach—"taking my feelings into consideration." With a smile he gestured toward the stairs. "The rooms are already made up, so all you need to do is crash. Every room has its own bath. If there's anything that you need or want, Sarah"—he raised her hand to his lips

—"my room is the last one at the end of the hall. Here, let me get that," he said as she bent to pick up her case.

She smiled at him and followed him up the stairs, making polite replies to his small talk. John raised an eyebrow and gave Dieter a she'll-do-anything-for-the-mission look. Dieter just smiled and waved him onward.

"Hey, cool setup," John Connor said. "Nice. Two-gig Pents, virtual keys, mondo bandwidth… seriously rad, my man. I love these thin-film displays, too."

"How come you never look at girls that way?" Sarah said.

"I do, Mom; just not in front of you."

Dieter snorted; even if it did make him seem like an old fart, he couldn't regard computers as anything but tools.

"Anything I can get you?" Skye said, a faint touch of sarcasm in his tone.

"Sure," John said, with a charming smile, slipping a headset on and adjusting the mike. "A couple of cans of Jolt and some cookies would be cool. Thanks."

Skye turned to the stairs, muttering. This end of his house was open-plan, all pale wood and minimalist furniture looking out onto a veranda that surrounded it on three sides; the visitors had moved in chairs to give each a seat behind one of

the thin-screen displays. Warm air blew in, smelling of sea salt and the dry olive scrub that covered the land beyond the pink-stuccoed garden wall, and faintly of the jasmine in pots beside the pool.

"Ah," John said, popping the top of a can of Jolt and taking a noisy sip.

"Okey-dokey." He cracked his knuckles and poised his hands, wiggling the fingers like a 19th-century concert pianist. "Now, let's get radical."

Dieter smiled wryly and began. Now, the first thing is to get into the Sector computers, he thought. That would be easy enough—you never really retired.

Behind him he heard a combination of swift tapping and a low murmur, John accessing the Web by a combination of voice command and keystrokes; the thought of how much concentration that must take made the Austrian's head hurt in sympathy. Sarah was proceeding methodically, referring to a checklist beside her terminal.

"Hey, am I the world-savior hero or what," John said. "Ok… yeah, dump-save it… whoa! Defensive worm program! Don't worry, I dodged it… yeah, we're positive here."

Dieter blinked at the split-screen image that came up. "Advanced Technology Systems Inc., Sacramento, California?" he said.

"Yeah, that's definitely their off-site storage," John said. "Look at the record—

daily mega-dumps. Looks like a complete discrete backup twice a day, twelve and twelve."

He frowned. "The only thing that bothers me is the company name."

"Why?" his mother said, not taking her eyes from her own screen.

"I mean, Advanced Technologies, in Sacramento?"

"Coastal chauvinist," she said.

CHAPTER TWENTY

CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS: THE PRESENT

Serena shifted minutely in her chair, slightly uncomfortable from the laparoscopic surgery her third Terminator had performed last night. Her second had found another host for a fertilized egg and so she'd had one removed and had shipped it off this morning.

This new host would not be given drugs to speed the growth of her fetus. And the clone itself would be allowed to grow more normally. For the sake of the mission, Serena wanted the first to be a well-grown child within six weeks' time.

But since none of the T-950s had been pushed this hard, there was no way of telling what the ultimate product would be like. For now she had to be content with her second's assurance that the fetus appeared to be developing normally.

The 1-950 was delighted to finally have that project on-line, even if it had left her a bit sore this morning. She focused her attention on Cyberdyne's CEO.

Roger Colvin sighed and dropped the report she'd given him onto the desk. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose for a moment, then sighed again.

"Why don't you summarize for me, Ms. Burns," he suggested.

"Certainly," she said crisply. "There are some important contradictions here.

When the plane was going down, the pilot, presumed to be Mary Warren, was screaming 'the engines, the engines,' but subsequent examination of the aircraft has shown no sign of engine trouble. In fact there appear to have been no mechanical problems at all. As far as the investigators could determine, the plane was in perfect operating condition."

Colvin tapped his fingers on the desk. "So," he asked, "what do you think that means."

"It means"—Serena held up one finger—"pilot error"—she held up a second

—"murder-suicide"—she held up a third—"or assassination."

The CEO turned away with a pained expression. "Mary had no reason to commit suicide; she loved her life. And those were her best friends," Colvin went on.

"And Mary was a good pilot."

"That would seem to leave assassination," Serena said calmly.

"No, it doesn't!" Colvin snapped. "It could have been wind shear or some other weird localized phenomenon."

There's been an inquiry regarding the Sacramento facility, her third Terminator sent. It hooked her into the ongoing inquiry, and as she followed the unauthorized investigation she also followed the Terminator's trace on the line.

Meanwhile she kept her features trained to the mask of an interested listener for

Colvin's benefit.

"I just don't see Tricker doing something like that," Colvin said. He held out his hand in a reasoning gesture. "I mean, it makes no sense."

"It makes no sense to the average, reasonable human being," Serena said. "But I'm not altogether certain that Tricker belongs in that category."

Cayman Islands, the Terminator said. Account of Jackson Skye, investment counselor. Such people launder money for individuals and corporations.

Serena ordered it to trace Skye's name, to see if he had previously had contact with Connor or von Rossbach. Her tap on the estancia's phone had indicated that von Rossbach had disappeared at the same time as the Connors.

The phone calls had definitely become more interesting since he'd left home—

that Marieta was quite a gossip.

Jackson Skye has been investigated by the Sector; he is currently in their pay as an informer, the Terminator reported.

Serena nodded soothingly at Colvin. Check the Sector's database; see if von Rossbach is the agent that brought him in.

There was a brief pause. Affirmative, the Terminator reported.

See if the Sector has bugged his office. If so, tap in and patch it to me.

Serena shifted in her chair again. "Please don't think that I want Mary Warren to have been murdered," she insisted. "I just… have always found it so strange that

an experienced pilot on a frequently traveled flight path should go down in what were supposed to be ideal weather conditions. And now that the investigation of the wreckage has found no sign of mechanical failure, despite all that yelling about the engines…" She waved her hands helplessly. "Well, I just think we'd better be more cautious than ever. That's all."

Colvin smiled ruefully.

"Well, that is your job," he said.

"Here," he continued. "Before I let you go I should show you this." He separated a sheet of paper from those in his out basket and handed it across the desk. "It's from Ronald Labane. Have you heard of him?"

Serena took the paper and began to read. "No," she said absently. She looked up.

"Should I have?"

Colvin shrugged. "He's kind of a New Agey, environmentalist type. His book is still on the bestseller lists after I don't know how many months. Go ahead," he said with a sweep of his hand, "read his letter."

"This came in the mail?" Serena asked.

"E-mail," Colvin said. "I got it this morning."

The letter was brief, and to the point. Labane told them that he'd heard about their totally automated factory concept and listed his objections to it. He pointed out that it would, if successful, put huge numbers of people out of work. He pointed out that such people would be very angry and warned that he would do

his utmost to organize them. It ended with a plea to Cyberdyne to reconsider their actions.

Serena looked up, her face grim. I don't need this right now, she thought.

"How, I wonder, did he hear of this," she said evenly, "when this is the first I've heard of it?"

Colvin cleared his throat and looked away. "We didn't tell you this, but the military absolutely loved the idea. We've been moving ahead on it and we've just broken ground for a munitions factory in Texas."

"So the leak could be anybody." She handed the paper back, her face stern. "In a way, I'm relieved. With so many other people in the loop, it need not represent a leak at the highest levels of Cyberdyne." In other words, this didn't happen on my watch. Of course, everything to do with Cyberdyne was on her watch, technically.

"I suppose not," he agreed. "But it should be looked into."

"Yes," Serena said, with a slow nod. "It should." You humans have to be "looked into" constantly, don't you? she thought with a flick of exasperation. "This Labane character should be looked into as well," she said aloud. "That was a threat he made against this company, and with Cyberdyne's history, that shouldn't be taken lightly. I advise you to mention this to Tricker."

Colvin shrugged, looking puzzled. "It's not like I can call him up, you know."

"Mmm," she said noncommittally. "He needs to know about this. He'd be the one

to question the types who are involved in this project." She swiveled her chair slightly. "I'm sure you'll hear from him soon. It's his job to show up when he's needed. Or not wanted," she added wickedly. "I'll look into who might have known about those plans at Cyberdyne. You'll provide me with a list of people you and Mr. Warren discussed it with?" Since I don't know anything about that because you certainly didn't discuss it with me!

"Of course," the CEO replied.

"Do you want me to investigate the contractors?" she asked. "Or shall we leave that to Tricker?"

Colvin thought. "It might be a good idea for you to do some preliminary checking into the company's background," he said. "I'm reluctant to step on Tricker's toes. But it's probably a good idea for us to know more about them anyway. And then, if he doesn't want to investigate, we'll have a head start."

Serena smiled and nodded. This poor little human was terrified of the government liaison. I wonder what Tricker has on him, she thought. Perhaps she should do something to make him as terrified of her.

"I'll be very discreet, whatever I do," Serena assured him with a smile.

There wasn't much to say after that, so they concluded their meeting quickly.

Serena left annoyed, because she'd been unaware that this project had even moved forward.

The brutally honest self-evaluation that had been drilled into her from birth acknowledged that she should have been aware of what they were doing. She'd

grown careless and had neglected to keep an eye on the president and CEO.

Allowing yourself to have contempt for your enemy is a betrayal of common sense, she quoted to herself. It was one of John Connor's sayings. Still, since she was the one who had given the schematics and plans to them, as well as being their head of security, they should have kept her informed.

As Serena walked back to her office, Third succeeded in connecting her to the video spy devices the Sector had installed. She watched the activity in Jackson Skye's home-based office superimposed over Cyberdyne's surroundings, waiting impatiently for the sound to come through.

The Connors and their ally had been interrupted by another man— Skye, no doubt, who seemed to be arguing with them. For this she was grateful since it allowed her time to get back to her office, where she could give this situation a bit more of her attention.

When she saw the Sector agent's face a small chill ran up her gut, and she almost missed a stride. That face! A quick search of passive storage… Yes. That is the model for the features of the T-101A series. The originals… Skynet had chosen the template from a list of antiterrorist personnel; ironic, in a way, since the Terminators were the greatest terror weapon ever developed.

The Connors and von Rossbach's efforts to get rid of the man were not proving very successful. Good! she thought emphatically. Why should she be the only one to suffer the consequences of someone else's self-important stupidity?

As she walked along, she booked Third on a flight to Florida, where it would pick up a short flight to the Caymans. It should be able to prevent the Connors

and their ally from heading for Sacramento within eight hours.

From the way the Connors were pursuing their investigation, Serena doubted they'd be ready to leave before tomorrow. At least she hoped not. It would be better if they could be contained on the island. Once they hit the United States, they'd be much harder to track.

Finally von Rossbach ended the man's arguments by turning him around and pushing him through the office door, which he then slammed in the investment counselor's face and locked. Then he turned to the other two and brushed his hands off. They smiled.

So that's what he looks like, the t-950 thought, studying the smaller male. Of course, he's young just now. She'd only seen his shoulder and the top of his head before Skynet called her away. Her earlier impression had been that Connor was a slender man, but not unusually so, what humans called wiry. Right now, though, he was a skinny little thing and very unimpressive. And that's Sarah Connor. The woman was frowning with concentration. She was also smaller than the t-950 had imagined her.

Well, it was only natural to have imagined them bigger than life. They had, after all, and with twentieth century weapons no less, somehow defeated two Terminators. Not an easy task. But a very, very impressive accomplishment.

Serena frowned as she entered her office, locking the door behind her. Did that thought have a touch of negativity about it? The Connors weren't that impressive. And negativity led to defeat.

The t-950 sat behind her desk and studied them; They were trying to hack into

the Sacramento database. She concentrated on the files her three enemies were working on. She allowed them to look at some administrative records and smirked at their excitement.

Then she had to move quickly to prevent John from exploiting what he'd found to locate another site. For the next hour she dueled with him, over the information she would concede as she struggled to hide anything of real worth.

Sarah and von Rossbach ably assisted him and things were almost at the limits of her control for a while. These people were smart!

It was easy to forget that humans could be so dangerous. The ones she dealt with every day, with the exception of the elusive Tricker, were easy to anticipate and to deal with. Most of them were barely awake, sentient only as a matter of genetic technicalities.

The Connors and their ally were exhilarating. She would have to be careful not to give in to her currently more humanized nature and compete with them. The object was to totally defeat them, not gratify her own ego.

A part of Serena's mind reflected that it was regrettable that she had an ego at all.

She'd prefer to be less annoyed by Colvin and Warren's end run around her awareness, it was distracting—and unquestionably the result of bruised ego.

But experimentation had shown that dealing successfully with humans required the Infiltrator to have one. You couldn't pretend to have something so incomprehensible. It was necessary to have actually experienced it.

True, hers was stunted next to a human's, but the damn thing had a tendency to grow if it wasn't carefully attended to. Part of the responsibilities of her

computer brain was to send a prompt if the thing got out of hand. She expected to receive one momentarily.

The Connors were slowing down now, beginning to get a bit frustrated.

SERENA'S LAB: THE PRESENT

The third Terminator decanted the two who had been in the vats growing their disguise of flesh. He then set them to prepping the next pair, now mere metal skeletons, while he checked the fourth and fifth over for flaws or gaps in their newly grown skin. Finding nothing amiss, he reported a satisfactory rating to the t-950.

Acknowledged, she said. I'm sending you to the Cayman Islands. Dress in light-colored casual clothing, wear sunglasses at all times. Pack a small bag so that you'll blend in with other travelers. Take the low-signature automatic, your passport and driver's license, and one of the copies of the special health certificate. Call a taxi to take you to the airport. She transmitted the details on its flights. Go to Skye's home, terminate all humans that you find there. Your primary targets are Sarah and John Connor. If they are not at Skye's home find them and terminate them.

Understood, it acknowledged. It closed down transmission when the t-950

signaled, Out.

Its chores in the lab finished, Third made its way upstairs to the house. It called a cab, then dressed and packed. There was a wallet with cash and credit cards in the small safe in the home office. It removed these and the travel papers the t-950 had specified, tucking them into pockets about its person. Weapons were

hidden in an access panel in the t-950's bedroom. It took the fiber-and-synthetic pistol it needed and then stood by the front door to wait for the taxi.

The cabdriver wanted to talk and the Terminator let him. It answered any questions as briefly as possible, just as the t-950 had trained it.

"It's important to at least be what humans consider polite," Serena had instructed them. "But answer as briefly as possible. Give the humans no reason to remember you particularly."

It didn't see why it couldn't solve such problems simply by terminating anyone who asked too many questions. It followed orders, of course— it just didn't understand.

So it answered the driver with yeses and no's and grunts. Soon it noticed that the driver wasn't paying attention to its answers anyway.

The airport was already coming into view.

It picked up its ticket and walked through the metal detector. When the security drone made to wave her wand over the Terminator's body, it presented its doctor's certificate claiming that several injuries had led to an implant.

The Terminator walked through Owen Roberts International Airport on Grand Cayman, scanning the brightly clad crowd (salted with blank-faced men in suits) and its surroundings when a movement on the tarmac alerted its sensors. It stopped stock-still and looked out the large window to the ground some twenty feet below.

A boy of sixteen or so came back into view. Third could only see the back of his head, but an instantaneous comparison of the file pictures from Skye's office confirmed that this was John Connor, with a negligible error probability. It signaled the t-950.

Have arrived on Grand Cayman. Have John Connor in sight. He is at the airport, apparently readying to depart. Below, a woman wandered into sight.

Beside her was a large man; another, smaller man seemed to be leading them toward an aircraft. Sarah Connor, confirmed. Dieter von Rossbach, confirmed, it reported.

Stop them, Serena ordered. Terminate them, discreetly if possible. But at any cost, terminate them before they can leave the island.

Third reached out and snagged a passing woman who looked as if she degenerative bone disease that had required the replacement of most of its joints with surgical-steel replacements.

Third's neural-net processor prompted it to say something to accompany the certificate. It selected the third choice.

"Wherever you run that," it said, indicating the wand, "it's going to go off."

Third held out its arms as though cooperating anyway. The woman with the wand hesitated, then shrugged and ran the wand up and down the Terminator's body. As it kept dinging, she began to smile. Then she stopped, straightening up.

"That must have hurt," she commented as she waved him on.

"It did," Third said.

The flight wasn't full, so Third got to sit by itself. It accepted a drink but refused food. It watched the movie, a comedy, attentively. The 1-950 had told them that while the situations were exaggerated they could still learn a great deal about human interaction from filmed entertainment. Any humor in the movie, if there was any, completely escaped its understanding. The actors were worse at imitating human beings than an experienced Terminator.

It thought the characters were idiots, one and all. But then, most humans were idiots. It just didn't think they were this stupid. Perhaps that was why this movie was considered humorous? It would ask the Infiltrator unit when it returned from its mission. The t-950 would know.

might work for the airport. It pointed to the tarmac outside. "How do I get down there?" it asked. "The quickest way."

"You have to have a ticket," the woman said, trying to pull her arm away from his grasp.

"Where do I get such a ticket," it demanded.

She winced as his grip hardened. "That's the charter airline section," she said.

"Waybright Charters is just down there and to the left." She tugged and he let her go, ignoring the glare she gave him as she moved off, rubbing her arm.

Their escort led them to a small jet plane that stood baking in the Caribbean sun, its idling engines adding their bit of heat and an extra tang of burnt kerosene. He waved them aboard.

"I can just put those bags in here," he said, pointing to a bin in the wing.

"No," Dieter said. "We'll keep them with us."

The man nodded. People often were chary of letting their hand luggage out of sight on Waybright Charters. He often fantasized about what was in those bags.

But at the end of the day he figured he was happier not knowing.

Sarah, John, and Dieter settled in to the comfortable gray leather seats; there was none of the elbow-to-elbow crowding of a normal commercial flight on this plane. Dieter nodded appreciatively. The plane was small, designed for not more than six passengers, but luxurious. The seats swiveled and there was a tiny bar/

kitchen near the back, opposite the lavatory.

"Cool," John said, slapping the wide arms of his seat. "No Greyhound with wings this time."

The pilot came aboard, wearing some very dark aviator glasses.

"Hello, lady, gentlemen," he said. "I hear we're heading for a little airport in Corpus Christi. That so?" In answer, Sarah smiled and handed him a folded slip of paper. He took off his glasses to read it, raising his brows as he did so.

"Ol' Meh-hee-co!" he said. "Sure, I can do that. You sure of these coordinates?"

"Yes," she said. "I—"

"Hey," he said, holding up his hand and beginning to move forward to the cockpit. "I don't wanna know." He turned back with a grin. "I don't wanna know

your name, I don't wanna know your fake name, I don't wanna know what you're really doing or what story you're telling. I'm paid to fly you where you wanna go and that's all I wanna do. So strap in, settle back, and enjoy your flight."

The three passengers exchanged amused glances, then obediently fastened themselves in and settled back to think their separate thoughts about the upcoming visit to the United States.

Sarah had wanted to visit one of her weapons caches in Tamaulipas, near the Texas border, so they could stock up. She had friends in a nearby town who would sell her a safe car with American plates. It would probably be easier for them to cross into the U.S. through one of the border checkpoints than through the airport anyway. The higher volume of traffic meant that if you looked right you got passed fairly quickly. And they were all experts at looking right.

The plane began to glide smoothly forward, the twin turbines emitting muffled screams.

Third walked up to the counter of Waybright Charters and said to the woman behind the counter, "Those people who just went down to the tarmac—I'm supposed to be with them. How do I get down there?"

She gave him a suspicious look. He was huge and she couldn't see his eyes through the dark glasses. His manner was brusque and his body language was vaguely threatening. All in all, he was a type that this company saw fairly often.

Policy was to be absolutely noncooperative. "They didn't say anything about a fourth party," she said at last.

"I'm running late," it said. "They must have given up on me. How do I get to

them?"

"I'm sorry," she said carefully, "but theirs is a private charter. I can't stop the plane for you when you aren't on their list."

"I'm supposed to be with them," Third insisted. "It's important. Sell me a ticket and hold the flight."

"I can't do that," she insisted. "They've been cleared."

Charter a plane to follow them, Serena ordered. It might not be possible, but then again, it might.

"I will hire a plane to follow them," it said. "Here is my card."

"You won't be able to follow them immediately," the woman said, frowning.

"Where did you say it was that you wanted to go?"

"I have to follow the Connors and Dieter von Rossbach," it said.

The woman smirked. "I'm sorry, sir. There's been a mistake. That's not the name of the party that's leaving right now." She looked at him imperturbably and offered his card back to him.

Take off your sunglasses and look at her. Tell her you must follow the party that just left, whatever their names were. Tell her it's life-and-death. Allow her to fear it might be her life you're talking about.

It took off its glasses and stared, unblinking, at the woman. "I must follow them," it said. "It is a matter of life and death."

The woman found herself staring into a pair of blue eyes that didn't look human.

She sucked in her breath, feeling a queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach, and the hair bristling on the back of her neck. If I were a dog, I'd howl, she thought; in all of her life she'd never met a gaze so terrible—terrible in its absolute lack of fury, or anger, or impatience, or anything human. With a dry tongue she licked her lips and felt her world narrow down to a tunnel with this terrifying man at the end of it.

"Yes, sir," she said, her voice trembling. She cut him a ticket. "You may wait in the lounge," she said. "But it will be at least an hour before your flight is cleared."

"Is there any way to hasten the process?" it asked, still staring.

"It… could be arranged," she said.

"Do it. Whatever it costs," Third told her.

In ten seconds she handed it a new ticket.

"Please take a seat, sir," she said. "Someone will come for you when your plane is ready."

Three took the ticket, picked up its bag, and walked over to the small but elaborate security setup. There was the usual metal-detector gate, and another, longer tunnel just beyond it. He put his bag on the belt and handed his health certificate to the guard. While the guard unfolded and read it he walked through the metal detector. It rang.

"You have metal joints?" the guard asked, looking up at the tall, apparently perfect specimen beside him.

"Yes."

The guard handed the paper to another uniformed man behind a console.

"All right," that one said. "Everything seems to be in order. If you would please continue through." The guard indicated the abbreviated white tunnel before him.

The Terminator looked at it suspiciously; there was nothing precisely like this in its files. There was no choice if it was to maintain its cover, though: it strode firmly forward. As soon as it did, Third knew it had made a mistake. The scanners were not simple X-rays; they included a highly sophisticated phased-ultrasound element.

The operator of the machine looked at his 3-D display in astonishment. He whistled, high and sharp. "Lord Jesus! That must have been one hell of a degenerative disease! Look at't'is guy, Arthur! It unbelievable, mon! Every one of his bones is metal! Even his jaw and teeth, for Christ's sake!"

Go! Serena commanded. Catch them, terminate them, self-destruct rather than allow yourself to be captured by humans.

From a standing start it took the Terminator ten seconds and twenty strides to reach forty miles an hour. It crashed into the glass wall at the back of the waiting room with enough force to shatter the high-impact safety glass and hit the ground on its feet, legs flexed, and started running after the plane that was

making its final approach. Men and women working on the ground began to yell at him; some gave chase but gave up after a few strides. They looked at each other in wonder and someone called the control tower.

As the plane taxied toward the velocity that would allow it to lift from the ground, Third caught up to it. It leapt onto the wing and hung on just as the plane rose.

The plane dipped and they all brought their heads up and looked out the window.

"What the hell was that?" the pilot asked.

"Oh, my God," Sarah murmured. It felt as though every organ in her body was trying to squeeze into the same place in her middle.

"Mom," John said, his voice sounding like a warning. He felt like he'd been smacked in the center of the forehead with a tennis ball. The moment of shock before the pain hits, when you're so disoriented you're almost uncertain what's happened.