Rising Storm

"Yup, that's me," John said. What's your problem?

"Kinda young, aren't you?"

John's heart sank a bit. These guys weren't exactly senior professors, for cryin'

out loud. He'd have thought that people who probably got a lot of "you're so young!" stuff thrown their way would be more tolerant. At least toward similarly young people.

They all looked at him as though waiting for a speech. John looked around and took a seat on the bed next to Yam. "Don't let me interfere with your meeting, guys," he said.

The others all looked at Wendy, who shrugged and took off her jacket, then settled down on the floor. "So," she said, "has anybody got something to report?"

She looked around. "Snog?"

He pointed to his beefy chest. "Me?" He sounded surprised.

"You called the meeting," she pointed out dryly.

With a snort he said, "That was before I knew it was going to be the children's hour."

"Just how old are you?" John asked without looking at him.

"Nineteen," Snog said. He tilted his head toward John. "And you?"

"Eighteen." In February, John added mentally. "A whole year younger than you are. I can't believe you're making such a stink about it—you're not exactly a geriatric case yourself."

"Thing is," Carl said in a soothing voice, "you're not even out of high school."

"And I never will be," John said, giving him a direct look. "High school is a luxury I can't afford."

"Is that because you're from… South America?" Wendy asked sympathetically.

John stared at her for a moment, then laughed; he couldn't help it. It was such a typically North American assumption. And they were all so naively arrogant!

But smart. You could feel that they were smart. If he could recruit these people it would be a very good thing.

"Of course not!" he said, grinning. "I meant that I don't have the time to waste."

"Oh," Snog said, "so I guess that means we're wasting our time, too, huh?"

"No. It means I'm not you. My genius, if I even have any, lies in other directions." John met his eyes until Snog casually looked away. Maybe it was time to take a risk.

"Who the hell do you think you are, kid?" Snog asked, gazing at the ceiling.

"I'm Sarah Connor's son."

ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE

Dr. Silberman's nervousness was affecting the group. Most of the participants were scowling, and fidgeting to an even greater extent than nicotine withdrawal usually produced. They cast glances around the room looking for the disturbance and those glances usually landed on Sarah, where they became accusing. Clearly the participants liked their doctor.

That came as a surprise to Sarah; she remembered him as condescending, not at all a lovable trait.

It was something of a mixed group. Few of these people were severely mentally

ill. Those that were functioned very well if they kept up their medications. One was a recovering drug addict. Sarah supposed that she must be listed as one of the most severely ill, given her record.

The session had been going on for a while, through obviously well-worn channels; the participants didn't even seem to be paying attention to what they themselves were saying. Eventually the discussion petered out and all eyes were on Sarah again.

"Yes, I'm sorry, Sarah," Silberman said at last. "I'd meant to introduce you immediately, but we began rather quickly. Group, this is Sarah Connor."

"Hey, I've heard of you!" a man said. "You blew up that company, right?"

Sarah's head flopped forward as though she were embarrassed and she looked up through her bangs, smiling shyly. "I'm afraid so." Straightening up, she asked,

"What can I say?"

She let them draw the whole story out of her. She squirmed and hesitated and made them work for it. Through it all Silberman just watched her.

Well, he always did have her number. Her best efforts to tell him what he wanted to hear had always failed. He knew she still believed in Skynet and Judgment Day—which probably meant he still thought she was a homicidal loon. Busting out of the violent ward by breaking his arm, taking him as a hostage, and threatening to hypo his carotid full of drain cleaner had probably reinforced that conviction, and God knew he'd had enough time to rationalize away the glimpse he'd had of the T-1000 pulling its liquid body through a door of steel bars.

Silberman could barely take his eyes off her. Sarah Connor evoked feelings that made him want to call his own therapist. In fact, he should call her. He should also not have allowed himself to become involved in her therapy. Precisely because he knew she didn't need therapy. She needed to be believed. He now understood, all too well, how that felt.

But that little pissant Ray had made noises about how good it would be for him to face her, face his fears, and so on. So he'd decided to play the good little professional and include her in his group. Besides, he'd rather slit his wrists than let Ray see how rattled he was.

After her escape he'd told anyone who'd listen exactly what he'd seen. He completely forgot that he was the only one left conscious except for the Connors and their big friend. So he was the only one who'd seen that thing squeeze itself through the bars, then turn its hands into pry bars to open the elevator doors.

He'd seen it shrug off a shotgun blast to its chest.

Obviously they'd sent him on medical leave; also obviously they hoped never to welcome him back. To them his story represented a severe psychotic break brought on by trauma. You don't want a crazy doctor trying to treat the insane.

Though to be honest he hadn't wanted to go back. Being unwanted was unpleasant enough—but Pescadero was the scene of the most terrifying events of his life. It had been very easy to turn his back on the place.

He'd taken a long break from work, as long as his benefits and his savings would allow. And since he wasn't working with patients, he worked on himself, trying to put himself back together. He'd sought therapy and willingly allowed the doctors to convince him that he'd imagined the whole thing. They assured him

that in his understandable terror he'd bought into his own patient's delusions.

And he agreed.

In time the nightmares had begun to fade and his belief in his therapist's diagnoses became firm. What he'd seen was impossible; therefore it hadn't happened. When it was time to go back to work he found that his attitude toward his profession had changed. Once it had been about his career; now he wanted to help people. So he'd sent in his formal resignation to Pescadero and begun looking into clinics.

But after they found out about his reason for leaving his previous position, he got a lot of rejections. Which was ironic. How did they expect their patients to reintegrate with society when they wouldn't reintegrate one of their own colleagues?

Then a friend had told him about the halfway house. He'd felt comfortable here and he'd done good work with his patients, work he was proud of.

But now here was Sarah Connor, and he had some decisions to make all over again. Because now he knew he hadn't had a psychotic break; what he'd had was a taste of Sarah Connor's reality.

Sarah explained, "Dr. Ray says that now that I've stopped this project from going forward and Cyberdyne has dropped it from their roster, I'll probably never want to destroy their factory again. Obsession works that way sometimes, he says. So the board of review agreed to let me come here prior to my release."

"Will you have to go to jail after here?" a woman asked.

Sarah shook her head. "Apparently not. Since I was insane at the time."

"Well, Sarah," Dr. Silberman said with a weary smile, "we hope we can help you to overcome this obsession of yours."

"Thank you, Doctor." Sarah smiled tentatively at him. "I know I was very hard on you when I knew you before and I'd like to apologize. I really can't even imagine ever being that person again."

"I think, Sarah, that you will always rise to the occasion," Silberman said enigmatically. He checked his watch. "Well, group, that's it for today. We'll meet again on Thursday." He smiled, nodded, and rose from his seat.

"I didn't get to say anything," a heavy young man protested.

"I'm sorry about that, Dan." Silberman patted his shoulder. "We'll be certain to let you talk on Thursday."

As Sarah went by him at the door he leaned in close and said, "Sarah, I need to talk to you."

Well, I don't want to talk to you, Connor thought. "Now?" She looked around nervously.

"Now would be good." Silberman gestured down the hallway toward his office.

Her full lips jerked into a smile. "Sure," she said, and preceded him down the hall.

"Sit down," he said as he closed his office door. Then the doctor went to his desk

and sat. He looked at her for a long time, until she felt it was necessary to fidget.

"After you left"—he spread his hands— "escaped, rather, I was in therapy for a long time."

"I'm sorry about that, Doctor," Sarah said. And sincerely meant it. She didn't like knowing what she knew either and she'd certainly never enjoyed therapy.

"After about five years I was able to convince myself that what I saw was a delusion brought on by stress. Of course"—he rubbed a finger across his nose

—"dealing with the fallout caused by having a complete breakdown under stress has been keeping me pretty involved ever since. Running a halfway house is a considerable step down the career ladder from my former position, you realize."

Sarah shifted uncomfortably.

"And now you're here," he continued. "And… it's all come back to me. As clear as the day it happened. And that's the thing, Sarah. It did happen. So what I want to know is… how can I help?"

Sarah's jaw dropped. "Doctor?" she said.

"I know." He raised a hand to stop her. "How can you possibly trust me? You broke my arm, you threatened to kill me, and so on." He leaned forward, his eyes eager. "But now I know for certain. What I saw was real!"

She narrowed her eyes and looked at him sidelong. "Doctor, I've been over this with Dr. Ray. My obsession with Cyberdyne relates to my deeply buried resentment of their lawsuit when I was in the hospital years ago. He explained that I somehow displaced my legitimate anger and grief at the man who hurt me

and murdered my mother onto the more accessible Cyberdyne. I bought into those other people's psychotic fantasies because I'd been so hurt and traumatized.

None of it was real. None of it could be real."

Silberman let out his breath with a huff. "I just want you to know, if you ever need my help, you have it."

"Thank you, Doctor." Either he's crazier than I ever was, or he's telling the truth. But how was she supposed to tell?

"I mean that sincerely, Sarah."

"I know you do," she said gently. "Thank you."

NEAR PUERTO VALLARTA, MEXICO

Vera glanced at Dieter as she jogged by again. Every morning she took a hundred turns around the deck, usually wearing pink shorts and a black tank top, her champagne hair wrapped in a chiffon scarf. The bright tropical sunlight blinking off the water turned the colors to the glowing pastels of an old Pop Art poster from the sixties, the sort he'd had up on his wall when he was a grammar-school student.

She's flaky. Dieter thought, but I like her. And who was he to call anybody flaky? He'd recently dedicated his life and fortune to fighting a mad, genocidal computer that hadn't even been built yet. And while she was flaky she was also tough; he'd known many a man who'd have collapsed completely at the sights she'd witnessed.

"I'm in," she said the next time she came by.

"What?" he asked, looking up from where he was polishing brass.

Vera ran in place beside him. "I said, I'm in. I know you're not telling me the whole story, von Rossbach. But whatever is going on here has to be stopped."

Her eyes flickered away and then returned. "Besides, whether I like it or not, I'm involved now. So I'll help you sneak into the U.S. and I'll help you finance whatever." She held up a finger. "I'm not prepared to go bankrupt. But you should be able to get a fair chunk of change out of me. I'm getting older," she said with a weak smile, "so I can't hammer one of those things flat with a crowbar. But you can, so I want to help." Without another word she ran off.

And I didn't even have to sleep with her, he thought, just maybe a little disappointed.

Contrary to what the novelists said, even counter-terrorist operatives didn't often get the chance to seduce beautiful women into financing their schemes. Usually it was more a matter of putting in invoices and arguing with the finance department.

For once, he'd thought life might imitate art. It certainly would have been a lot more pleasant than being beaten up by a Terminator.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MIT CAMPUS

Who the hell is Sarah Connor?" Snog asked.

Wendy smacked his leg. "I told you about her, remember? She's kind of a Luddite heroine."

"Oooh, her," Carl said.

" You're Sarah Connor's son?" Yam asked.

"Yup."

"Your daddy was from the future?" Snog said.

"That's right," John agreed. He wondered if Snog was worth the trouble.

"Cool," Carl said. He leaned forward eagerly. "So how does that work anyhow?"

"Wait a minute!" Snog snapped. "You can't just come in here and claim you're John Connor! Give us some proof, for cryin" out loud."

John laughed at him. "Do you seriously think I carry around some kind of irrefutable ID?" He shook his head, grinning. "Call up the FBI or Interpol Web site and scroll to my name. Look at the age-enhanced photo, then look at me."

He shrugged. "Best I can do for ya, buddy. Or you could just take me at my word."

They all stared at him, then turned toward Snog's computer as he began to type in an address. In a few minutes they were looking at a photo of a smooth-shaven, rather young-looking John Connor. It had been blown up from a class picture taken when John was nine.

John took off his glasses and turned his head to resemble the photo.

"It's kind of hard to tell with the fake beard," Yam objected.

John blushed. "Yeah, I'm finding it a little hard to take it off."

They all crowded close to the screen to study the image, then looked at John, then back at the screen.

"Damn!" Brad said, impressed. "It really is you!"

"Waaait a minute!" Snog protested. "I thought that we all agreed with the site about Sarah Connor being a victim of government mind-control experiments and that there are no Terminators except in her mind." He turned to John. "You want me to believe you're John Connor, show me a Terminator."

John chuckled; he couldn't help it. "Well, they're a little unwieldy to carry around since they run about six feet tall and weight in at about five hundred pounds. But there is this."

He drew what looked like a candy bar from his pocket and peeled off the wrapper to reveal a tiny series of interconnected black blocks. "This is a Terminator's CPU."

They gathered around, their eyes alight with pure greed, just one step away from their tongues hanging out.

"It's weird," Snog conceded.

"How does it work?" Wendy asked.

"Well, people, that's why I brought it with me." John looked at each of them in turn, making eye contact. "I won't leave it with you, however, unless you're prepared to meet certain conditions."

"Hey, man," Snog jeered, "we could promise you the world on a string and then when you leave do whatever the hell we want. I mean, what are ya gonna do about it?"

John addressed himself to Snog. "First of all, we're not certain that all the Terminators were taken out of play. So if you light this up without putting it in a Faraday cage, you might find yourself being visited by a whole Terminator.

Second, if you exploit this with the wrong people you might be responsible for bringing on Judgment Day. Third, if the government finds out about this you just might disappear. Fourth, if you turn me in to the cops, one day I swear I will take you down."

"Oooo," Wendy said. "Tough guy."

He looked at her. He genuinely liked Wendy, but she was expendable if necessary. He'd hate himself, but he'd do it.

She saw something in his eyes that caused her to back down. "So what do you want from us?"

"When we disconnected this the Terminator was probably changing or erasing information. If it's possible I'd like you to stop it from doing anything else and perhaps recover whatever information it tried to eliminate. This could be a gold mine."

"Or a crap mine," Yam interjected. He reached out one long finger but didn't touch the chip. "Fascinating design."

John's lips tightened. He didn't want to let go of the chip, but he couldn't learn anything from it himself and he didn't know any scientists. These kids were the best chance he had of utilizing this resource. It wasn't a sure bet, but then neither was any other option.

"If I entrust this to you to work on," John said, "you could give us the edge that will allow us to beat Skynet. But you have to know that Skynet is capable of putting agents in the field anytime, anywhere. And it's desperate. So you can't afford to take any chances. Which means you can't show or tell anybody about this without my clearance."

"Why would you trust us?" Snog asked, sounding for the first time as though he was willing to cut John some slack.

"I've checked you guys out," he said. "You're all brilliant, this work is definitely within your capabilities. You have access to facilities that I don't. And, you're close enough to my age that I felt I could trust you." Actually, that wasn't true, but he thought they'd like hearing it.

The guys looked smug, but Wendy said, "Hey, wait a minute! You just met my friends tonight. How could you possibly have checked them out?"

John could feel the color rising in his face. "Uh. There was a slight—

"Invasion of privacy," she snapped. Her eyes glittered with fury. "How dare you?"

"I'm sorry, Wendy, I really am. But if I hadn't been able to check you and your friends out, I wouldn't have been able to come here."

She crossed her arms. "Yeah, well, I did a little checking on you, too, when I got interested in Sarah Connor's story. You're wanted for murder."

With a sigh John rewrapped the CPU. "I've never killed anybody in my life," he said. Well, nobody human. Do sentient killing machines from the future count?

"What about that ‘I’ll take you down' stuff?" Snog mocked.

"Nice to know somebody here knows bullshit when they smell it," John said.

Snog laughed. "He's all right." He held out his hand. "I'm in."

The relief in the room was palpable and Brad, Carl, and Yam all offered their hands as well. Only Wendy sat scowling at him. "I want you to promise me you'll never invade my privacy again," she said.

John shook his head. "I can't promise that. All I can promise is to respect your privacy as much as I can." He could see that she didn't like that. "Some things are greater than our personal likes and dislikes," he explained. "I genuinely don't like making you unhappy with me. But I'm not going to lie to you if I can help it.

What I'm trying to accomplish, what you'll be helping me to accomplish, is more important than any one person or their privacy. I won't abuse it. That's all I can promise." He met her eyes, willing her to believe him.

"I don't like it," Wendy said frankly. She turned her head away, then gave a half shrug; looking back, she frowned at him. "I'll have to get back to you on it.

Meanwhile"—she looked around and let out her breath in a little huff—"I'm starved. Who's up for pizza?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Carl muttered.

***

CRAIG KIPFER'S OFFICE, SOUTHERN

CALIFORNIA

"So, Sarah Connor is getting better and she's enjoying the facilities at the Encinas Halfway House," Kipfer said.

Pool nodded. "Yes, sir."

Kipfer tilted his chair back and smiled. "That's nice," he said. Then his eyes went cold. "Tell me again why we're being so nice."

Pool blinked. That he was being asked to explain himself again meant that Kipfer didn't trust his plan. Unfortunate, but he did believe in his idea. "We anticipate that she will attempt escape, in which case we'll track her to her base and finally get our hands on her son and, we hope, their unknown ally.

Alternatively, her son is very likely to attempt a rescue. Again, we hope with the aid of the man."

Kipfer looked thoughtful. "It has the virtue of simplicity," he said. "How do you plan to track her if she escapes?"

"The halfway house is under constant surveillance."

Kipfer leaned forward, pulling his chair closer to his desk. He folded his hands before him. "Describe 'surveillance.'"

"Cameras have been set up throughout the house and on every door, and microphones, of course," Pool said. "They're monitored by agents at a nearby location twenty-four/seven."

Kipfer shook his head and spread his hands. "You didn't put an implant on her?"

he asked. "It isn't like you didn't have an opportunity, for God's sake, she's been in surgery like twelve times."

Pool looked nervous. "Actually, sir, we did insert an implant. Since her move we've lost the signal."

His boss looked disgusted. Pool sat straighten it was a bad sign when Kipfer let you know what he was thinking.

"Well, there's not much can be done about that," Kipfer said. "But those agents you have watching her had better be good," he warned.

"They are, sir. The best."

"I have another little problem I'd like you to look into." Kipfer handed him a slip of paper. "This MIT student thinks it's fun to read my mail. Deal with it."

Pool took the paper. Wendy Dorset… "I'll take care of it right away, sir."

Kipfer flicked his fingers in dismissal and turned to his computer.

Pool rose and left silently. At the front of his mind was the worry that his agents might let Connor slip away. In the background was a seething resentment that he'd been saddled with such an unimportant chore as scaring off a too-curious student. To an agent at his level it was humiliating; of course it was meant to be.

Still, he would see to it that little Miss Dorset lost all interest in other people's private affairs.

CHAPTER TWELVE

MONTANA

Clea was leaving for the airport in less than three hours and she was nervous.

She paced through the carefully camouflaged upper part of the big log-cabin house, past magazines that were never read but were still ruffled realistically at set intervals, past furniture carefully worn at a regular pace and replaced occasionally.

This would be the first time she'd ever flown, ever left the state where she was born, ever been completely alone with millions of humans. She decided she wasn't nervous. She was terrified, in an abstract intellectual way that her computer side's control of hormones could do nothing about.

Clea tried to hide it from her little sister as she followed her down the hallway to her sister's lab. It was a futile effort, of course. Even if Alissa was fooled, and she probably wasn't, her computer part would identify the signs of stress and relay the information to its flesh half. Still, a human would be fooled, making the practice worthwhile.

Alissa and the Terminators would handle the rest of the move from this point.

The hard work was already done; what remained was just mechanical. The funeral had been held. To her utter surprise her "uncle" had received a number of floral arrangements from the companies he'd worked for. She had even received a fruit basket from one of them.

The humans at the funeral parlor had been very, even cloyingly, sympathetic. As had the doctor who'd declared the T-101 dead.

When she'd insisted there be no autopsy, indicating by her manner that she was prepared to become emotional about it, the doctor had assured her that because of economic considerations they didn't automatically perform autopsies anymore.

She'd thought it wonderful that a government agency would actually do something so convenient.

Before she left for New York, however, Alissa had insisted that she view the Watcher she'd constructed to spy on Sarah Connor. It was clear that her little sister was pleased with the results of her work.

Clea couldn't help smiling when she saw that it was covered with a sheet, like a statue waiting to be unveiled. Where, she wondered, had her sister discovered this conceit?

Alissa glanced at her, then yanked off the sheet and displayed her masterpiece.

Clea was genuinely and pleasantly surprised.

"You have done very well, little sister," she breathed. Shu glanced at the tiny I-950's shining face and was both pleased and saddened. For Alissa she stood in Skynet's place, offering praise and encouragement. But for herself there would

be neither.

With an effort she wrenched her mind away from the familiar circle of disappointment and studied the new machine.

With the necessary aid of a Terminator, Alissa had cut down the arm and leg matrices of a full-sized Terminator. She'd added more melanin to the skin and much more body hair, except on the top of the head. The result was a creature that looked like a short Turkish wrestler. While it might lack some speed as a result of the shorter legs, it was clear that nothing else had been sacrificed. It looked nothing like a standard T-101, yet it had all the deadly strength and power.

"Most excellent," Clea breathed. "As soon as it's properly programmed, send it. I leave the matter in your capable hands, little sister."

CAL TECH, CALIFORNIA

Dieter arrived at the campus during the morning rush, fitting himself into the massive river of young humanity that flowed from parking lot to classes among buildings that showed three generations' notions of up-to-date. Today, as usual, he'd entered through a different gate. Also as usual he wore a different hat and today a pair of fake glasses. He made a series of small changes to his appearance, none of which would pass close scrutiny; his height alone made disguise difficult, but they might prove enough to give him a critical edge.

As he walked along in the opposite direction from his destination, he made an unobtrusive scan of his vicinity. As it had done many times in the past, the automatic caution paid off.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied a figure on top of a building. He peeled off with a group of students and entered the nearest doorway. Dieter entered the stairwell and made his way to the roof, hoping that this building was of equal height or higher than the one where he'd caught that human-shaped flash of movement, that blink of sunlight on metal and glass. Coming to the top of the stairs, he stopped for a moment and considered the orientation of the door to the other building.

Not good; if this building was shorter he'd be in full view immediately. Of course, he might have just caught sight of a maintenance man going about his business. In which case this effort to confirm his suspicions was wasted time.

But somehow that's not how it feels. Go with it. After twenty years in the field, he'd learned to trust his instincts.

He cracked the door and peered out. l-'roni where he was standing he couldn't see anybody. The building he was in was indeed slightly lower than the one where he'd seen motion. But there was no help tor it; he had to know. After a moment's hesitation he eased the door open and slipped around its edge in one smooth movement. He felt a soft impact against the back of the metal door, and when he looked down he saw the feathered end of a shattered tranquilizer dart.

Someone's overeager, von Rossbach thought. He could have been a handyman or a stray student. Bad training, or perhaps just a trainee. He now knew that at least they didn't mean to kill him. Not immediately anyway. They wanted to take him in to the local Sector substation for interrogation. So, forewarned was forearmed.

Unfortunately that was equally true for the guy with the dart rifle.

He had to get off this roof. Especially since the man over there had probably sent for backup. What had he been thinking? Here he was trapped like some rookie.

Perhaps deep down he'd wanted to test their intentions, looking to see how deadly they intended to be. Still, he'd been stupid.

He looked around the roof and saw no means of escape. Especially not while under the gun. Dieter moved to the far side of the roof shack and faked an attempt to get to the door from the far side, drawing the shooter's fire.

Ja, he thought. Still paying attention. The soft phfuut and the dart quivering in the tar roofing proved that.

Paying attention specifically to him. Which he'd taken for granted, but it was still some comfort to know this wasn't a student gone bonkers. Those tended to use live ammo. They also tended to attract a lot of official and media attention, something he had no desire to be around.

Speculatively he thumped against the side of the roof shack. It was only a thin, narrow sheet of corrugated steel, made simply to keep the weather out of the stairwell. It should be a simple matter to bend a piece back and slip down the stairs unseen.

He pulled a multitool out of his back pocket and set to work. With considerable effort he managed to dislodge one of the bolts holding the sheet to its frame; then getting his fingers under the edge, he pulled up. With a hiss he let go and looked with dismay at the cuts on his fingers. The damn thing was tack-welded as well as bolted.

I should have expected it, he thought bitterly, sucking on a bleeding finger.

These things have to be student-proof.

Well, he might as well make his move now. Dieter swung around the door and threw himself through the opening. He felt something hit his heel just before he tucked in to control his fall down the steps, rolling to his feet when he came to the landing. Looking down, He found a clutch of feathers sprouting from the heel of his running shoe. He also felt the beginning of a nice set of bruises where the risers had smacked into his back. That was endurable, and the thick muscle had protected his back.

He plucked the dart out with a curse and flung it away, then rolled his aching shoulders and trotted down the stairs.

I'm getting too old for this, he grumbled mentally.

He hit the stairwell door on the ground floor and moved quickly toward the maintenance doors, his eyes moving constantly. He saw no evidence of agents closing on the building. What he did see was a big, sandy-haired jock.

"Hey!" he said.

The boy looked up from his book, his mouth partly open.

"How would you like to make a few bucks?" Dieter asked him.

The kid looked at him for a minute. "How many bucks and what do I have to do to earn it?"

"I want you to put on this jacket and these glasses," von Rossbach said, taking them off. "Then I want you to walk out to the parking lot and come back."

"Oh, yeah?" the kid said. "How come? And you forgot to mention how much."

"Fifty bucks." Von Rossbach flung the jacket over his arm and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.

The kid looked at him from under his eyebrows. "And the why?"

"I think this guy I owe some money to is following me. I just want to check."

"Hey"—the kid raised his hands—"I don't want no trouble. Noooo, no, no, no."

"Aw, c'mon. There won't be any trouble. He'll know you're not me in a couple of minutes. Which is why I'd like you to run out. You can walk back, though."

Dieter took out two twenties and a ten. The kid still shook his head, so Dieter added a couple more twenties. The kid looked at him sideways and made a keep-it-coming gesture. Dieter pulled out another pair of twenties.

"I did mention that I owed this guy money?" he said.

The kid grinned, grabbed the money and the jacket. "Hey, man, I'm cheap at twice the price," he said, slipping on Dieter's sunglasses.

Von Rossbach took the boy's sunglasses and whipped a blue bandanna out of his back pocket.

"Hey!" the kid said. "Gimme back my glasses."

"Those are RayBans," Dieter said, indicating the pair the boy was wearing.

The kid looked at him tor a moment, then lowered the sunglasses. "Kewl," he said. Then he hoisted his backpack.

"I'll watch that for you," Dieter said hastily.

With a shrug and a slight tightening of his lips the boy acquiesced. " 'Kay," he grunted. "I'll be right back."

"Just run," Dieter said. "Don't look around; just take off, okay?"

The kid shook his head. "Sure, whatever."

As von Rossbach watched him go he tied the bandanna over his hair, put on the kid's funky sunglasses, and picked up the backpack. He watched the boy hit the door and go down the steps at a run. He was taking a shortcut across the lawn when he went down, skidding almost to the base of an oleander. Dieter didn't wait to see any more; he turned and jogged to the building's other door and walked calmly toward the building where the shooter was lodged. Once inside, he ditched the backpack and raced up the stairs to the roof. He had only moments to get behind his target.

Is the Sector getting sloppy, or am I just lucky? he thought as he raced up the stairwell, dodging the occasional student on the lower levels.

Normal procedure would be to have at least two more shooters on the stairwells as backup, in case of just this sort of counterattack. Von Rossbach found nothing

but deserted stairs as he cautiously peered around corners on the last two floors.

The exit door was closed, but as he expected, the tongue of the lock was held down with a piece of transparent tape. It opened silently, and he stepped out on the rooftop, running forward lightly with his weight on the balls of his feet.

The shooter with the dart rifle was dressed in nondescript black sweats—campus fashions were convenient for covert ops people—and lying with the bipod-mounted weapon beside him, looking through a small pair of binoculars down onto the lawn. The attache case the gun had rested in was open, revealing shaped slots to hold the weapon when it was broken down into its components.

He heard Dieter's feet when the Austrian was still five yards away; one of the disadvantages of two hundred and sixty pounds of solid muscle. The sniper was tall but slender, lithe and very quick. He came up off the tar and gravel in a spectacular twirling handstand that sent one booted foot slashing out toward the face of the man running toward him.

Dieter blocked it with crossed wrists, grabbed the man by the ankle, and turned, whipping him through the air like a giant flail. A single incredulous squawk was cut off by a massive thumping sound as the sniper's head hit the rooftop and rebounded. The Austrian dropped the limp, unconscious body, grinning. There were advantages to his build; one of them was that people always assumed he'd be slow.

He peered over the low parapet of the rooftop; two men leaned over the prostrate student. They turned him over and looked at each other, then looked up at the roof where Dieter lay. They couldn't see any details from where they stood because the sun was behind him. All they'd see was his head and some of his

shoulders. He held his hands up in a go-figure gesture and slid out of sight.

Then, crouching low, he moved over to the far side of the building, which overlooked the office of his old friend and teacher, Dr. Paul Wang. Wang was a scientist and engineer who for years had been training upper-level Sector agents in electronic equipment and high-tech gadgetry. Sometimes it took all they had just to stay even with the other side.

Dieter had helped the good doctor with a little problem involving his son and afterward the two men had become friends. Which is why von Rossbach had come here; to meet with a trusted companion he thought could be of help. And while he was certain that Wang could indeed help, he was now equally certain that the professor was not his friend.

Clear the board, he thought. Move on.

Across the street the steps and lawns were empty of life except for a pair of male students leaning against a wall talking. They were perhaps a little old looking for students, despite their books and casual clothes. Still, there were grad students around and Ph.D. candidates in plenty to explain the discrepancy in their ages.

Von Rossbach would still have recognized them as Sector agents, even without the telltale gestures made toward their earpieces that brought them both to higher alert, whatever their disguise. He'd worked with them for several months less than five years ago.

They must think I'm a complete loon, Dieter thought. Why else would they send people he was bound to recognize after him? With a sigh von Rossbach eased himself away from the building's edge and moved carefully toward the door to

the stairway. When he'd backed off enough that he couldn't be seen from the street, he rose to his feet, moving quickly.

Of course, that they were men I'd recognize indicates I may still have a friend in the Sector. Then he pushed the idea aside. That was something to think about on a rainy day. Right now he needed all his wits about him. After all, it might simply mean that they had a dearth of agents in the vicinity.

For now, best to scrub this part of the mission and move on to the next contact.

He'd lay a false trail or two, then head for his rendezvous with John in New Mexico.

***

BOSTON

It had been only ten days, but they had been ten wonderful, glorious, fabulous days. John had never enjoyed himself so much in his life. He'd snuck into classes and spoken with professors, spent hours and hours in the library, worked with Wendy and her friends in the labs.

They'd even found time to just hang out, in Snog's room or in off-campus student cafes, and he'd caught glimpses of Boston's life from a student point of view, bookstores and Harvard Square and little theaters. They'd talked all night about how to save the world, both the world as it was and the way John feared it would be. It was fun and valuable in its way. Though for a couple of days there he'd let himself forget what he was supposed to be doing and just enjoyed it. He'd even gone dancing with Wendy. John smiled at the memory; the girl knew how to move her fine body.

What he hadn't done was so much as kiss her. God knew he wanted to; every time she walked into a room it felt like his veins were filled with melted butter.

His dreams had definitely improved since he'd met her. And the scent of her almost made the top of his head pop off. He very much feared that he was falling in love.

John looked at her and she smiled at him. Then she took his hand and he couldn't speak; even if he'd been able to, his mind was completely blank. His body, however, was telling him exactly what it wanted him to do.

Wendy had insisted that they take the T to the airport. He suspected that she was more interested in spending the maximum amount of time with him than in simply saving money. Not that she had money to spare, or time either.

The sun sparked copper highlights in her hair and John sighed. He didn't know what to do. He knew what he wanted to do, he just didn't think it would be right.

Look what had happened to his mother and father. Besides, he was too young to be thinking in terms of forever.

But… he and Wendy seemed so right together. As though they'd known each other all their lives. After her initial prickliness had worn off, John found that he'd never been more comfortable with anybody except his mother.

And that can't be right, he thought. Should you be able to compare your girl in any way to your mother? Not that they were actually anything alike. Wendy was softer than his mother in every way. And he liked that.

Maybe it was because, like his mom, Wendy knew the truth and believed what

he said about Skynet and Judgment Day.

Not that it had been an easy sale, by any means. Wendy and her friends were smart and they all possessed the natural skepticism of scientists. But the Terminator's CPU trumped all their arguments. Its sheer sophistication left them with nothing to say. Except "wow," which they said frequently, They had all given him their word that no one outside their group would learn of the artifact from them. Meanwhile they would spend every spare hour on working out its design and how it functioned. As well as recovering any possible software and/or data files.

He'd also gotten them to agree to come to Paraguay, or at least to leave the city after graduation. That had been tough since they had all imagined themselves staying on to get at least their master's from MIT.

The Logan stop came all too soon. Hand in hand he and Wendy left the train and went up the stairs to wait for the bus.

"You won't have much time to make your flight," Wendy said, checking her watch. "Maybe we should have taken a cab."

John smiled slightly. " 'S okay," he said. "It's better this way—less time for security to look me over."

She studied him anxiously. John was without his disguise. He doubted he'd need it given the computer-aged picture law enforcement had of him, which only vaguely resembled him. Oh, it was good enough to help convince people you were telling that you were John Connor that you weren't a liar. But just passing

by wouldn't elicit recognition, he was confident.

They had to stand on the bus, holding on to the pole and looking into each other's eyes. He'd heard about this eye-gazing thing and wondered how people could want to do it. But with Wendy it was magical, enthralling. They almost missed their stop.

It really was late and they ended up running. He smiled at her as the woman at the gate took his ticket, and was about to take it back and board… when with a sound of total exasperation Wendy grabbed him and kissed him.

John came up gasping and then he smiled, feeling… altogether too much.

Wendy looked smug for a moment. "I guess you're not old in every kind of experience," she whispered.

He could feel himself blushing, and when he glanced around the ticket lady looked hastily away but kept her smile in place.

All the world loves a lover, John thought. He leaned close to Wendy. "I hope to see you again," he said fervently.

"Oh, I promise you that you will," she said.

He felt like his grin was going to unzip his head. "Make sure everybody keeps their word," he cautioned.

"You bet," she agreed. "And we'll all leave the city as soon as we graduate, or sooner if you tell us to." For a moment she looked worried. "Take care of

yourself, John. And be careful."

He smiled again. But I can't tell her why— you don't tell a girl who kisses like that that she's sounding like your mom. "I have to go," he said after a moment.

"Yeah," she said.

He gave her a quick but passionate kiss and boarded. He wasn't going to look back, but he couldn't help himself. He was glad he did; Wendy blew him a kiss.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

NORTHERN CALIFORNIA

Almost into Oregon, on the east side of Goose Lake, nestled beneath the spreading, green canopy of old-growth pines, was a small log cabin. It had one story, a stone chimney, and three rooms, one with a glass wall facing the lake as well as a state-of-the-art woodstove. It also boasted its own generator plus a slew of more esoteric gadgets. For a rustic log cabin it was amazingly twenty-first century.

Extending out into the lake nearby was a wooden pier; a small boat with an outboard motor was tied up at the far end. The pier was so low to the water that one could step aboard easily.

At the very end of the pier, seated in an aluminum chair with yellow plastic webbing, was a big man of about sixty. His gray hair was covered with a battered khaki hat decorated with fishhooks and a plastic badge that held a fishing and a hunting license. He wore tan shorts, white socks with sandals, and

a neon-orange shirt decorated with bright blue hibiscus blossoms and green hummingbirds.

In one hand he held a high-end rod and reel, the butt end resting on his thigh.

The other hand was curled in his lap; he appeared to be dozing. Beside him a can of beer sat atop a red-and-white cooler.

Dieter had been observing this tranquil scene for over two hours from various locations around the cabin. It appeared that there wasn't anybody around except for him and the old man. Which made a nice change. Several times now he'd had to abort contact with someone he wanted to recruit because of a Sector presence.

But if they were here they were too well hidden for him to spot. Time to make his move. He crept silently toward the pier.

The old man's hand jerked and suddenly held a Walther P-38, old and well maintained and deadly, the 9mm eyehole looking as big as a cannon when it settled unwaveringly on Dieter's face. His eyes moved to the tiny mirrors on the inner edge of his oversized sunglasses.

"Jesus Christ, Dieter, what took you so damned long?" he demanded. "I thought my goddamned bladder was going to explode." He stood up and held out the rod.

"Here, reel this in and come into the cabin."

Dieter stood with his mouth open, caught flat-footed. Like some raw recruit, he thought.

"How did you know?" he asked, accepting the rod.

"Christ Almighty, you were making so much racket I thought I was being

invaded by bears. Bring the beer in, too."

Von Rossbach watched the older man trot up the path to the cabin for a moment; then shaking his head, he began to reel in the unused lure. He'd always said the boss was psychic.

When von Rossbach was a young agent assigned to Doc Holmes's unit, he'd quickly become aware that his mentor possessed an acute situational awareness.

And though Doc was well schooled in every facet of covert technology, he made it plain that he preferred his agents to rely mainly on their native faculties.

"What are you gonna do if your batteries run out?" he'd ask sarcastically. "Go home?"

Doc could be as exasperating as he was amazing. At some point whenever they got together, he left Dieter feeling like the overconfident young student in a kung fu movie who could never get the best of the master.

Dieter tucked the rod under one arm, the chair under the other, and picked up the cooler. In a way it was kind of nice to know that he still had things to learn. At least it means that I'm not the old master yet. And he's never made me walk over rice paper without tearing it, or asked me to trust the Force.

When he entered the cabin Doc was flicking switches on what looked like an incredibly complex stereo unit.

"Siddown," Doc invited. "Have yourself a brew."

He continued to fiddle with the console, though no music began to play. Von

Rossbach selected a beer and sat watching him, making no comment.

Finally Holmes took a seat himself and, indicating the console, spoke as though continuing an ongoing conversation. "Yeah, the Sector promised me they wouldn't keep me under observation when I retired. They lied." He put a finger by his nose and winked. "But I never made them any promises in return. What I just did then was erase the little bit of conversation we just had and replace it with tweeting birds and lake water lapping the pier." He grinned. "I pity the poor schmo they've got listening in on me; his brain is probably turning to New Age paste." Taking a sip of beer, he studied his former agent.

"So, what brings you here to Goose Lake? I heard you'd retired to Paraguay, of all places."

Dieter shifted in his chair. "Paraguay is nice," he said, a bit defensively. "A little boring sometimes, but basically very nice."

With a snort Doc said, "So's Goose Lake, if you like being bored out of your mind." He wagged a finger. "You've been causing comment, dear boy. What's this I hear about you and Sarah Connor?"

"How do you know about that?" von Rossbach demanded.

Doc looked smug. "Remember how I said I never made them any promises?

Wellll… I found a way to keep myself updated. When you left I hear you just…

left."

"I burned out all at once," Dieter agreed. "I couldn't wait to get out of there.

They agreed."

"Wanna talk about it?" Doc ;asked.

"Nothing to talk about," von Rossbach said. "There was nothing particular about my last mission that made it my last. It just was. Maybe I didn't take enough time between assignments, maybe I should have taken a desk job instead of staying in the field." He shrugged his big shoulders. "I don't know; it was just over."

Holmes looked at him shrewdly. "I ask again, what's this about Sarah Connor?

Not like you to side with the terrorists."

Is that what they're saying? Dieter thought. Of course it was, what else could they think? "Sarah Connor isn't a terrorist," he said aloud. His voice was flat"

when he said it; He didn't expect to be believed.

Doc raised a brow at that. "She's not? She's bombed at least three computer companies that we know of. Okay, two of them were Cyberdyne, but that still counts as three hits. Not to mention she's guilty of drug smuggling and arms dealing. These are things that terrorists do, buddy."

Dieter sighed. He was about to risk something he really valued here-the continued respect of this man- "But what if she's not crazy, Doc?" He looked up and met the other man’s eyes.

Both of Doc's brows went up at that. He sat contemplating his former agent for a while. "Not crazy." he said at last.

"Would you be willing to listen?" von Rossbach asked him.

Holmes pursed his lips and blew out a stream of air. He shrugged. "Sure, what

the hell, I haven't got anything else on my schedule right now.

Dieter studied him carefully; if he didn't buy this story, Dieter knew Doc would turn him in to the Sector in a New York minute. He ran one hand over his face, feeling desperate. Well, this is what you're here for, he told himself.

"It's all true," he said simply- Dieter waved his hands. "All of it."

For a moment Doc sat still, looking expectant. "That's it?" he exclaimed. "That's your explanation? 'Cause, y'know, I'm sitting here waiting for something more.

What if all I know about Sarah Connor is she likes to blow up computer companies?"

Tossing his head impatiently, von Rossbach said, "You know more about the case than that! I know you better, Doc. I worked for you for ten years. If you saw my name connected with hers in the Sector's files, you'd look into it. I know you would."

Doc waggled his head back and forth. "Okay, good call." Hu went silent for a while, his eyes on the middle distance. "I have to admit I was very intrigued by that guy who shot up the police station, then ten years later showed up in a shopping mall." He waved a hand at von Rossbach. "It was you! Except that at the time of both incidents, you were working for me, and in the first case, you were actually, physically, with me. So what am I supposed to think? I know you don't have an evil identical twin. I know they say everybody has a double, but that's bullshit."

Dieter watched Doc as he worked it through, the older man's fingers tapping on the arms of his chair. Doc looked up at him. "Connor says this guy was some

kind of robot." A statement that was really a question.

Dieter nodded. "I got to meet a couple of them, Doc. They looked exactly like me. I saw their insides; they're made of metal. Rods and cams, hydraulics, a really impressive small power unit, computer controls—neural-net computers.

They're real."

After studying Dieter for a moment, Doc said, "So it follows that the ultimate killer computer and the Judgment Day crap… all that's real, too?"

"I hope not. That's what Sarah has been trying to prevent all these years." He bit his lip. "Unfortunately we've come to the conclusion that maybe it can't be stopped. Maybe it's meant to happen and there's nothing that can be done to prevent it. The best we can do is mitigate the circumstances. Which is why I'm here."

"Yeah, Whang said you were recruiting people."

Doc waited him out. Dieter could feel heat creeping up his face. Only Doc could make him feel like a naive kid saying something stupid. "So I was hoping that we could rely on you to help when the time came." There, that was it. This time he waited for Holmes to speak.

"You're serious about this, I can see that," Doc said at last. "I'm not gonna tell you it makes me feel good; like you've found a nice hobby to enliven your retirement." He tightened his lips to a thin line, then met von Rossbach's eyes.

"But I've trusted you before now and been right. So… I'll take a chance and agree to help you. But!" He held up a stern finger. "I'm not going to be party to any wacko terrorist behavior. If your girlfriend feels an urge to blow up anything

else, I'd advise you to talk her out of it, or I'm gone. Got it?"

"Yes," Dieter said simply. "Thank you."

"So what do you want from me anyway?"

"When the time comes we'll need someplace marginally safe for people to go."

Dieter looked out at the peaceful lake. "This would make a good destination.

We'll also need your training skills." He hesitated. "And we'll need someplace to stockpile supplies."

Von Rossbach was enormously relieved. The fact that Holmes had agreed so readily meant that he'd given the matter study and thought. And where Doc led, others would follow; generations of Sector agents and allies had worked with, or trained under, the old man. He was glad he'd taken the chance and approached him.

Doc nodded once or twice, then narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "How bad do you expect this thing to get?"

"Bad," Dieter said. "Not as bad as it would have been six years ago maybe. But bad. Billions dead. End of civilization as we know it. Possible extinction of the human race."

Holmes nodded, his eyes on the braided rug beneath his feet, then he looked up, his eyes sharp. "I really hope she's crazy, Dieter, if that's an improvement on the original version."

One corner of the Austrian's mouth quirked in a half smile. "I wish she was."

ON THE HIGHWAY TO UTAH

If anyone had been able to see through the van's darkened windows, they would have seen a pair of tall, grim-faced twins, a short, dark, balding muscleman, and a child of angelic beauty. Alissa's golden hair curled to the center of her back and she looked adorable in a little blue sundress and white sandals. She carried an adult's white purse that was almost as big as she was.

The purse contained all of their identity papers, driver's licenses for each of the Terminators, the deed on their new house, the van's registration, and several thousand dollars in cash, all that Clea thought they would need to get them safely to their new location in Utah.

The older Infiltrator didn't know that Alissa had gathered all of this material in one place, and would have disapproved if she had known. But to Alissa it felt right, and since she didn't really trust her older sibling, she went with her feelings.

Alissa was looking forward to getting settled in. She was long overdue for her next growth enhancement and the sense of being off schedule tormented her.

Once in a while, to distract herself, she checked her sister's computer to view whatever Clea was looking at. She wasn't interested in communication so much as she wished she was in a more interesting place than the endless expanse of rolling sagebrush outside. New York was enormous, filled with buildings of staggering size and teeming with life, at once fascinating and revolting.

For the most part, like the Terminators, she ignored the often spectacular scenery they were traveling through. Occasionally she would take note of a suitable spot

for an ambush, or places for the automated factories.

But for the most part this land was empty and, as far as she could see, always would be. She flicked her inner vision back to the busy New York streets. That was where the war would take place. There, along the Mississippi, and on the West Coast. Soon, she hoped. For now, this empty land was a good place to begin laying plans and manufacturing allies.

"I'm hungry," she said eventually. "Pull in to the next available place."

The Terminators didn't acknowledge her order; there was no need. Even voicing it aloud was mainly a matter of training herself in humanizing her mannerisms.

They did have supplies on the van, but she was bored and wished to begin socializing both herself and the Terminators to the degree that any of them was capable. You really couldn't terminate humans effectively if they had warning.

DUFFY'S DINER, UTAH

The restaurant was clean, with a black-and-white tile floor and chipped Formica surfaces; it smelled of cooking but of no particular food or spice unless it was hot oil. The four of them took a booth where rips in the plastic cover had been carefully patched with duct tape, and a waitress in a pink uniform and comfortable-looking shoes came over with plastic-coated menus. The menus were slightly sticky to the touch.

"Blue-plate special's chicken-fried steak," she announced to the puzzled machines and Infiltrator.

"Chicken… fried… steak?" Alissa asked. She had a ridiculous mental image of a

fowl flipping meat onto a grill.

The waitress grinned. "You never had that, honey?" she asked. "You dip the steak in the same kinda coating you use for chicken, then you fry it."

"Interesting," the Infiltrator said. It didn't sound very healthy. "We will have that," she said, handing the menu back to the woman.

The waitress raised her brows and looked at the Terminators. In her experience, big, tough-looking men usually didn't take orders from little blond moppets.

"You boys okay with that?" she asked doubtfully. They handed back the menus and just looked at her. "How would you like those steaks cooked?"

Alissa blinked as she considered this. It felt like a trick question. "Until they're done," she said after a moment.

The waitress looked at her, a look that said, "Don't give me any more nonsense, kid."

"Rare, medium, or well-done?" she asked tersely.

"Ah, medium," Alissa said. That sounded like a sale choice.

"To drink?" The waitress's voice hardened slightly under their unwavering gazes.

"Just water," Alissa said. If the dinner was unhealthy she need not compound the error with fluids made with a surfeit of sugar or caffeine.

"And you boys?" The waitress stood with her pencil poised over her pad.

"For all of us," Alissa told her.

The waitress sniffed and shook her head as she moved off; maybe they were playing some kind of road game to keep the kid entertained. Who cared? The girl seemed polite enough.

Alissa looked around the room with interest. All of the furnishings seemed to be at least thirty years old, some of the advertisements included. At least those advertisements that took the form of clocks or lights did. Two men at the end of the counter were looking at her. They smiled at her and waggled their fingers in a friendly way. She just looked at them until they turned away.

The waitress eventually returned with their food and placed a plate before each of the Terminators without comment, dropping the last one in front of Alissa, who picked up her fork.

"What do you say?" the woman asked, frowning and smiling at the same time.

Alissa and the Terminators looked at her mutely. The waitress glanced at the Terminators somewhat nervously. "What's the magic word?" she prompted the Infiltrator.

This female has gone mad, the I-950 thought. She was certain that most humans didn't believe in magic. Had she done something to precipitate this condition?

"Thank you," the waitress said carefully. She glanced again at the Terminators, then back at Alissa.

"You're welcome," the I-950 said, equally carefully.

The waitress laughed. "Enjoy," she said, and moved off chuckling.

Alissa watched her go nervously. Insane humans were unpredictable and, she'd read, often unnaturally strong. Strong as a Terminator? she wondered. She'd have to look it up.

Her excellent peripheral vision told her that the two men at the counter were watching her. The I-950 frowned as she sawed at her meat. Was there something strange about her? She studied them carefully.

They seemed ordinary enough. One was about fifty, with glasses and graying hair. The other was younger, perhaps late twenties, early thirties. That one had dark hair and was thin. Their glances became more furtive and the way they occasionally spoke to each other made her think they were talking about her.

VVitli a slight adjustment oi her ears she listened in.

"So, whaddaya think?" the thin one asked.

"Definitely potential." The older man glanced at her again. "Could be a real winner."

"Should we go for it?"

After a long pause the older man said, "Big risk, might not be worth the trouble."

"Yeah, well, you gotta take the opportunities life sends ya. We gotta do something, for Christ's sake." The thin man took a sip of his coffee. "We got bills

to pay."

The older man snorted and took a sip of his coffee.

"Let's see if any opportunities present themselves, okay? No point in doing things the hard way if you don't have to. And those three boys look plenty hard, if you get my meaning."

As far as Alissa could tell, this conversation had nothing to do with her; in any case, it was irrelevant at the moment. She continued to eat steadily, her higher metabolism allowing her to eat adult volumes of food with ease. The waitress, when she returned, complimented her on it.

"I was very hungry," Alissa told her. "Are there facilities here?"

The waitress pursed her lips in amusement and indicated a corridor to her right, moving aside when Alissa slipped out of the booth. "She's cute," she said to the Terminators when Alissa was out of hearing. They just looked at her. "So," she said crisply after a silent moment, "you gonna have dessert?"

As one, the three Terminators looked toward the bathrooms.

The waitress rolled her eyes. "Coffee, then, until your little girl gets back?"

One of the men at the counter threw down some bills and left. The other headed for the rest rooms. The waitress took note, estimating with a glance that the crumpled wad of money would pay their check.

"Coffee," the senior Terminator said at last, the answer its decision tree had

offered as the best response.

The waitress nodded and cleared the table; and she made a bet with herself that these weirdos wouldn't tip.

Clay Radcliff was proud of the fact that, like the Boy Scouts on whom he had occasionally preyed, he was always prepared. He never left home without a nice clean handkerchief and his little bottle of chloroform tucked into his belt pouch.

He lurked in the men's room, the door open just a traction, watching for this glorious little moppet who was soon to be his little movie star.

Alissa finished her business, washed her hands, and disdained to use the endless linen towel that had apparently never been changed. Wiping off the wet on the skirt of her dress, she walked down the hall back toward the Terminators.

Clay swung out behind her and with practiced ease clapped the handkerchief over her small face, pulling her tight to his soft stomach as he dragged her into the men's room.

Unexpectedly the little brat clawed backward, obviously aiming for his groin. He barely got his leg up in time to protect himself, and even then she grabbed the muscle with the force of a metal clamp. Clay gasped in pain, his mouth wide open in agony and surprise. He swung her off her feet and the girl began to pummel his legs with her sharp little heels. Each kick was like a hammer blow and Clay spread his legs, trying to get away from the punishment.

Desperately he pressed her body against the wall, clamping her there with all his weight. Still she wriggled and kicked. Damn but the kid was strong! When the hell was she going to black out. Usually they went down instantly. He was

getting dizzy from the goddamned fumes and she was still bucking like a bronco!

Alissa's computer enhancements worked hard to overcome the effects of the chloroform. They warned her that if she didn't break free in ten seconds she would succumb. The I-950 continued to fight. The slight differences in the muscle attachments in her arms and shoulders gave her a strength far beyond her size and years; and there was a greater flexibility built into her joints that allowed her to perform feats so unlikely that no ordinary human could anticipate them.

She folded one leg behind her, pointing her foot, and rammed it upward into the man's groin. He gasped in agony and his grip on her arms loosened. The I-950

twisted her arm free and reached up and back.

The man didn't even have time to react to the touch of a tiny hand on his throat.

One moment he was folding over the agony in his groin, still trying to keep hold of her, the next he was thrashing on the floor, clawing at thin air, blood spraying from his throat, spurting from his mouth. He fell back, choking, his eyes bugging out in horror, the blood turning to a fan-shaped spray as he tried to scream.

Alissa's powerful little hand had snapped his windpipe like a paper straw.

Out in the parking lot Gil's fingers beat a nervous tattoo on the van's steering wheel. He'd been in position for over five minutes and he was feeling very conspicuous. Nobody sits outside an emergency door in a van with the motor running for no reason. Anybody who noticed probably wouldn't think that reason was a good one. Most likely they'd think he was waiting for someone to finish robbing the diner.

He wished. Robbery carried a fairly light sentence compared with kidnapping.

Hurry your ass up, Gil! he thought fiercely.

Three minutes later he slammed his palm against the wheel and opened the van door. He moved to the emergency door and opened it with exquisite caution. Gil breathed a sigh of relief when no alarm sounded. He peeked through the crack and saw no one in the short corridor; there was no sound from either bathroom.

Gil looked around; no one was watching, so he slipped inside and moved quietly to the men's room. Pressing his ear against the door, he listened and heard water running. Carefully he tried the knob and it turned. Gritting his teeth, Gil opened the door and slipped inside.

The little girl washing her dress in the sink looked up at Gil, who stood frozen, staring at the man lying on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Slowly he turned to gaze at her sweet, expressionless face and innocent blue eyes and wondered if he was having a nightmare.

She blinked at him and Gil shook his head. Her hair was drenched with blood and her face and arms wore flecks of blood so tiny it looked as though they'd been applied in a fine spray. He took a deep breath of the fetid air in the tiny room and nearly gagged on the complex mixture of blood and feces and disinfectant.

Gil knew that somehow this beautiful little girl was responsible, that somehow, like an avenging angel, she was the answer to all the prayers of all the kids he and Clay had ever hurt. He pressed his back to the door and all he could think to say to her was "no," over and over, half plea, half denial.

Alissa stared at the human. Then she smiled slightly, watching him pale as her expression changed. "You should have knocked," she said gently.

He turned to open the door and she squatted to pick up the chloroform-soaked handkerchief, then sprang up and grabbed him, her legs clamping around his arms so tightly he couldn't dislodge her. The man shrugged and struggled, opening his mouth as though to shout. The I-950 pressed the handkerchief over his mouth and nose, effectively gagging him. Within seconds he began to totter.

Apparently sensing his danger, he began trying to bite her, but Alissa easily kept his jaws apart. Then he slammed himself into the bathroom door. She grimaced and held on, extending her senses to see if anyone had heard the sound.

Apparently the crash had been more significant in the bathroom's small confines.

No one commented, no one came.

Her computer tested the man's vital signs and concluded that he would shortly be unconscious. The I-950 lost patience; shortly wasn't soon enough. She took one hand from his mouth and felt along the column of his throat. The man tried to shout, making muffled sounds, then tried to turn his head, obviously meaning to shake off both of her hands, almost succeeding in actually moving. Alissa found what she was searching for, and with a flex of her fingers she felt his hyoid bone snap.

That should hurry things along, she thought with satisfaction.

For a moment his struggles became more violent, then he fell forward. The computer confirmed unconsciousness and she let him go; pushing herself upright, she stared down at him. A brief spasm passed through the body and it voided, finally going limp. That was good. She hadn't wanted any more blood to

contend with.

As she scrubbed her dress the child part of Alissa enjoyed pretending that Skynet had set up a test for her, just like it used to do for Serena, her mother/sister, a test that she had passed. But the computer part of her objected to the dissonance and with a wistful sigh she put the idea from her.

She looked at the bodies on the floor. It would probably be best to leave here now. This incident had already caused enough delay.

Holding up the dress, Alissa studied it. Most of the stains were gone, but there was a shadow of brownish red at the neckline. Future washings would probably remove the stain. Meanwhile she could hardly walk through the diner in a soaking-wet dress. She ordered the T-101s to meet her at the van and slipped out the back door in her underpants.

MIT CAMPUS

The guys' attitude had changed dramatically in just the few days that John had been gone. Wendy listened to them with growing unease.

"I feel like I've been hypnotized," Snog was saying. "I can't believe I was making life-changing promises to some seventeen-year-old!"

"If what John was telling us is true—" Wendy began.

"Hey! He lied about his age," Yam pointed out.

"That's because you guys were making such a big deal about it," she said crossly.

"Anyway, if Judgment Day happens, then at least we'll have lives."

"His father is from the future," Brad said dreamily. "He probably hasn't even been born yet." He looked around at his friends. "How the hell does that work?"

"Not too well," Yam commented. "At least as far as his dad was concerned."

"Yeah," Carl agreed. "Imagine sending your father back through time to become your father, knowing he's going to get killed."

There was silence as they all contemplated the idea.

"Do it to my old man in a flash," Yam muttered.

"Yeah, I've met him, I second that," Carl said. They high-fived.

Wendy frowned but said nothing. She listened uneasily, not liking the implied criticism of John, and not sure where they were going with this. Not knowing for sure how she felt about all this.

On the one hand, she felt uneasy knowing that all John's mother's ravings were nothing but the truth; on the other, she didn't like knowing that far from being the victim of some government conspiracy, his mother really had blown up a bunch of computer companies.

And what would you have done? she kept asking herself. As yet she didn't have an answer.

"His mother must be terrifying," Brad said, almost as though he was listening in on her thoughts.

"I heard she was a fox," Snog said, and waggled his brows.

The guys started kidding and snickering about that, and Wendy listened. Maybe they were just acting out because John intimidated them. Her lips quirked in a smile. If seventeen-year-old John was intimidating, then maybe his mom actually was terrifying.

"So what are we gonna do?" Carl asked. He looked directly at Snog.

Snog shrugged, his eyes wide in a manner that invited Carl to say more.

"What do you mean, what are we gonna do?" Wendy demanded.

"Oh, c'mon," Carl almost shouted. "When he's around, you somehow can believe all that crazy shit. But let's get real, guys. A father who hasn't even been born yet? Killer robots? A maniacal computer that's going to blow up the world?

That's bullshit! None of that can possibly be real!"

"But this is real," Snog said. He held up the chip that John had left with them.

"And he sure didn't create this thing." He gave Wendy an apologetic glance.

"John's smart, but he's not smart like us, and none of us could have come up with this design, never mind actually manufacturing it. I know we all want to go into denial, guys. I can feel the pull myself. But there's always this." He shook the chip. "And this says it wasn't a dream, and it isn't a lie, it's real. So what I'm gonna do is figure this baby out, then I'm gonna get my degree and get the hell outta Dodge before the fire comes down."

Wendy let out her pent-up breath quietly, tremendously relieved. If Snog had backed out on this project John had given them, the others would have followed

his lead. There wouldn't have been a thing she could have done about it, either to change their minds or to retrieve the chip.

She met Snog's glance and she still didn't feel absolutely secure about him, but for now, he was on John's side, and that would have to do.

DUFFY'S DINER, UTAH

There had been a little spate of customers and it was a half hour later when the waitress noticed that the three men were still seated, unmoving and silent before their untouched coffee, and the little girl wasn't back from the rest room yet.

These guys are seriously getting on my nerves, she thought.

She brought over their check.

"Twenty-eight eighty-seven, boys," she said with false cheer. "Hope you enjoyed it." She stood, smiling expectantly, determined not to be intimidated by their size and their silence, even though she was.

The three Terminators looked at her, their faces expressionless, unblinking. Then one of them took a wallet out of Alissa's bag and extracted two twenties. The waitress, so tense she actually felt taller, began to count out change. Then, as one, they suddenly rose and walked out, paying her no more attention than if she'd been invisible.

"Well, hell!" she murmured. Then she shook herself.

She'd been wrong; they were good tippers. But she hoped she'd never meet their like again.

Soon after her strange customers had gone it occurred to the waitress that she might want to check the ladies' room. She didn't quite trust that strange little girl.

Opening the door, she found the place in perfect order. Well, as perfect as a rest room ever got. As she went back down the corridor she decided to check the men's room to see if it needed paper.

A bloodcurdling scream was heard all the way to the kitchen.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE,

NOVEMBER

"Dr. Silberman was surprised to find his office door unlocked, but put it down to his having been quite tired the night before. He was even more surprised to find a short, dark stranger turning away from one of his filing cabinets.

"May I ask who you are?" he said carefully.

In his profession, in a place like this, it was unwise to display even perfectly natural irritation. This might be a new resident who had wandered in quite innocently, or a new resident hopped up on drugs and looking for more, and it was, after all, his fault for not locking the door.

"I am the new janitor," the man said. He raised a feather duster, gripped in a massive fist, as proof.

"Oh?" Silberman was surprised. Ralph hadn't said anything about leaving. And

usually when someone left it took forever to get a replacement. "What happened?" he asked when it became clear the fellow wasn't going to volunteer anything.

The stranger shrugged his impressive shoulders. "I don't know," he intoned. "I was told to come here from now on."

Silberman noted a slight accent; the man looked Turkish or Middle Eastern, which might explain his odd manner of speaking. But not his apparent desire to dust the inside of the file cabinet. The doctor frowned.

"No one said anything to me about this," he said.

The janitor just stood there, staring at Silberman.

Very low affect, the doctor mused. Maybe this was a new resident playing a role.

Possibly neurological damage.

"Well, look." Silberman placed his briefcase on the desk. "Could you come back later? I need to get to work right now. But I'll be out of here between two and four, so you can finish up then." He smiled politely, trying to exude confidence; by two o'clock he should have some answers about this guy.

The smaller man didn't respond for a moment, then he simply walked forward, as though he intended to go right through Silberman, who jumped aside at the last second. This time he did allow his irritation to show.

"Hey!" he snapped at the retreating back. Then he forced himself to calm down.

"Didn't they give you any paperwork for me?"

The janitor stopped, turned his head, said a short "no," over his shoulder, and continued on his way.

Oh yeah, it was going to be fun having this guy around.

"Just what this place needs," Silberman muttered, "a janitor with attitude."

IBC OFFICES, NEXT DOOR TO ENCINAS

HALFWAY HOUSE

Operative Joe Consigli dropped his feet to the floor as the office door began to open and grinned with not a little relief when he saw who it was. "Hey, buddy, what brings you around?" he asked cheerfully.

He and Paul Delfino had been working this case together in the first few weeks after Sarah Connor was captured, until the powers that be decided only one operative at a time was necessary.

As far as Joe was concerned this was a totally dead assignment and he was profoundly bored. Especially since Connor had been moved to the halfway house next door. Watching these weird, sad people was depressing as hell and they made his skin crawl. Having someone to help him make fun of them would be primo.

"The head office sent me over," Operative Delfino said. "It seems that their janitor"—he indicated the monitors that showed various locations inside the Encinas Halfway House—"was killed during a burglary."

"Killed?" Consigli said.

Delfino snorted. "Boy, howdy! The guy's head was almost twisted off. The house was trashed, but there was cash left in the poor guy's wallet." He shrugged. "Which made the front office think something might be up."

Consigli looked at the monitor. "Hunh," he said.

He pulled his chair up to the recording equipment and removed a tape, quickly replacing it, then he pushed the tape into a player, rewound it, and set it to play on a blank monitor. He pointed at the screen. "This is the guy who claims he was sent over to replace their janitor."

Delfino pursed his lips. "Not what we were hoping for," he said.

Not at all. What they were looking for was a guy about six feet tall, blond, with sculpted features. This was definitely not him.

When Dr. Ray first proposed moving Sarah Connor to a halfway house, the head office had jumped on the idea and pushed it through. Even Ray was stunned that the committee had approved his request. The organization's theory was that surely, in such a low-security environment, Connor's allies would make a move to break her out.

It had been child's play to hack into the halfway house's security system and begin monitoring the place via its own cameras. The team had planted a few of their own as well. But so far all they'd collected was endless, boring footage of what Consigli thought were hopeless cases and self-centered winners; losers with a capital L.

"What's administration say?" he asked.

Delfino pulled a face. "This guy is in the computer and all the stuff that needs to be in the computer to get him to Encinas and on the payroll is there. Even the paperwork, for want of a better word, that has to be done for a deceased employee had been done. The only thing is"—he shrugged elaborately

—"nobody admits to doing it, Nobody even knew that this guy Ralph was dead.

Weird, huh?"

Leaning back in his chair, Consigli shook his head.

"What isn't weird about this assignment? Hey, maybe Connor's bunch just wised up and decided to send somebody less conspicuous."

Delfino laughed. "Yeah, that'd be smart. 'Cause wherever that big guy goes, hell follows."

They sat quietly for a few minutes, watching the monitors, contemplating the footage they'd seen of the "big guy" in action. Truth to tell, it wouldn't have surprised either operative to find out that the head office wanted to find this guy so he could teach them to shoot as well as he did.

"So we're doubled up for the time being," Consigli asked.

"Yep."

"Kewl," Joe said. "Someone can go out for burgers. I was getting sick of brown-bagging peanut-butter sandwiches."

Delfino gave him a look. "You've been alone in this room too long if you think I'm gonna play errand boy, buddy. You want a sandwich you can go and get it yourself."

"Kewl," Consigli said, grinning at his fellow operative's suspicious expression. It would be nice to get some fresh air once in a while.

ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE

Sarah met the new janitor as she came out of the large, battered kitchen where she had been given a "training opportunity" while she "adjusted to her new environment." In a few weeks, they'd gently promised her, if all went well she'd be "encouraged to find a job of her own." Sarah wondered how long it took to learn to speak in pat phrases like that. It made all the staff sound weirdly alike, as though their thoughts came prepackaged.

The kitchen job was fine with her; since she still tired easily, she didn't mind taking it slow. Running the dishwasher and putting things away was about the extent of her duties, so she couldn't complain, except about boredom. Which was all a matter of perception, she reminded herself.

Oh God, she thought, I'm beginning to think in happy-talk phrases, just like the staff. If she'd felt hotter physically… that alone would have made her run for cover.

But for now this place was about her speed. She could read—light fiction and self-help books—or watch TV. She'd never seen so much Disney in her life. The house had racks of their videos and someone always seemed to be halfway through one. Nothing violent or jarring or unpleasant was allowed in here. As

long as she didn't forget there was life on the outside of the halfway house, she was content for the moment.

As she was leaving the kitchen she was vaguely thinking about her hair. It had grown out considerably and the light hair above the dark looked very odd. The light part was getting long, so cutting it was a good idea, she thought.

Sarah almost bumped into him as he came around the corner. He effectively blocked the doorway, he was so broad; for a moment she felt trapped. It was obvious he was the janitor; he had the gray uniform, the bucket and mop, all the usual accoutrements. He wasn't, though. A nice old guy named Ralph was.

They stood there for a moment, looking at one another.

"Who are you?" Sarah asked, trying to put a pleasant tone into the question.

The face was unfamiliar, though its shape rang a distant bell. His body seemed wrongly proportioned, with the limbs too short for the long torso. He was certainly much too short to be an agent. But he was truculent enough for a species of janitor she'd encountered one or two times in her life.

The appearance of a strange new face—and he was strange—shook her from her boredom like the scream of an air-raid siren. But it was the way he looked at her, his stillness as he blocked her way, that sent a chill down her spine and raised the hair on her neck.

* Subject Sarah Connor found,* the Terminator sent to the new base in Utah. *

Terminate?*

* Negative. Orders to watch subject remain in effect,* came the response.

The Terminator stepped back, its eyes still on Sarah.

She glanced at the narrow space that would allow her to pass and then back at the strange man. "Who did you say you were?" she asked, making her voice hard.

"The janitor," he answered. Then he turned and went back down the hallway.

She stood still after he was gone, breathing a little hard, like some-one who has faced a dangerous animal that had inexplicably decided not to attack. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"O-kay," she muttered through her teeth. "That was interesting."

Maybe he was a patient. Or maybe he was just a very weird little guy. And yet…

there was something about him. Her first impression had been that his face was unfamiliar; in fact, she knew she'd never seen him. But there was something about the way he moved, or rather, didn't.

H/s eyes, she decided. She'd seen eyes like that before. His eyes were dead, without emotion. There were men like that; God knew she'd met too many of them in her travels. But this man's eyes were especially cold.

At first she resisted the idea, wondering if her old madness—she was far enough from it now that she could admit that she had once been insane—was rearing its head in Silberman's presence. But over the years she'd trained herself to be honest, to look events in the face, even when a thing was painful, even when it was impossible.

His eyes were the eyes of a Terminator. As was his stillness, and something in his voice.

Her heart sped up, her mouth went dry while her palms grew moist; it was the old fear, the nightmare that kept coming back. Sarah felt the last of her resistance crumble under a sudden, sure knowledge; the female Terminator had left an ally behind, and it had found her. Like they always found her.

It hadn't attacked her on sight and she took hope from that. It had been less than a foot away from her, it could have torn her in half, but it hadn't.

It backed off. So what did that mean? It's hoping to make a clean sweep, she thought. It's hoping John will come to get me out of here.

Sarah bit her lip. She had to contact Jordan; he would get in touch with John and Dieter, warn them that she was under a more deadly surveillance than any the government was willing to throw at them.

Then, if possible, it was time for her to get out of here, before the Terminator was too firmly entrenched.

Well, Silberman said he believed me, that he wanted to help me. This is as good a time as any to take him up on it. But carefully. His sudden desire to be helpful could easily be a trap. She wouldn't put it past the good doctor to be trying to get some evidence that her obsession was still alive.

If only he knew how gladly I'd give it up.

Sarah headed for the doctor's office. Waiting wasn't going to make things any

simpler.

She tapped on the door and entered when he called out his permission.

Silberman looked up and flinched as he always did when he first found himself alone with her. That she still scared him somewhat pleased her. She knew it shouldn't, but it did. He had, after all, given her a very rough time.

"Oh, hello, Sarah," he said, smiling pleasantly.

Long training had helped him to recover quickly, but he knew she'd seen his fear. It annoyed him that she affected him this way, but she'd hurt him so many times. She'd broken his arm, driven a pen through his knee, and threatened to kill him in a particularly horrible way. It was hard to forget things like that, no matter how professional you were.

Sarah stepped in, closing the door behind her, then came to stand before his desk, looking shy. "I was wondering if I might ask a favor?"

Silberman leaned back. "Of course, Sarah. What did you want to ask me?"

Inside, excitement twisted his stomach. This could be it.

"I'm nervous as a cat today," she said, looking down at his desk. "It feels like the walls are closing in on me." She looked up suddenly. "I was wondering, if I could arrange it, if it would be all right for me to go out to dinner with Jordan Dyson."

The doctor's face jerked into a grimace. "You know the rules, Sarah," he said.

"Any visits or excursions have to be cleared at least one day before they're to take place. I can't just go around making exceptions, you know."

So much for your generous offer of help, she thought. "You'd be welcome to come with us," she offered. "I think you'd find Jordan a very interesting man.

He's a former FBI agent and Miles Dyson's younger brother. Miles Dyson was the project manager killed at… Cyberdyne."

"Oh really," Silberman said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. He'd read about Dyson's interest in Sarah Connor, but he hadn't understood it. This would be an excellent opportunity to find out why he was being so helpful to the woman who had killed his brother.

"Dr. Ray had several sessions with him," Sarah said.

Silberman blinked at that. He had to admit that he felt a certain rivalry with the younger doctor. If Ray thought it worthwhile to speak to this Jordan Dyson, perhaps he should see why. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "perhaps we could categorize this as a sort of informal therapy session."

Sarah smiled. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll go and call him, see what arrangements we can make." Sarah turned at the door to look at him. "I appreciate this," she said.

IBC OFFICES

"Hey, Paul," Consigli said, bustling into the anonymous rented office wired like the "after" picture in a cocaine commercial. "Looks like we're taking this show on the road!"

Delfino looked up from the hand of solitaire he was playing, thankful for a chance to stop struggling with the bus tickets luck was dealing him.

"Connor just asked the doc if she could go out to dinner with Dyson."

"Exxxcellent!" Paul Delfino said. "I could use a change of scenery. I'll go get the van."

CAFE VERICE, LOS ANGELES

Jordan saw them enter from the bar and went to meet them. Sarah reached out her hand, smiling. He took it and pulled her to him, enveloping her in a one-armed hug. Then he turned to the doctor, keeping his arm around Sarah's shoulders.

"This is Dr. Silberman," Sarah said.

Jordan reached out his left hand and the doctor took it awkwardly. Before they could speak the maitre d'hotel approached them, menus in hand, and gestured toward the dining room.

"Oops." Jordan put his hand on his midsection. "That's my beeper. Would you excuse me for a moment?" he asked.

In the corridor next to the rest rooms was a pay phone. As he made his way toward it Jordan opened the note Sarah had slipped him.

Possible Terminator watching me, she'd written. Warn John and Dieter to stay away.

Jordan let out his breath in a little "huh!" of surprise, as though someone had poked him in the stomach. His mind immediately crowded with questions.

Possible? What did that mean? He'd seen them, and in his opinion there was no mistaking one. And Sarah was the world's longest-lived expert on the subject, so if even she wasn't sure, what did that mean? Possible? He shook his head. Okay, he thought.

Digging in his pocket he pulled out some change and dropped coins into the phone. He dialed Consuela, a college student he knew who was delighted to pass along his cryptic messages for the fifty-plus-expenses he slipped her.

"Yo!" It sounded like Jennifer Lopez was singing backup to Consuela's studies tonight.

"Hi," Jordan said, "it's me. I've got a message for you. This time I'll need you to make the call."

"Sure," she said. "Shoot."

He rattled off the number first. "Ask for Dieter or John. If neither of them is there I still want you to leave the message, but you've got to stress that this is very, very important, and that they have to be given the message as soon as possible, okay?"

"Ok."

"Sure," she said; you could almost hear the shrug in her voice. "For fifty bucks I'll make them think it's the only way to save the world."

Close enough, he thought. "Good, excellent," he said aloud. "Here it is. 'Vital—

avoid halfway measures at all costs. Let the package come to you.' "

She repeated it back to him. "Sounds like a fortune cookie," she said.

"Everybody's a critic. How's your Spanish?" he asked.

"Better'n yours, chico."

"Good," he said, smiling. "Because you'll probably be speaking to people with no English."

"No proh. That it?"

"Yup. I'll slip the money in your mailbox," he said. "Good night."

"Night."

Jordan went to their table and sat down with a smile. "Well, that's taken care of, we shouldn't be interrupted again," he said.

Sarah's smile was radiant as she said, "The specials are veal piccatta and fettucciniprimavera."

"Sounds good," Jordan said. He smiled at Silberman. "What are you having, Doctor?"

ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE

The Watcher/Terminator had searched the house and had not found the subject Sarah Connor. It had even asked one of the humans if he had seen her. The man responded by describing a sexual fantasy that even the Terminator knew wasn't healthy.

It hadn't yet gone to Dr. Silberman's office. Calculations had indicated that it would be best to avoid the doctor since the Watcher/ Terminator's estimation of Silberman's reaction to their first meeting signified a 48 percent chance (plus or minus 5 percent) that the doctor had found it suspicious. But now it seemed best to override that decision; this was fast becoming an emergency situation.

The glass panel in the doctor's door was dark, indicating that he wasn't there. The Terminator tried the door and found it locked.

"He's gone," a young woman said.

The Terminator recognized one of the other psychologists who worked here. "I was going to clean his office," it said.

"Don't you have a key?" the woman asked.

"No," it said.

She shrugged. "Then it'll have to wait till tomorrow. G'night," she said cheerfully, and walked off.

It watched her go as it sorted through the information it had. The doctor was gone, Connor was gone. By the rules of this place she couldn't go off on her own; therefore it seemed likely that they were together.

Given Connor's history with Silbennan, there was a good chance that she'd kidnapped him. The question was, why? Escape?

The Watcher's appearance was very different from that of other Terminators, and

with the death of the only I-950 that Connor knew about, she had no reason to suspect that she was in immediate danger. Its inspection of her file in Silberman's office showed that she was being treated very gently here, eliminating abuse as a reason for escaping.

The Watcher's processor offered the possibility that John Connor and their ally von Rossbach had come to collect her, giving that scenario a fifty percent chance of being correct.

It needed more information. The Watcher had tapped the pay phone that the patients used; now it accessed those recordings. And there it was. She was meeting Jordan Dyson at a cafe on Sunset Boulevard. It headed for the small, elderly sedan that had been assigned to it.

OUTSIDE CAFE VERICE, LOS ANGELES

Joe Consigli and Paul Delfino sat in the van watching Cafe Verice on a monitor, trying to decide which of them should haunt the bar by way of keeping a closer eye on their quarry.

"I should, I should," Joe insisted, stabbing a finger at his chest. "I spent a month in the dead zone watching lobotomy candidates while you were out walking around in the real world. So I get to go inside."

"Yeah, but you've been going in and out of that building right next door to her. If she's going to recognize one of us, it's going to be you."

Consigli held up his hands. "She never saw me, man."

"Joe, you walk into that bar, I betcha ten bucks she buys you a drink."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

Consigli was thoughtful for a moment. "Okay, so neither one of us should go in.

But one of us should watch the back."

"No, no," Paul said, shaking a finger. "I am not spending several hours soaking up the ambience of a garbage-and piss-and puke-soaked alley. No, no, not me, pal. Unh unh."

Joe looked at him. "Y'know, I'd forgotten what a pain it was working with you."

"I'll tell you what you forgot, you forgot our rule," Paul said. At Consigli's puzzled look he snapped, "Whoever thinks it up has to do it!"

"Okay, fine!" Joe said. Anything to get away from this bullshit. He pushed himself to his feet when something on the monitor caught his eye. "Hey," he said, pointing. "That's the new janitor. Isn't it?"

Delfino looked. "Yeah, it is." He glanced at Consigli. "Not exactly dressed for fine dining, is he?"

The Watcher, still clad in gray coveralls, came down the street, its gaze fixed on the Cafe Verice. It walked up to the van and stationed itself so that it could look through the van's windows into the restaurant.

"Sometimes they just beg to be arrested, don't they?" Delfino asked.

Consigli flashed him a look. "You think he had something to do with the other janitor's death?"

"Did you see the size of his hands?" Paul asked by way of response. "And going by his arms and shoulders, he could bench-press a bull, never mind break the neck of some sixty-something-old guy. Now he's eyeballing the place where our subject is having dinner. My guess, he's here to either help her out or to take her out."

"Either way we'd better do something," Joe said. "But carefully, we don't want Connor to see. Hey!"

The Watcher had quickly become aware that the van it was hiding behind was tenanted and began to move away. Both Consigli and Delfino piled out of the van, guns drawn, to move in pursuit.

"Stop!" Delfino shouted.

The Watcher froze, weighing its options, and Consigli moved toward it. Looking at a restaurant was not illegal; neither had anything in its manner been threatening. Yet the extreme caution these humans were using, as well as the drawn guns, indicated that they suspected him of being dangerous.

"Hands on the van, spread your legs!" Consigli snapped.

"Why?" the Watcher asked, not moving. It concluded that they suspected him of

—

"You're under arrest for the murder of Ralph Kurtz," Delfino sa.id, reaching behind for his handcuffs.

"Just do what you're told," Consigli said, and pointed at the van.

With one hand the Watcher slapped Consigli's gun hand hard enough to crack several of the small bones; with the other it shoved him into his partner, knocking both men to the street. Then it turned and fled.

Sarah's eye was caught by the motion of the back doors of a van flying open across the street. Two men in suits piled out and another, framed in the van's side windows, turned to look at them. Instantly she recognized the new janitor from the halfway house, and the moment froze. Even before the brief fight began, she was in motion.

"I have to go," she said.

Jordan and Silberman looked up from their meals and their uneasy conversation to stare at her.

"Close your mouth, Doctor, and give me the keys to your car." Sarah held out her hand.

"What's wrong?" Jordan asked; his eyes swept the room. Then he saw the action outside. "Government agents?" He rose and pulled out his wallet, dropping several bills on the table.

Sarah's eyes were on the street; she watched the brief scuffle, her lips a thin line of anxiety. She gave her head a brief shake. "No," she said. "That's the new

janitor from the halfway house."

Jordan looked up in time to see the man sprint away. "Shit!" he said softly.

Silberman stood, finally. "What do we do?"

"I take your keys and get out of here," she said briskly.

"No. I'll go with you. Mexico?" he asked.

Sarah frowned and nodded.

"It's just a few hours, no one's expecting me back at Encinas tonight, and since this was such short notice probably nobody will notice you're gone. That should give you a few more hours before you're missed. And if they see you drive off with me they'll assume I'm taking you back to Encinas." He could see the "no"

forming on her lips. "Please, Sarah. I want to help."

Jordan took the rest of the cash from his wallet and the small pile he'd left on the table and handed it to her. "I'll get this with my card," he said. "Right now that's the most help I can give you. But the doctor is right, Sarah. If you think you can trust him."

Sarah looked into Silberman's face for a long moment, biting her lips, remembering. Then she took a deep breath. He knew. He'd seen undeniable proof and had paid the price for it, just as she had.

"Okay," she said, her voice tight. "But we need to go now!"

Silberman stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth and followed her, digging in his

pockets for his car keys. Sarah went toward the service door to the kitchen and found the back door. The alley was, blessedly, open at one end. Sarah headed for the opening at a run, a startled-looking but game Silberman racing at her heels, already beginning to wheeze.

"Let me go first," he suggested.

Sarah looked over her shoulder at him and nodded. Silberman trotted to the mouth of the alley and stopped, looking both ways. A man came away from the wall he'd been leaning against with his hand out.

"Hey, buddy, can you spare some change?" he whined.

Silberman recoiled from the smell of stale booze and body odor. He held up his hands and took a step backward. "No, sorry," he said, feeling guilty.

"Hey!" the man said, suddenly happy. "I know you! Dr. Silberman!"

He reached out to touch the doctor's arm. "It's me, Douglas! We used to work together."

Silberman blinked. "Douglas, of course." The man had been an orderly at Pescadero. Sarah had whacked the stuffing out of him with a mop handle. He'd never known what became of him.

"My disability ran out," Douglas whined. He pointed to his neck. "Pain, alia time, Doc. Can ya spare some change?"

Sarah came up behind Silberman. "We've got to go," she said tersely.

"HEY!" Douglas shouted, pointing at her. "She hit me!"

"Let's go!" Sarah said, giving the doctor a nudge.

"She hit me!" Douglas insisted. He balled up his fists. "Bitch! Hit me, willya?"

"Jeez!" Sarah muttered, rolling her eyes.

She kicked Douglas in the stomach, grabbed his head, and rammed it onto her upthrust knee, then shoved him in the direction of the alley, where he lay still.

Then she grabbed the horrified Silberman by the arm.

"Let's go!" she muttered through her teeth.

TIJUANA, MEXICO

"Stop here," Sarah said.

Silberman pulled over to the curb, not seeing anything different about this particular street. There were a few shops, still open late, and a few restaurants, which looked like they might stay open all night, and a lot of people around.

Everything looked a little dustier and more chipped and scuffed than its equivalent over the border, and there weren't many Anglo faces around—not too different from L.A., in that respect.

They'd gotten over the border with no problem; as it happened, Silberman had Sarah's identification on him, her driver's license and a birth certificate, enough to get them waved through. Silberman had been right; he was a help.

But now it's time to send him on his way, she thought.

"Thank you. Doctor," she said, opening the car door.

"Wait! You want me to just leave you here?" He looked at her in horror. "I can't do that!"

Sarah smiled at that. To the good doctor a woman alone in Tijuana at night was asking for trouble. She couldn't help but be charmed by his chivalrous attitude, even if it was too late and grossly misplaced. She might be an obvious gringa, but nobody here—nobody dangerous, at least—was going to mistake her for a tourist. And once she got to the nearest cache…

"I'll be all right, Doctor, thank you. Dm. Could I have my ID, please."

"Of course." Silberman pulled out his wallet and gave the documents to her.

"Here," he said, handing her his cash as well.

"Thanks," she said, not even considering refusal.

"Sarah," Silberman said, his face absolutely sincere. "Is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all?"

She considered him, chewing on her full lower lip. Well, there was no harm in asking. "Yes. Buy some land in the mountains, with a house, maybe a barn. Buy medical supplies, the kind that will keep, and as much imperishable food as you can. Then hope we never need them. If you need to send us a message leave a note, nothing obvious, on a Luddite Web site. If necessary we'll get back to you.

Thank you, Dr. Silberman. Be careful."

He smiled and gave a soft laugh; it changed his whole face.