Read T2 - 01 - The New John Connor Chronicles - Dark Futures Online
Authors: Russell Blackford
T2 - 01 - The New John Connor Chronicles - Dark Futures (5 page)
"Thank God you rang," Tarissa said. "Is this about Sarah Connor?"
The detective sounded surprised. "It is, but how did you know?"
"One of your officers came round a little earlier. A policeman on a motorbike."
"That's very strange." There was a pause. "On a motor-bike, you say?" He sounded skeptical.
"Yes, about half an hour ago."
Weatherby
sounded puzzled. "We've only just received
the tip-off."
"I can only tell you what happened," she said, feeling a bit irritated. The police needed to get their act together. That wasn't her problem.
"I really can't explain that,"
Weatherby
said. "Anyway, we have information that Sarah Connor could attack your husband or his employer. She is armed, and the man with her is extremely dangerous. He's already wanted for questioning over the murder of seventeen police officers in 1984."
“Oh, my goodness." She remembered the news at the time, back before she married Miles, when they were both at Stanford.
"We're taking this very seriously."
"Okay. That's fine."
"We'll put you in a hotel tonight and stake out your house. Try not to worry, but please call me immediately if anything suspicious happens before we get there."
"Certainly, Mr.
Weatherby
," Tarissa said.
"Be careful if anyone comes to the door. We'll be there soon."
“Thanks," she said. It was stranger and stranger, more and more frightening. "We'll be careful. Thanks for all your help."
"That's our job, ma'am."
The T-1000 rode past the Dyson house one more time. After a few minutes, there was a call on the radio for a squad car to park here and wait, and another one to check out Cyberdyne. The T-1000 turned a corner and dumped the bike in the parking lot half a mile up the road.
It was becoming a liability. The policeman's body had been found. Anybody using this bike would be questioned.
Retaining its default facial anatomy, the T-1000 changed its copied clothing from police uniform to casual wear—sneakers, jeans and a two-tone sweatshirt— as it walked back to the Dyson house. Then it blended into the trunk of a tree across the road, and waited.
Soon a marked car pulled up out the front. Not long after, another car arrived, unmarked this time. Two men in plain clothes and two uniformed officers got out of the second car, and went to the front door. Within another ten minutes, Miles and Tarissa Dyson had left, with their son, in the back of the marked squad car. One of the police moved the unmarked car moved round the corner, then returned. There were now four officers waiting inside the house in case the Connors appeared at the scene. That was a good trap.
Miles Dyson rang Oscar Cruz, Cyberdyne's president from the hotel and briefed him quickly about the police stakeout. Oscar was in bed when the phone rang, and he sounded tired and grouchy at the other end, but he soon gained his normal composure. He was always smooth with employees, or anyone else he had to deal with. He got his way subtly—always a good manipulator, a social engineer.
"Okay, Miles," he said. "I'll talk to Charles Layton and some of the others."
"Ring the cops as well," Miles said. "The tip-off specifically mentioned me, but you'd better be careful."
"All right. Look, come to my office in the morning, there's something else we need to talk about. I need to get your views."
"On this?"
"Not just this. But it's all connected."
"Sure, whatever you want. Just be careful tonight, Oscar." To Miles, the main thing was that his family was safe. Danny was playing with his radio-controlled truck,
guiding it all round the hotel room, zooming past the bed, then around Miles's feet. He really shouldn't be up this late. Tarissa sat up on the bed, leaning against two pillows and watching Danny play. She looked drawn, but at least she was all right. No one would find them here.
"How close do you think you are with the new processor?" Oscar said.
The question seemed to come out of nowhere—it was a funny time to be discussing business. "You sure you want to talk about that stuff, right now?" Miles said.
Oscar sighed into the phone, but then gave a laugh. "I'm sorry, Miles. I have my reasons for asking, I'm not just being a heartless boss. I'm worried about your safety—nearly as much as you are."
Miles laughed along tensely, glancing across at Tarissa and raising his eyebrows at her. "I kind of doubt that, right at the moment."
"Yeah, yeah, point taken, but your call has got me thinking. Look, we'll talk about it in the morning. Take your time getting in, but come straight to my office."
Next day, Miles arrived at
, feeling tired as hell, but wanting to know what was on the president's mind. They met in Oscar's office, on the seventh floor of Cyberdyne's black-glass building. Oscar wore a light sports jacket over a plain black shirt. His office walls were hung with Brazilian expressionist paintings—wild splashes of freeform color suggesting
selvas
, broad rivers, and exotic animals.
"It looks like we're both in one piece," Oscar said.
"How's Tarissa feeling?"
"Shaken up, but she'll be okay."
"Good.
Take a seat, and I'll get to the point--it was time to bring you in on this anyway "
"Yeah? What's the big mystery this time?"
Oscar sat on the edge of his desk. "We've been worried about security at Cyberdyne--I mean me, Charles, the board.
There's nothing wrong with our staff or our processes, but we're developing a profile that could attract
psychos like Sarah Connor. That's not going to change, either. If II only get worse."
"Yeah, that's probably right."
"You can count on it.
I was worried when Connor broke out of prison--or whatever you call it where they had her locked up---but I hadn't heard of any threats until
you called me Thanks for doing that, by the way."
"Hey, no
problemo
."
"Yeah, well, it was appreciated. I'll get us some coffee
and take you through the issues." Oscar called out to his secretary to bring café lattes for both of them
He stepped over to Miles, sitting down and bending forward as if speaking more confidentially, though there was no one else to hear. "I asked you last night for your opinion on the new processor." He waved away any attempt at an answer. "I know, I get your reports, and I probably understand them as well as anyone."
"Right."
"Don't sound so skeptical," Oscar said. "Okay, there's Rosanna." That was Dr. Rosanna Monk, maybe Miles's best subordinate. "Anyway, I need a frank overall assessment
right now. Are we as close as the reports say we are?"
"I was working on it last night," Miles said. "It's frustrating.
We're so close to solving the problems."
"All right, but let's be realistic. You say we're so close, but what does that really mean? When will the problems be solved? Look, I'm not pressuring you, Miles, just trying to get some data."
"Uh-huh?"
"We've got some management decisions to make and this is vital if we're going to get it right. It's May now—do think you'll crack it by, say, August?"
"I'd say we're either nearly there now, or else we're totally beaten. If it can be done at all, we'll have a prototype nanoprocessor ready for testing in two weeks. Yeah, I'd bet we could make an announcement by August."
Their coffee arrived, and Oscar said, "That could make a big difference."
"It's been bugging me, though. The damn thing's been a bitch to wrestle with, but we've almost got it licked."
"Okay,
I
appreciate
it." Oscar sipped
his coffee thoughtfully,
then
put
the
cup
down,
half empty. "There's someone I want you to meet. His name is Jack
Reed and he's high up in
"Uh-huh. That figures."
"It's about time I introduced you to Jack. The North American Aerospace Defense Command is looking at building a new facility in
"Right. So why does something tell me there's a catch?"
"It's not necessarily a catch, but it may help us deal with fanatics like Sarah Connor. Jack's people are talking about including a top-secret facility for advanced defense research. Cyberdyne and some of the other contractors would be given space within the new facility. In a place like that, our most sensitive projects would be invulnerable. Naturally, I'd want you involved." Having said that, Oscar sat back in his chair, relaxed, and quickly finished his coffee.
"You mean that's the catch? You want me to move to
"That's okay, it's not a problem." Oscar held up both hands in a temporizing gesture. "We could base you here, but you'd still be overall supervisor of Special Projects. You'd probably have to live in
Miles considered the possibilities. Oscar was so smooth. He always let other people get their way—on things that didn't matter to him. Sometimes he seemed just a bit too oily for Miles's taste, but he was good to work with. The small stuff always went along like it was supposed to. Maybe they could come to a good arrangement.
"But there is a real catch... maybe," Oscar said.
"All right, here it comes," Miles said. He gave a broad, knowing grin. What else did Oscar want? "Well?"
"You're not claustrophobic, are you?"
Miles worked it out in a flash.
"We're talking about a hardened defense facility here," Cruz said, "like the
"Gotcha."
"Yeah, you'd have to work half a mile or so under the ground."
Miles laughed. "You know, boss, that's probably the least of my worries."
"Good. I hoped it would be."
"I'll talk to Tarissa tonight."
CHAPTER THREE
JOHN'S WORLD
LOS
ANGELES
,
In John's reality, the Cyberdyne site was in ruins. Sarah Connor and the others had blown up the second floor with a massive array of Claymore mines and plastic explosives. Now the site was ominously quiet. Though the morning was bright, with just a scatter of streaky clouds, it seemed to Oscar Cruz like the end of the world had come to pass.
His world.
A tired-looking police detective escorted him from the roped-off area, and wished him well. Oscar shook the man's hand. "Thanks for your trouble," he said.
"No," the detective said. "Thank you. You've been very helpful. Please don't hesitate to call us if you think of anything more, or if there's anything we can do."
"Of course. That's appreciated."
"And certainly if anything suspicious happens. You can't be too careful."
There was little more Oscar could do here. He felt numb, shocked, as if he'd survived a personal assault from the maniacs who'd done this. It was hard to fathom their motivation, or believe the outcome. Miles was dead. So much of their work was gone. A dozen police and emergency vehicles had arrived at the scene, crowding round the building's wrecked shell, like African wildlife round a waterhole. Then there were last night's vehicles, waiting to be towed away: the shattered husks of squad cars, destroyed by heavy-duty military weapons. Riddled with bullet holes, wrenched and stretched out of shape by grenade explosions, they lay derelict among the blasted rubble and shards of glass.
