Understood, it acknowledged. It closed down transmission when the t-950
signaled, Out.
Its chores in the lab finished, Third made its way upstairs to the house. It called a cab, then dressed and packed. There was a wallet with cash and credit cards in the small safe in the home office. It removed these and the travel papers the t-950 had specified, tucking them into pockets about its person. Weapons were
hidden in an access panel in the t-950's bedroom. It took the fiber-and-synthetic pistol it needed and then stood by the front door to wait for the taxi.
The cabdriver wanted to talk and the Terminator let him. It answered any questions as briefly as possible, just as the t-950 had trained it.
"It's important to at least be what humans consider polite," Serena had instructed them. "But answer as briefly as possible. Give the humans no reason to remember you particularly."
It didn't see why it couldn't solve such problems simply by terminating anyone who asked too many questions. It followed orders, of course— it just didn't understand.
So it answered the driver with yeses and no's and grunts. Soon it noticed that the driver wasn't paying attention to its answers anyway.
The airport was already coming into view.
It picked up its ticket and walked through the metal detector. When the security drone made to wave her wand over the Terminator's body, it presented its doctor's certificate claiming that several injuries had led to an implant.
The Terminator walked through Owen Roberts International Airport on Grand Cayman, scanning the brightly clad crowd (salted with blank-faced men in suits) and its surroundings when a movement on the tarmac alerted its sensors. It stopped stock-still and looked out the large window to the ground some twenty feet below.
A boy of sixteen or so came back into view. Third could only see the back of his head, but an instantaneous comparison of the file pictures from Skye's office confirmed that this was John Connor, with a negligible error probability. It signaled the t-950.
Have arrived on Grand Cayman. Have John Connor in sight. He is at the airport, apparently readying to depart. Below, a woman wandered into sight.
Beside her was a large man; another, smaller man seemed to be leading them toward an aircraft. Sarah Connor, confirmed. Dieter von Rossbach, confirmed, it reported.
Stop them, Serena ordered. Terminate them, discreetly if possible. But at any cost, terminate them before they can leave the island.
Third reached out and snagged a passing woman who looked as if she degenerative bone disease that had required the replacement of most of its joints with surgical-steel replacements.
Third's neural-net processor prompted it to say something to accompany the certificate. It selected the third choice.
"Wherever you run that," it said, indicating the wand, "it's going to go off."
Third held out its arms as though cooperating anyway. The woman with the wand hesitated, then shrugged and ran the wand up and down the Terminator's body. As it kept dinging, she began to smile. Then she stopped, straightening up.
"That must have hurt," she commented as she waved him on.
"It did," Third said.
The flight wasn't full, so Third got to sit by itself. It accepted a drink but refused food. It watched the movie, a comedy, attentively. The 1-950 had told them that while the situations were exaggerated they could still learn a great deal about human interaction from filmed entertainment. Any humor in the movie, if there was any, completely escaped its understanding. The actors were worse at imitating human beings than an experienced Terminator.
It thought the characters were idiots, one and all. But then, most humans were idiots. It just didn't think they were this stupid. Perhaps that was why this movie was considered humorous? It would ask the Infiltrator unit when it returned from its mission. The t-950 would know.
might work for the airport. It pointed to the tarmac outside. "How do I get down there?" it asked. "The quickest way."
"You have to have a ticket," the woman said, trying to pull her arm away from his grasp.
"Where do I get such a ticket," it demanded.
She winced as his grip hardened. "That's the charter airline section," she said.
"Waybright Charters is just down there and to the left." She tugged and he let her go, ignoring the glare she gave him as she moved off, rubbing her arm.
Their escort led them to a small jet plane that stood baking in the Caribbean sun, its idling engines adding their bit of heat and an extra tang of burnt kerosene. He waved them aboard.
"I can just put those bags in here," he said, pointing to a bin in the wing.
"No," Dieter said. "We'll keep them with us."
The man nodded. People often were chary of letting their hand luggage out of sight on Waybright Charters. He often fantasized about what was in those bags.
But at the end of the day he figured he was happier not knowing.
Sarah, John, and Dieter settled in to the comfortable gray leather seats; there was none of the elbow-to-elbow crowding of a normal commercial flight on this plane. Dieter nodded appreciatively. The plane was small, designed for not more than six passengers, but luxurious. The seats swiveled and there was a tiny bar/
kitchen near the back, opposite the lavatory.
"Cool," John said, slapping the wide arms of his seat. "No Greyhound with wings this time."
The pilot came aboard, wearing some very dark aviator glasses.
"Hello, lady, gentlemen," he said. "I hear we're heading for a little airport in Corpus Christi. That so?" In answer, Sarah smiled and handed him a folded slip of paper. He took off his glasses to read it, raising his brows as he did so.
"Ol' Meh-hee-co!" he said. "Sure, I can do that. You sure of these coordinates?"
"Yes," she said. "I—"
"Hey," he said, holding up his hand and beginning to move forward to the cockpit. "I don't wanna know." He turned back with a grin. "I don't wanna know
your name, I don't wanna know your fake name, I don't wanna know what you're really doing or what story you're telling. I'm paid to fly you where you wanna go and that's all I wanna do. So strap in, settle back, and enjoy your flight."
The three passengers exchanged amused glances, then obediently fastened themselves in and settled back to think their separate thoughts about the upcoming visit to the United States.
Sarah had wanted to visit one of her weapons caches in Tamaulipas, near the Texas border, so they could stock up. She had friends in a nearby town who would sell her a safe car with American plates. It would probably be easier for them to cross into the U.S. through one of the border checkpoints than through the airport anyway. The higher volume of traffic meant that if you looked right you got passed fairly quickly. And they were all experts at looking right.
The plane began to glide smoothly forward, the twin turbines emitting muffled screams.
Third walked up to the counter of Waybright Charters and said to the woman behind the counter, "Those people who just went down to the tarmac—I'm supposed to be with them. How do I get down there?"
She gave him a suspicious look. He was huge and she couldn't see his eyes through the dark glasses. His manner was brusque and his body language was vaguely threatening. All in all, he was a type that this company saw fairly often.