She was still having trouble buying into the entire scenario. But she had to ask the next question, no matter how crazy it sounded in her own ears.
"Soif this is a war between people and machines, why are you on our side?"
"The resistance captured me and reprogrammed my CPU," Terminator said blandly. He could have been discussing the weather. "I was originally designed for assassination missions."
Like the T-X model, Kate thought with a shudder. "Does that bother you now?"
"Remorse is a human concept based on the illusion of free will. It has no meaning to me."
"So you don't really care if this mission succeeds or not," Kate said. She looked back at Connor who was watching them. "If we get killed, would that mean anything to you?"
Terminator seemed to give her question serious con-
sideration. "If you were to die, then I would become useless," he answered. "There would be no reason for me to exist."
Kate had to turn away, her eyes wanted to fill. "Thank you for doing this," she said softly.
"Your gratitude is not required," Terminator told her indifferently. "I am programmed to follow your commands."
Connor was suddenly very interested. "Her commands?" he asked.
Terminator glanced at his reflection in the inside mirror. "It was Katherine Brewster who had me reactivated and sent through the time displacement field."
Kate held up a hand. "What exactly am I in this future of yours?"
Terminator turned to her. "You are John Connor's spouse and second-in-command."
Kate was shocked, though she knew that she shouldn't be. Nothing should be surprising to her ever again. She turned back to take a good look at Connor. Her future husband, if Terminator could be believed.
"Don't look at me, it's not my idea," he told her. Kate continued to stare at him. She tried to remember what it had been like in Kripke's basement, making out with him. Although she remembered his face, she was fuzzy on the details of what exactly they had done. She shook her head slowly. "No way." Connor was obviously stung. "What?" "You're a mess," Kate told him. Connor shook his head and grinned wryly. "You're
not exactly my type either," he said. He turned to Terminator. "Why didn't I send you back?" he asked.
"I am not authorized to answer your question."
"Right," Connor said. "You ask him," he told Kate.
"Why didn't he send you back?" Kate asked.
"He was dead," Terminator answered.
It was another hammer blow to Kate's already bruised emotions. Terminator seemed to be indifferent to the impact of what he had told them. To him it was just another dry bit of data. But Connor had been affected. That much was obvious.
"Oh, that sucks," he said, trying to make light of it
"Humans inevitably die," Terminator said reasonably.
"Yeah, I know," Connor said. "How does it" He shook his head. "Maybe I don't want to know."
"How does he die?" Kate asked.
"John Connor was terminated on July fourth, 2032," Terminator said. "I was selected for the emotional attachment he felt to my model number, due to his boyhood experiences. This aided in my infiltration."
"What are you saying?" Connor asked.
Terminator did not take his eyes off the road. "I killed you," he said.
Edwards Air Force Base
"Edwards Air Force Base, this is LAPD helicopter, Nancy-one-zero-zero-niner, inbound. Request permission to land," T-X radioed.
Staff Sergeant Gloria Sanchez raised her binoculars and studied the sky to the west The helicopter was too low for radar. She spotted the dark blue LAPD chopper low out of the sun. She keyed her mike.
"LAPD, Nancy-one-zero-zero-niner, this is Edwards Control Tower. What can we do for you this afternoon?" "I'm probably on a wild goose chase, Edwards, but we're looking for a kidnapping suspect," T-X radioed pleasantly in a man's voice. She wore the dark blue jumpsuit and LAPD badge of Sergeant Ricco, the pilot. "The suspect may be headed out this way. I was wondering if I could talk to someone from security. I have photos. And you guys are about the only people I can raise right now." "We're having problems with our comms too, zero-niner. Stand by." She telephoned the OD at Base Security, Captain McManus.
"Have him set down on the flight line, in front of 2004," the captain said. "I'll send someone over to talk to him."
"Yes, sir," Sanchez said. She got on the radio. "Zero-niner, Edwards. You have permission to land. Pressure is two-niner-point-niner-seven. Winds out of zero-eight-five at eight knots."
"Roger that," T-X radioed. "Where would you like me to set down?"
"On the flight line, just east of the tower. We'll have someone with wands to show you where." "Much obliged," T-X said. "My pleasure, zero-niner."
c.23
CRS
General Brewster moved en masse with Tony Flickinger and several of his senior engineers down the tech country corridor to the Computer Center.
It was business as usual here, except on the global net where, according to his people, everything was falling apart like a house of cards. Nothing they tried seemed to work.
"There has to be a mistake," Brewster said, his stomach sour. He couldn't remember if he'd eaten lunch. "As of fifteen hundred hours, all primary military systems were secure."
The hallway went through the Research & Development wing; glassed-in tech areas and clean rooms where some of their cutting-edge work was being done. Scientists and engineers in white suits, paper caps and booties, and respirators operated a wide range of remote manipulators, electronic test equipment, and biohazard glove boxes. The latest cybernetic prototypes were being put together here.
The people behind the glass walls, enclosed in their
hermetic spaces, seemed oblivious to the mounting chaos outside. But they were the purists, Brewster thought. They were the creators of the individual bits and pieces, so they did not have to worry about the whole.
The environment was comfortable for them. CRS made sure of it.
"They were secure," one of the senior engineers said. Brewster couldn't recall his name. "Only the civilian sector was affectedthe Internet, air traffic, power plants, that sort of thing."
"But then?" Brewster prompted.
"But then a few minutes ago we got word that guidance computers at Vandenburg crashed."
"We thought it was a communications error," one of the other senior engineers said. Brewster thought his name might be Tobias.
"But?" Brewster asked. There were always buts in this business.
"Now it looks like the virus," Tobias admitted.
Flickinger wore a headset that connected him to the mainframe. He pressed the earpiece a little tighter. They were even starting to have trouble with internal communications. "Early warning in Alaska is down," he said.
Brewster stopped in midstride. "Why?" This wasn't happening.
"Signals from half our satellites are scrambled beyond recognition," another of the engineers said.
"What about our missile silos, our submarines?" Brewster demanded.
"We've lost contact," Tobias said.
To the engineers this was merely a problem in systems integration; a technical glitch, a problem that in the aircraft industry was called an unk-unk. An unknown-unknown. Troubles were certain to pop up in the start-up of any complicated system. And most of them were expected. But there were always the few problems that no one could predict. Except to predict that they would occur.
They were the unk-unks, which were happening this moment with the worldwide network of communications systems; what the military called Technical Means.
"Dear God. You're saying that the country is completely open to attack?" Brewster demanded.
His chief engineer glanced at the others, and nodded. "Theoretically we could be under attack already, and we wouldn't know it."
"Who's doing this? A foreign power? Or is it some teenage hacker in his garage?"