"On my way out," Tricker said. He felt as though his blood had frozen in his
veins.
"Yes. You have two days to wind up any outstanding business you may have."
His boss was giving him nothing, no opening to protest, no idea how long this ultra-dead-end assignment in America's secret Siberia was to last. This was his punishment. He'd known in his heart that it was coming. You didn't screw up an assignment this badly, losing the one artifact remaining to them, and not answer for it. After all, no one even knew what had become of Tricker's predecessor. He took a deep breath.
"That'll be more than sufficient," he said. If the powers that be were adamant that he be punished, he might as well take it with a little dignity.
"Is there anything else you need to tell me?" Kipfer asked.
"No, sir. I think we've covered everything."
Craig turned his attention to another file from his in-basket. "Then I guess I can let you go," he said, looking up. "Bon voyage."
Tricker lifted one corner of his mouth in a pseudosmile.
"Thank you, sir," he said, rising. "I'll send you a postcard."
Kipfer looked up, his eyes dead. "Just send your reports."
Tricker suppressed a sigh. "Yes, sir."
After the door closed, Kipfer put down the report he wasn't really reading. He
leaned back with a thoughtful frown. It was a waste of talent to send Tricker off to the hinterlands to cool his heels.
Unfortunately the Cyberdyne fiasco required some sort of response. Craig sat up and opened the discarded file. He'd reclaim his agent in about six months. That ought to be long enough for Tricker to begin to despair of ever being rescued.
Maybe it should be eight months. It depended on what came along. He supposed it was only just that he be deprived of something he valued, too. This disaster had occurred on his watch after all.
Enough introspection. Kipfer turned his attention back to the new file.
FORT LAUREL BASE HOSPITAL,
CALIFORNIA
Jordan Dyson shifted his wounded leg into a slightly more comfortable position, which wasn't much of an improvement. You sure can tell when the meds are wearing off, he thought.
Sarah Connor had shot him, of all the ironic things. She'd also shot his older brother, Miles. The only difference being that she'd shot Miles before he was convinced about Terminators and himself after he'd discovered their reality.
In a strange way, despite his wound, his lost job, and the horrors he'd witnessed, Dyson felt a sense of peace. He now knew how his brother had died, trying to destroy his own work to ensure that Skynet and Terminators never happened, and he was proud of him. He could lay Miles to rest in his own heart and mind and move on.
His long-held hatred for Sarah Connor had begun to fade upon his first encounter with a Terminator; now, in his brother's memory, he felt a growing friendship for her and a tremendous respect.
Jordan looked up as the door opened and Tricker came in.
"This will be your final debriefing," Tricker said. The agent put his hands in his pockets and looked down at the former FBI agent. "Connor seems to like you,"
he observed.
"Connor is still woozy," Dyson replied. "We'll have to wait to see how she really feels." He put down the book he'd been reading. "What do you need to know?"
Tricker looked at Jordan for a long time before he answered. Part of that time he was thinking about his new assignment. But he returned his mind to the business at hand with the discipline born of years in the field. Dyson was looking back at him with a bland expression that he could probably hold for a very long time.
What would he like to know? He'd like to know why Dyson was in Connor's room every day giving her encouragement and sips of water after spending the last almost seven years hunting her down in the belief that the Connors had killed his brother in the original attack on Cyberdyne. And what had happened to her son, and how much had the kid helped her blow up Cyberdyne a second time? And how the hell had Connor gotten that wound? The gunshots were standard enough, but the one in her middle looked, the doctor had said, like someone had done it with their hand.
But he didn't think he was going to find out what he wanted to know. Dyson was
clearly a reluctant witness and Tricker had other things to do. Ah, well. You had to have a high frustration tolerance in this line of work.
After a moment he leaned forward, resting one hand on the back of Jordan's chair. "I'd like to know why you're suddenly on her side," he said confidentially.
He searched Dyson's eyes for a moment, then tightened his lips and straightened.
"But I doubt I ever will." Tricker gave him an assessing look. "Watch your back, Dyson," he said, and left the room.
Jordan looked at the door for a moment, then leaned his head against the chair back. You, too, he thought.
SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
Kurt Viemeister stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his luxurious home without seeing the mountain and surf and crimson-cloud sunset they framed.
He tightened a massive fist. What gave that government stooge the right… ?
Kurt stopped himself with an effort. Might gave Tricker the right. The government had kept backup copies of the data on his project— his project—
copies which he himself, the creator, had been forbidden to keep! Now they would only release them to him if he agreed to work on it in the place they chose under still more of their insane restrictions. It was maddening!
He turned on his heel and went to his weight room. He stripped to his shorts, put on a belt, and began to use the Nautilus.
His project— his! Kurt reset the weight chock at two-fifty and lifted again. With a hiss of breath he lifted, then slowly let the weight down, again… He felt
himself grow calmer as the effort purged the fight-flight toxins from his blood.
The government needed him to complete the project, and they had to know it.
Being a necessary part of things gave him some leverage. Unfortunately, given the current location of the project, once he committed himself, they had the upper hand again. Even more so than before. So.
He sat up and wiped his face with a towel. Who was he kidding? Once he was at their secret base they could ignore any of his demands with impunity and he knew that. Kurt lay back on the bench with a deep sigh. His need to complete his work was like an addiction, and knowing he couldn't do so until they let him was agony.
No. This time the ignorant weaklings had him right where they wanted him and he had no choice but to give them what they wanted. Very well, he would concede. Though he would, of course, make them pay dearly for his defeat.
And who knew, one day, he might get to pound Tricker's face right off its bones.
With that happy thought firmly in mind he went back to his regimen, feeling better if not satisfied.
CHAPTER THREE
LOS ANGELES
Roger Colvin, CEO of Cyberdyne, leaned back in his chair as his eyes strayed to the figures on his computer.
"Roge," Paul Warren said patiently, recalling his friend's attention.
Colvin looked up guiltily. "Sorry," he said. He gestured at his screen. "Some of the numbers just changed and it caught my eye."
Warren tightened his lips. He knew the truth, which was that no one wanted to hear how much he missed his wife, how he was haunted by questions about her death. Was it murder, suicide, an accident?