He was better now about not launching into maudlin monologues than he had been, but the questions and the soul-searching went on and on. By now, though, even his most patient friends, like Roger, wished that he would turn it off.
Especially during business hours.
Of course, for people at their level it was always business hours. So, back to work.
Now that Cyberdyne had the automated factory as their premier project, it behooved them to work their asses off.
"What have we got?" Warren asked.
Colvin sat forward, relieved that his friend was temporarily back in the groove.
"It's very good, in fact. I don't know how they're doing it, but we're a month and a half ahead of schedule now."
"Maybe that's because they're totally isolated out there and want to get back to their homes," Warren suggested.
The factory was going up in the middle of nowhere, no towns around for a hundred miles, and if there had been any, they'd be inaccessible because there was no road leading to the site. And there never would be.
Right now everything was being done by humans and helicopters. But when the factory was finished all supplies would be flown in on unmanned drones, self-guided by one of Cyberdyne's most advanced onboard computers. Raw materials would be removed from the transports by a small army of their latest generation of independently functioning robots. Finished weapons would be delivered to warehouses the same way. No humans involved at all until the end point, and even that was optional.
The Pentagon loved the idea.
Colvin grinned. "You might be right," he said. "I'm glad because they tell me the weather gets fierce up there in the winter."
Warren grunted. "Have you heard anything else about the Skynet project?"
The CEO shook his head. "I don't expect to either. I also have no idea what happened to our beloved Tricker. Last contact was with someone else."
Warren raised a brow at that. So even the indestructible Tricker could be pulled up short. Nice to know. "So when can we get into production?"
Colvin handed him a printout. "By the end of the month," he said with a cocky smile, and leaned back in his chair. "Not bad, eh?"
"Not bad at all." Warren laughed and shook his head. "And boy, do we need a
success right now."
"Couldn't have said it better myself," the CEO agreed.
VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA,
PARAGUAY, NOVEMBER
John clicked a few keys and found himself on the Sarah Connor Web site; the von Rossbach estate might look like the Paraguayan equivalent of backwoods, but the satellite-link communications were first-rate, with outlets in every room.
Things had calmed down at the site over the last few months. There were occasional updates, and old E-mail got cleared away, but it was very different from the days when it was new.
What he was here for was the secret Luddite chat room, where things remained hot. In fact, the Luddite movement seemed to be getting stronger and more active worldwide—it had practically gone mainstream, putting up political candidates and organizing outreach stations and Web sites. Unfortunately, this was accompanied by an increase in terrorist acts both large and small every day, everywhere.
The tone of conversation in the rooms was different, too. It lacked the almost pleading exasperation of previous listings that wanted to teach and had become more militant. Much more us versus them. And that attitude, too, seemed to be becoming more mainstream with every passing day.
John simply lurked in the topic and chat rooms, gathering information, but he'd noticed one user, styled Watcher, who occasionally shook things up. Lately the
threats the Luddites made against Watcher for questioning their methods and ideas had become chilling.
He decided to seek out this character. Someone with that sobriquet might know some very interesting things, and might be someone he could add to his growing list of informants on the Web.
He was in luck; Watcher was on-line, discussing a recent bombing with the Luddites. If you could call such a hostile exchange a discussion. Good thing Watcher isn't in the same room with these people. On the Internet the gloves came off and people said things they'd never say in meat space. But if you were right there with them when they were saying it… who knew what would happen.
He glanced around his whitewashed bedroom with its black quefaracho-timber rafters and tile floors. E-presence was very different from the physical world. It liberated the id. Maybe the people threatening to wear Watcher's intestines as suspenders wouldn't harm a fly in reality. But with all the bombings and beatings and vandalism going on, who could be sure anymore?
John checked out the address at the top of Watcher's messages and found it a dead end. But, he thought, there are other ways of finding you, buddy. After a tedious half hour he found the time Watcher had logged on, then correlated that with an IP address. That brought him to the MIT Web site in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Cool, he thought, and not surprising. It was pretty obvious from his posts that Watcher was pro-technology.
Narrowing it down to the university was good, but he'd need some power to get the information he wanted. He constructed a password that got him into the operational side of the MIT site—a little lockpick-and-insertion program that
Dieter had brought with him from the Sector was very useful here—and registered himself as a systems administrator. That essentially made him a system god, giving him access to all the on-site users' real tags.
He continued to trace Watcher, which was turning out to be a job and a half. This guy knows how to cover his tracks, he thought in admiration. Very definitely a good recruit if all worked out. Finally he located Watcher's origin.
Aha! A freshman student at MIT, Watcher was Wendy Dorset. John hacked into her school records, finding a picture. Cute, he thought. Not important, but nice to know. He pulled up an encrypted talk request and sent it to Watcher.
*I'd like to talk with you,* he sent.
There was a long pause. Finally she accepted the request, creating a secure shell in which they could speak. John's screen split into he said/she said columns, as did hers. Now they could communicate in real time.
*Who are you?* Watcher asked.
John's tag was AM, which stood for Action Man, not necessarily something he would ever reveal.
*I could be a friend,* John typed. *Why don't you blow oil these bozos. I think we have similar interests.*
*Similar interests?* she asked.
*Beyond making fools of fools,* he typed with a smile. *But first we should get
to know each other.*
*And how are we going to do that? And why should I trust you?*
*Trust?* he wrote. * You trust these guys? Hey, at least I'm not threatening to kill you if we ever meet*
*Good point. Okay, I'll ditch the creeps. They're getting more excited than is good for them anyway.* Watcher was gone for a moment then came back. *So, what do you want?*
*What drew you to that particular site?* John asked.
*It's rude to answer a question with a question,* Watcher pointed out.
*True, but I'm asking.*
And he wasn't going to answer any questions until he had a satisfactory answer.
*Whatever. I was just looking around when I found it. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, just killing time. Y'know? But something about the Sarah Connor story reached me. Maybe it was that lone-wolf thing. I'm a sucker for underdogs.*
Underdog, John thought. Yeah, I guess that pretty well describes my mother. At least in the old days. God! He was still only sixteen and he actually had "old days" to refer back to.