Ray stood for a moment longer, then sat himself. "Suggestions?" he asked in confusion.
"You've got a disaster on your hands, Doctor," Pool said.
The doctor studied his visitor, weighing his observation and finding it only a statement of fact. "Go on," he invited.
Pool's thin lips quirked in a slight smile. "My suggestion is that you move Sarah Connor to minimum security while she recovers," he said. "And then you should petition to have her moved to a halfway house."
"I've already asked to have her moved to minimum," Ray said. "I don't think it would be good for a patient to be left to recover in the same place where she'd been so badly hurt. Besides, it will be weeks, possibly even months, before she'd be capable of hurting anybody."
"Which is why the board approved the transfer," Pool said.
Ray shook his head. "I haven't heard back yet."
"They've approved it," Pool said.
Surprised, Ray studied him for a moment. "Mr. Pool—
"Just Pool."
"All right, then. Pool. Just what is your interest in the Connor case?"
"My interest is none of your business," Pool said, rising. "And in your own interests I suggest you leave it that way. I do have an interest in seeing to it that a talented physician, such as yourself, achieves the kind of success and recognition
that he deserves. I understand there's going to be an opening at the Glen Ellen Psychiatric Group. I believe you once applied to be an associate there, didn't you?"
The doctor blinked, wondering how this man could know that. "Uh, yes," he said. "It's a very desirable—"
Pool interrupted. "When Ms. Connor is sufficiently recovered, petition to have her transferred to a halfway house."
"I think you have an unrealistic idea of how quickly these things happen," Ray said dismissively.
"Oh, I think you'll find the board most cooperative." Pool gave him that little smile. "You do it. And do submit your application to Glen Ellen. Think of how much it will boost your reputation to bring the mad bomber Sarah Connor from madness to sanity in under two years."
"Do you think she's sane?" Ray asked, genuinely curious.
Pool turned with his hand on the doorknob. "Really, Doctor, how would I know?
I'm not a psychiatrist." Then he left.
"Hunh," Ray said.
Joining the Glen Ellen Group was just one of the goals he needed to achieve according to his personal game plan. Pool had implied… Ray was certain he'd implied that pending his actions regarding Sarah Connor his next application would be accepted. The psychiatrist refused to acknowledge the word bribe
when it floated into his consciousness. Pool had merely pointed out certain obvious facts.
It would do his reputation good to have Connor recover her mental health so quickly. That is, if he was convinced in his own mind that she wasn't a danger to society. But he had been thinking that things were looking good for her. Very good indeed.
Perhaps he should do as Pool suggested.
MONTANA
Clea sat absolutely still; one small part of her consciousness monitored the activity of the Terminator on the roof as it upgraded their solar power system.
The (highly capable) remainder of her mind was learning from the future experiences of Serena Burns.
When she'd been younger Clea had very much enjoyed these lessons, particularly those which allowed her to view Burns's exchanges with Skynet.
Especially those moments when Skynet actually took possession of Serena's implanted computer, essentially becoming Serena.
Now she found that they depressed her, reminding her forcefully of what she would never have, never know. Once she actually took up her assignment, Clea was certain that her emotions would settle down. This tendency to brood might well be a side effect ofher chemically induced rush to maturity.
Certainly she found Serena's lightheartedness inappropriate and her cheerfulness obnoxious. Clea was glad she'd never met her progenitor face-to-face; the I-950
was sure she'd have been unable to avoid terminating Serena.
The memory she was reviewing today was of Serem's time with the soldiers of the future, when she was infiltrating the enemy in the human-Skynet war. She closed her eyes and saw Lieutenant Zeller coming toward her. This was how she saw all of these memories, from behind Serena's eyes, as though they were happening to her.
THE YEAR 2029
"Burns," Zeller said, looking grim. She made a gesture that indicated the Infiltrator should follow and stalked off.
Serena tilted her head, then followed. As she walked she reviewed all of her actions from the past week and found nothing to worry about. Yes, she'd managed to get poor Corpsman Gonzales killed, but there was no way the lieutenant could connect her with it. She'd risked directing a small herd of T-90s to the Corpsman's station behind the lines. Such lines as they had.
True, it had been a calculated risk; there was always the chance that someone, somewhere, might be monitoring in hopes of detecting such signals. But finding the source in the middle of a firefight when the whole episode had lasted mere seconds was remote in the extreme.
Besides, Zeller always looked grim. It was just as likely she wanted to recruit the Infiltrator for some hazardous, secret attack. If so, excellent. She wouldn't be able to return to Zeller's unit, but some other, distant group would take her to their collective bosom.
They made their way to a secluded glen and Zeller turned on her heel to glare at Burns. "I don't know how you did it, but I know you killed him!" she snarled.
Serena blinked. "What?" she said. "Who… ?" It could, after all, have been one of a lot of people.
"Gonzales!" Zeller stepped a little closer, shaking her head, her mouth a bitter line, her shoulders slightly hunched forward. "He liked you! He liked everybody, and all he wanted to do was help people. How could you?"
The Infiltrator allowed her mouth to drop open in feigned astonishment and she couldn't help it—she laughed, trying to make it sound nervous. "What the hell are you talking about, ma'am?" she said. "I wasn't anywhere near Gonzales when those T-90s found him! There's no way I could possibly have had anything to do with his death!"
Serena watched Zeller straighten up, but her glare didn't diminish. Instead, contempt twisted her attractive features into something like a sneer.
"I haven't trusted you from the first moment I saw you," she said. "Sometimes you can just smell trouble, and you, Burns, stank of it from day one. I'm gonna be watching you, bitch! Watching who you team up with, watching who you go off with. I tell you right now"—she shoved her finger in Serena's face—"they'd better come back alive!"
The Infiltrator gave a deep sigh and reached out, intending to break the lieutenant's slender neck. Instead, the sweeping hand met Zeller's knife; Serena clamped down on the pain and clenched the fist, jerking the human's weapon away.
Zeller's eyes went wide as Serena's face stayed mask calm despite the bloody wound. "You're one of them," she gasped, snatching for the plasma rifle slung over her shoulder. "But you can't be—
"Inefficient." Serena batted the muzzle aside as the burst of stripped ions tore past her ear. If you'd just shot, you might have gotten me.
Zeller clubbed her across the side of the face with the butt of the rifle, and Serena caught her in a bear hug and began to squeeze. Knees, fists, and a small holdout knife struck her again and again. With what must have been the last of her strength Zeller plunged the knife into the I-950's side, high up, as though seeking the heart.