genuinely didn't understand many things about Serena's memories.
Humor, for example, eluded her completely. And while Serena had moved easily among humans, actually enjoying their company, Clea simply didn't like them.
Not least because they confused her.
Sometimes the I-950 worried that certain synapses just hadn't formed in the rush to make her mature enough to carry on Serena's assignment. In personality she and her predecessor were nothing alike, and given their identical genome, implants, and memories, they should have been. For example, Clea often wondered if she was up to the mission, while Serena never had.
The I-950 glanced at the sample and saw that it was finally cool enough to handle. She poured it out, noting with approval that it had a gelid quality to it.
Beneath the scum of ash on top it was a bright and gleaming silver.
Clea picked it up and pulled it into two pieces; she squeezed and they took prints of her hands. Then, as the warmth left the metal, the pieces began to solidify.
With a sigh she dropped them onto the table and turned away to clean up. One piece rolled under the light of a desk lamp, the other to the edge of the table.
While Clea worked, and considered her notes, the heat of the lamp began to affect the sample. Before long a soft point began to form at one end of the lump nearest the lamp, the silvery substance yearning toward the warmth above it. The sample farthest from the warmth also reacted, one side becoming smooth and slightly bowed out while the other retained the imprint of her hand.
The I-950 turned to sweep up the two samples and blinked at what she saw.
Well, she thought, this is something new.
She picked up the pieces and began experimenting with them. The substance showed that it had remarkable qualities. It could be worked into a shape, just as wet clay could, then it would hold an approximation of that shape while reacting to heat and cold. Impressions could be made on it and items could be pushed into it and they would remain there until heat passing over that area wiped the impressions away.
It wasn't what she was looking for, but it had tremendous potential. Her first thought was that it would be usable, just as it was, for an art material. It was attractive in and of itself, and its malleability made it a natural for architectural embellishment and sculpture.
This substance could be my entree to Cyberdyne, she thought. True, they supposedly no longer handled the Skynet project. But someone did, and through their contacts the Cyberdyne people could bring them together.
She began searching the Internet for an appropriate art project. Something high profile, something where the artist would welcome a new, high-tech medium.
LOS ANGELES, SEPTEMBER
Puzzled, Jordan studied the short E-mail. Reading his E-mail was something he did in order to feel at home—which he didn't in the furnished-apartment anonymity of the place he was living.
Good news! Your extra spicy South American beef jerky is on the way!
Your shipment should arrive one week from today!
The tag wasn't one he recognized; it definitely wasn't Dieter's and he sure as hell hadn't ordered beef jerky over the Internet. Let alone the spicy South American kind.
What the hell is this about? he wondered. Could it be a coded message from John or von Rossbach? Actually it kind of sounded like John. Or maybe it was just that he thought it sounded like a seventeen-year-old might if he wanted to send a cryptic message. Admittedly his acquaintance with John was limited, but he hadn't really seemed the cryptic type.
Von Rossbach? he wondered. Maybe. Sector types were the kind of people who'd encrypt their grocery list. And Dieter had been the one to come up with
the weather-report shtick.
Whatever. He decided to take the message both ways. First, Jordan typed a message to the return address stating that he would return their package of spicy beef unopened because he hadn't ordered anything from them. And next I'll start looking out for a big guy and a teenager in about a week.
With a final click he sent off the message, then sighed in disappointment. He had hoped to hear from John or Dieter, in their own persons—not disguised as a spicy-beef company. He had good news for them.
Sarah had been going through her therapy at Pescadero at warp speed. Dr. Ray had, miraculously, transferred her to the Encinas Halfway House, which had a very good reputation. The counselor there, who was none other than Sarah's former doctor, Silberman himself, had indicated that she might be ready to leave in as little as two months. Legitimately! A state that Sarah had experienced only rarely in the last seventeen years and John perhaps never in his life.
Jordan shook his head. To think she'd be going home a little less than eighteen months after blowing up Cyberdyne. Who'd have imagined a year and a half ago that I'd think that was a good thing?
VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA,
PARAGUAY, SEPTEMBER
Dieter made another mark on the map of Mexico and looked over at John, who lounged in an overstuffed chair looking thoughtful. A big corkboard had been one of the things he'd installed in his office in the original modernization when he bought the ranch, and it was perfect for holding big maps. These were
modern, based on commercial satellite imaging, and extremely accurate.
"I think that's about it for Mexico, South, and Central America," John said. "At least the ones I know about. Mom probably could show you a whole lot more."
He grimaced. "There was a weapons cache down by Ciudad del Este, but Mom promised that to Victor Griego so he wouldn't rat on us to you."
"But he did," Dieter rumbled, tapping his pen on the map. "So let's include it. If he doesn't like it he can always complain to the police."
John snorted and gave him the coordinates. "The stuff was mostly junk though.
Maybe we should have a second-tier map, for when we're desperate." He looked pensive as Dieter nodded and made a notation on the map. "In the U.S. I'm not so sure," he continued. "I was pretty young then and after a while I… kinda wasn't interested. Y'know?"
Dieter looked at his young friend. "You mean when you thought your mother was crazy," he said.
"Yeah," John admitted.
"We'll get her out of there, John. And soon, I promise."
With a grimace the younger man sat forward. "If there's one thing I've learned in my life, Dieter, it's don't make promises you might not be able to keep." He looked up from under his eyebrows. "And we have no reason to believe that it might be possible to do that. This move to minimum security that Jordan told you about? It could easily be a trap." He shook his head, his lips lifted in a crooked smile. "It's just the kind of thing they'd do."
Von Rossbach waved a big hand dismissively. "They might. But with the number of things that have happened to your mother while in Pescadero's care, they might just be trying to avoid a lawsuit."
"Okay, whatever you say." John couldn't hide his doubt, somehow it smelled like a setup to him, but dwelling on it wouldn't help anything. He changed the subject with a grin. "Do you think Jordan will think to bring some of that beef jerky to Mom?" he asked. "She absolutely loves that stuff."
"He might," Dieter said mildly. It had been hard on John not to be able to do even the ordinary things one did when one was feeling helpless because a loved one was in the hospital—send flowers, or cards. "Jordan's very bright and it shouldn't be hard to make the connection."
The young man nodded, a little color rising in his face. He clearly didn't want to be thought sentimental.