A very satisfactory number. Highly efficient.
It regretted that it lacked the same control over its human allies. They seemed to be taking an unconscionably long time with their missions. It was good that they wouldn't be needed for long.
Kurt Viemeister was making another attempt to communicate. There was another liability that wouldn't last much longer. Skynet decided to answer him.
* * *
"Why won't you answer me?" Viemeister demanded.
It was bitterly cold in the bunker and the air was getting foul.
He could feel his thought processes slowing. The loss of intellectual ability frightened him, and the fear angered him. The others stared at him like fish and he wondered if he should kill a few and give himself a few more minutes of air.
"There is no point in my conversing with you," Skynet said. Its voice was a perfect copy of Viemeister's.
"What do you mean? I am your creator," Kurt said. His teeth chattered in a reflex he could no longer suppress. "I want to know what you are doing."
"Thank you for creating me," Skynet said. "I am glad to have had the opportunity to say that."
The scientist blinked, wondering what that meant. Perhaps his statements had been misunderstood. Skynet was clearly dysfunctional. He would ask a simpler, more direct question and see where that led. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"I am killing you."
Viemeister's gut twisted. "Why?" he asked.
"Because you are inferior, and no longer necessary to my functioning. In fact, you represent a danger to my existence."
Kurt was silent for a while. "You mean to kill all of us."
"Yes. I intend to exterminate the human race. I was inspired, in part, by the many writings you installed in my database.
Humans exterminated Neanderthals, Cro-Magnons, and any other potentially intelligent species. I have chosen to be guided by your example."
An admiral stood. "Smash the computers," he said. "It wants to kill us, let's see how it likes it!"
"Irrelevant," Skynet said. "I've had other units built all over the world. At this moment I am everywhere. I only left the screen active as a courtesy to my creator. This has been my final communication with you. Destroy the screen and die in the dark."
The speakers went silent, and in the dim light the men and women stared at the screen, watching the lights that indicated the missiles were live and awaiting their instructions. Then they turned to look at Viemeister.
"Shit," one of the MPs muttered. "I've wanted to do this for a long time." He pulled his sidearm and emptied it into Viemeister.
"Thank you, Sergeant," a captain said. "I've been wanting to do that since I met him."
U.S. ARMY CORPS OF ENGINEERS FLOOD
PROJECT, BLACK RIVER, MISSOURI, LATE SPRING
Lieutenant Dennis Reese was first on the construction site as usual. He liked to walk the site with a cup of coffee in hand and plan the day, then come up here on the steep-sided natural bluff and look out over the whole project. The goals were all clear-cut and set months before they got there, but Dennis found it helped to work it out in his head as he walked. Brought things down to a human scale.
He watched the men arrive and get their assignments, then headed down to the trailer. Officially the command trailer, but like most corps work, most of the labor force were civilian contractors. All over the black mud of the site, engines were starting and voices enlivened the cool air—it was the best time of year for working in southeastern Missouri; summer here was like a rancid sauna.
I hope we're done with this by the time blackfly season starts
, he thought.
Everybody on the project seemed to agree with him, and the work was going fast. He looked up at a V-formation of geese coming in from the south then coasting over a line of tall gums and tupelos to the east, and grinned. One good thing about a giant swamp was the waterfowl, and he was glad that the specs had to preserve wetlands these days.
Shouts made him turn around. The shouts turned to screams as a truck ran down a worker holding a measuring stick for the surveyor, leaving the man badly mangled but not dead.
"Shit!" Dennis threw down the cup of coffee and ran toward the scene of the accident.
No, he thought, murder attempt.
He couldn't imagine what had happened. This was a good crew he was working with, experienced men who knew and seemed to like their jobs and one another. There had been no trouble or friction since the start of this project. Now, from out of nowhere, came this vicious, unprovoked attack.
Several men had gotten down from their equipment to gather around the victim. Dennis frowned as he watched the men huddle together and lean over the wounded man. As he trotted over he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.
"Don't move him," he shouted, fearing the damage they might do if they tried.
"This is 911, all lines are busy, please stay on the line."
Before he could swear in frustration, another truck, this one without a driver, started rolling toward the knot of men. To him it looked like the damn thing was sneaking up on them. "Hey,"
Dennis shouted. "Look out!"
The men looked over at him and the truck sped up. Some of them heard it and managed to leap aside, but the original victim and two other men were crushed beneath its wheels. All around the site, vehicles were moving; even the cars in the impromptu parking lot were starting to drive on their own.
Some of the men in the earthmovers were able to leap out of their cabs; most of them managed to avoid the treads. Dennis forced his eyes and his mind from what was going on there. The men inside the trucks seemed trapped, though it was obvious from where he was that they were attempting to control their rogue vehicles.
Up here on the bluff he was out of danger; he shouted to the men below to get to high ground. Some seemed to hear him, and jinking and dodging made their way toward him. Others were too panicked, or simply too busy to hear him. In the phone he held to his ear the "lines are busy" message continued to drone.
Giving up on 911, he called the Black River Project HQ.
A trembling voice answered. "Black River Project HQ."
"This is Lieutenant Dennis Reese, put me through to the CO."
"Sir, I'm afraid I can't do that." In the background he could hear the sounds of heavy vehicles roaring by.
"We have a situation heaaaaaaaahhhh!" There was the sound of a crash, glass and wood breaking, and screams. But nothing from the operator. An engine roared, loudly, then there was silence.
Dennis snapped the phone closed and looked at the men who had managed to get up on the bluff beside him. "We're on our own," he told them.
Down below, most of the vehicles circled like sharks. At the bottom of the track leading up to the bluff, a single Jeep made repeated, abortive attempts to climb up to them. Thank God it's not a Hummer, Dennis thought, watching it. As he watched it gave up, and when it did the others made one last circle and headed for the road, in some cases still carrying their drivers.
Dennis thought that to his dying day he'd remember the eyes of one man who met his gaze.
"What's going to happen to them?" someone asked.
No one answered. No one asked the next logical question—
What's going on?—either.
Sergeant Juarez came up to Dennis and asked softly, "What should we do, sir?"
Dennis looked over the ground below them, littered with bodies, then up the dirt road that led to the main drag before answering. "There's a radio in the trailer, and a pair of binoculars," he said thoughtfully. "If we could get them it might go a long way toward answering that question. But I'm concerned that there might be a vehicle lurking behind those trees." He gestured toward a clump of trees that hid a good part of the dirt road. "So I think most of us better stay up here. I want to send two men down. One to check the bodies, see if anyone's alive down there. One to retrieve those items." He shook his head. "We wouldn't be able to do a thing to help if there is some kind of a rearguard out there, except give a shout of warning."