"If I ever see that white-haired bitch again, I'll kill her!" one of the mothers who'd survived the massacre had declared.
Can't blame her, John thought. But Ninel's okay. I can feel it in my gut.
For a moment he imagined Sarah Connor's eyebrows going up sardonically.
Okay, okay, my Internalized Mom Superego, yeah, it's partly another portion of my anatomy. But I'm a good judge of people— have to be, if I'm going to do this job. And my judgment says Ninel's no mass murderer.
He looked out the window at the exotic blond head—hair a bit rattailed, like everyone's right now, but still a bright beacon in the gray day. She seemed such a levelheaded sort of woman, not the kind to join a group that would deliberately kill ordinary people for no very good reason. She'd also seemed more like a loner than a joiner. The term lone gunman flitted through his mind.
The truth is I don't know her and shouldn't be making judgments about her sanity or lack thereof based on such short acquaintance.
Another phrase he was having trouble tamping down: He was so quiet, so helpful, seemed like such a nice fella. He so didn't want it to be true. Ninel was such an endearing little thing, she looked kind of like a blond, blue-eyed Bjork—elflike.
Although, Tolkien aside, mythology didn't paint elves as friendly to the average human—but as chancy and extremely dangerous.
It didn't take Ninel long to process the travelers and soon she was waving good-bye. John kicked his bike to life and roared up behind her. She kept her back to him as she put away her clipboard.
"How is it that you can run that thing?" she asked loudly enough to be heard over his motor. Ninel looked at him over her shoulder. "Are you hoarding or something?"
"Or something," he said, and cut the motor. "I jiggered it to run on wood alcohol and I've set up my own still." She looked impressed, which pleased him.
Then she frowned. "It doesn't burn very clean, though, does it?"
He twisted his mouth. "Does it matter at the end of the world?"
She laughed. "It's not the end of the world, and yes, it does matter." She grew serious. "It always matters."
Some small flake of dread sank through his being. Her parents had been activists. Ineffectual activists in an idiot cause, but an upbringing like that had to have some effect on her character.
"Can I buy you a burger?" he asked.
She grinned. "If you could buy me a burger, I'd give you a medal. But you can buy me an elk kabob." Ninel jerked her head at a nearby cafe. "What have you got to trade?"
"Never fear," John said, "I'm prepared. I wouldn't offer if I wasn't." He gave her a reproachful look that made her laugh.
"We can park in front," she told him. "I'll meet you there."
When she caught up with him and had finished locking down her bike, she grinned to see him pull a pair of rabbits from his saddlebags. "That should do," she said. "If they're fresh."
He gave her another reproachful look. "Fresh this morning,"
he said. "Guaranteed."
The burly man behind the counter of the improvised restaurant had a pump-action shotgun and a skeptical expression. That thawed as John shoved the two carcasses across the wood; he bent, sniffed, felt, and nodded.
"Okay, you got credit at the Copper King," he said. "Rack your weapons there, enjoy yourselves, and no fighting or you go out in pieces."
"Come again to Burger King, and will you have fries with that?" John muttered under his breath.
The platters of grilled elk chunks on sticks did include potatoes; boiled, of course—nobody was wasting oil on cooking—but still tasty to carbohydrate-starved bodies, with a little salt.
"So," Ninel said, biting into the juicy meat, "did you get to the camp in B.C.?"
"Not all the way," John said. "As you said, it's a long haul."
She shrugged. "I'm a little disappointed. I've been wondering what it's like and if I should pack up and go. Thing is, I don't want to leave my dogs behind."
"Dogs?" he said. "You have a team?"
Shaking her head, Ninel smiled. "Only if you think a pair is a team. No, they're good hunting dogs, and they're my buds. I couldn't just abandon them."
"I like dogs," he said, a little wistfulness in his tone. He sipped his chamomile tea, not liking it much; then putting the mug down, he looked at her carefully.
"What?" she said.
"I just"—he shrugged—"I have my doubts about these buses and trucks. Who's behind this? Do you know?"
"The government, I suppose." She looked him in the eye.
"Who else?"
"Our government, or Canada?"
"Both, I would imagine." She frowned. "What are you suggesting? You think these people are being kidnapped or something? By Canadians! You can't be serious."
He laughed. "When you put it like that," he said. "But seriously, you don't know who is behind it, and I find that worrying. How did they recruit you anyway?"
"I knew some people who were involved and they asked me to help." She looked at him with concern. "They're good people, John. I don't think they'd hurt anybody."
"So because you trusted them, you were willing to take the whole thing on faith."
Ninel sat back, frowning. "I feel like I'm being accused of something here. Not least of being stupid, and I don't like it."
He held her gaze with a severe look of his own. "I didn't go all the way to the camp because the buses stopped short of it.
Everyone figured it was a rest stop and got off. Understandably, after a ride of about four hours." She was frowning in puzzlement. "They were attacked."
"Whoa!" she said quickly. "That doesn't mean the people who run the transports are responsible."
"C'mon, Ninel! Who else knew that the automated transports were going to stop right there? Huh? But beyond that, I know that people from the camp came hunting them."
"Of course they came looking," Ninel protested. "If the transports never arrived, or arrived empty, of course they went looking. Why wouldn't they?"
"Hon, something is wrong here."
"I'm not your hon and maybe the something wrong here is you! Maybe there are people out there who don't want Americans settling in Canada. Did that ever occur to you? And if the army can discover how to make those trucks run, couldn't someone else figure out how to run them by remote control?
Maybe this is a plot against the people running the transports and the camps, rather than a plot by them. Ever think of that?
And what are you doing to try and help? Anything?"
John sat back, wondering where he'd lost control of this conversation. Though he did have an impression that Ninel's reaction was sincere. "I'm doing a few things," he said gruffly.
Why am I feeling defensive? he wondered. I've spent my whole life preparing to fight Skynet and she's making me feel like a slacker when it's her that's sending people down the damn thing's maw.
"Look, I'm not judging you," he said aloud. "I'm just asking questions. Maybe I could ask your friends?"
She looked less belligerent, and a bit uncertain. "I'll ask them if they'll talk to you. No guarantees."
"I take it they're not still looking for volunteers."
Her mouth curved up at one corner. "Somehow I don't see you as a volunteer. Maybe it's the bike."
ALASKA
"He wants to talk to us?" Balewitch said, her eyebrows almost tangling in her hairline she was so surprised. She had to make an effort of will not to grin like a wolf.
Perfect!
Ron Labane wanted John Connor found and neutralized and John Connor wanted to come over for coffee. Life generally didn't work out this well.