Miles considered the possibilities. Oscar was so smooth. He always let other people get their way—on things that didn't matter to him. Sometimes he seemed just a bit too oily for Miles's taste, but he was good to work with. The small stuff always went along like it was supposed to. Maybe they could come to a good arrangement.
'But there is a real catch... maybe,' Oscar said.
'All right, here it comes,' Miles said. He gave a broad, knowing grin. What else did Oscar want? 'Well?'
'You're not claustrophobic, are you?'
Miles worked it out in a flash.
'We're talking about a hardened defense facility here,' Cruz said, 'like the NORAD Command Center, only more so.'
'Gotcha.'
'Yeah, you'd have to work half a mile or so under the ground.'
Miles laughed. 'You know, boss, that's probably the least of my worries.'
'Good. I hoped it would be.'
'I'll talk to Tarissa tonight.'
CHAPTER THREE
JOHN'S WORLD
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA MAY, 1994
In John's reality, the Cyberdyne site was in ruins. Sarah Connor and the others had blown up the second floor with a massive array of Claymore mines and plastic explosives. Now the site was ominously quiet. Though the morning was bright, with just a scatter of streaky clouds, it seemed to Oscar Cruz like the end of the world had come to pass.
His world.
A tired-looking police detective escorted him from the roped-off area, and wished him well. Oscar shook the man's hand. 'Thanks for your trouble,' he said.
'No,' the detective said. 'Thank you. You've been very helpful. Please don't hesitate to call us if you think of anything more, or if there's anything we can do.'
'Of course. That's appreciated.'
'And certainly if anything suspicious happens. You can't be too careful.'
There was little more Oscar could do here. He felt numb, shocked, as if he'd survived a personal assault from the maniacs who'd done this. It was hard to fathom their motivation, or believe the outcome. Miles was dead. So much of their work was gone. A dozen police and emergency vehicles had arrived at the scene, crowding round the building's wrecked shell, like African wildlife round a waterhole. Then there were last night's vehicles, waiting to be towed away: the shattered husks of squad cars, destroyed by heavy-duty military weapons. Riddled with bullet holes, wrenched and stretched out of shape by grenade explosions, they lay derelict among the blasted rubble and shards of glass.
Overhead, the long arm of a mobile crane swept silently through the air. A shiny purple tow truck was parked to one side, its driver waiting for permission to help clear the wreckage. A tractor growled and inched forward in low gear, then stopped, as the police negotiated with emergency workers about what evidence could, or could not, be disturbed. Occasionally, someone yelled out a request or an instruction. Nothing seemed very hurried, but Oscar knew how stressful it all was: the dangerous condition of the building; the detail of the inspections; the inevitable conflicts between solving the crime and following safety procedures.
Oscar decided to take some photographs—for business purposes, certainly not for souvenirs—then talk things through with Rosanna Monk. He took the digital camera from his black leather briefcase, and checked the scene through the viewfinder.
He took some close-ups of the damage and some distance shots, getting the scene from directly in front of the building, then from both ends of the street. He got a good side-on view from the right, but no rear angle on the building, because the way was blocked off. These shots would have to be enough—they'd be useful for his own records, and for briefing the Board.
It was only 9:30 a.m., but he'd already put in a long morning, dealing with police, press, politicians, lawyers, insurers, employees, company consultants, customers, city, state and federal officials, and, worst of all, Cyber- dyne's Board members. He'd made one statement for the TV news networks, and expected to make many more before the day was over. Right now, he had to pick up the pieces. The company's headquarters were in ruins, its future uncertain. There were endless legal questions to sort out with insurers and customers. Even if Cyberdyne survived all this, there was also his own future to think about, for a process of mutual blame was beginning within the company.
Amongst it all, only one thing had turned out right: no one seemed to have been killed except Dyson. The Cyberdyne guards who'd been on duty were okay, and no one else had been working back late. Some of the police had suffered serious injuries, but they'd live. One officer had fallen from a helicopter, and was badly hurt. He claimed to have no memories of what happened to him. Someone had hijacked the helicopter and crashed it miles from the scene. No body had been found.
Mystery after mystery.
He carefully packed away his camera, and found his cellphone, then walked to a small diner a couple of blocks away. He sat in a quiet corner, and ordered a chicken and lettuce sandwich for breakfast, plus a coffee. While he waited, he phoned Rosanna Monk.
'Oscar!' she said. 'How is everything?' Like everyone else she sounded under stress, an edge of desperation and anxiety in her voice. Before he could answer, she said, 'That's a dumb question, I suppose.'
'No.' He shook his head, though she wasn't there to see. 'There's no such thing at the moment.'
'What do you think will happen?'
'That's a tough one, Rosanna. Not dumb, just tough.'
She laughed nervously at that.
'I've just been to the site,' Oscar said. 'I'm in the Yellow Parrot Diner, just round the corner from Cyberdyne.'
'Yeah. Okay.'
'How about I get a cab over to your place and we can have a proper talk about this? There's a lot to go through. If we can get the whole mess sorted out, you could have a very important role in the company's future.'
'Oscar, you don't have to sound all positive and cheerful. I know how you must feel.'
'Yeah... Thanks. All the same, we'd better talk through the implications. Besides, I need your advice.'
'
'That's what I said.'
Rosanna paused, and the waitress brought Oscar's order. He nodded as she placed it on the table, with the folded check.
'All right,' Rosanna said. 'Come on over. Just give me a few minutes to tidy up.'
'Fine. While you're waiting for me, just think about one question.' The waitress had gone. He looked round to make sure no one could overhear.
'Fire away.' Rosanna still sounded nervous.
'It's this: Miles's nanochip project...'
'The nanoprocessor? Yes, what about it?'
'It looks like all his work is gone. You know more about the project than anybody.'
'I suppose I do.'
'The question is just this: Without Miles, or any of his records, is the project still viable? You don't have to answer now, but think about it. We can talk when I get there.'
'All right, Oscar. But I've already been thinking about it I can give you an answer now.'
'You can?'
'Sure. It might take a few years to catch up. I don't know if you have that sort of time.'
'Assume we do. What are you saying, that we can do it?'
There was another pause on the line, then she said in a definite way, 'Yes. Yes, I'm pretty sure we
