Infiltrator

'Apparently someone told them about it.' She smiled. 'Or maybe because Sacramento's a civilian facility. Who knows?'

Jordan's mind flew to Tarissa. Had she been in touch with the Connors? Could it have been her? It could well have been if she'd had the information. And it was perfectly possible that she did.

'When do I leave?' he asked.

'Now,' Serena said with a smile. 'I've arranged for accommodation for you in the Holiday Inn there.' Her lips quirked and she said, 'It's not luxury, but then, it is Sacramento.'

He grinned in response.

'I'm also lending you some manpower.' Serena gestured toward the three tall

men standing in front of her couch. 'Tom Gallagher, Dick Lewis, and Bob Harris.'

The men nodded together, so Jordan couldn't tell who belonged to which name.

He guessed they probably went left to right. As he looked at them he couldn't help but think of the ancient clay warriors who guarded the tomb of China's first emperor. The same bodies, lined up in the same postures, with different heads attached.

'Do you need to go home and pack a bag?' Serena asked.

'No,' Jordan said. 'I've got some things in my office.'

It was an old habit he'd developed in the Bureau and it had saved him a lot of time and trouble over the years. He'd decided to continue it here until he knew just what this job entailed.

'Good,' she said.

She handed him a folder, which on examination proved to contain addresses and phone numbers for the hotel and storage site as well as directions to both places.

'Let me know when you arrive,' she said. She touched him lightly on the arm. 'I wish I could tell you more than 'I think they're coming,' but right now that's all I've got. If anything else comes down the pipe I'll call you immediately.'

'Okay,' he said. He looked at the three men. 'I guess you guys ride with me.'

They nodded in unison. He smiled, a little nervously. These guys are weird, he

thought. Formidable enough, certainly—they bulged with muscle, and they moved well despite their massive size—but weird. And they were all ironed, with shoulder holsters under a baggy sweatsuit jacket, a suit, and a leather affair with chains.

Stop echoing each other's movements, Serena sent. Remember you're supposed to be individuals. She almost sighed in exasperation as their heads turned toward her as one.

'Okay, guys, good luck,' she said aloud.

The T-950 shut the door behind her minions with something like resignation. It was pretty much out of her hands now; what would be, would be. I guess I'll have to be grateful that Dyson can't suspect them of being Terminators—

because Terminators don't exist.

She smiled. Being a figment of a deranged imagination made it so much easier to hide. Humans censored their own perceptions for you.

They didn't talk. Jordan had tried a few questions to loosen things up and they had answered, but as tersely as possible. They weren't even personal questions for cryin' out loud.

They were so quiet that he could almost forget they were there. Except for the way they moved their heads in constant overlapping arcs. They looked like a trio of lighthouses inexplicably built on the same promontory. Their bodies were so still that they might have been paralyzed from the neck down; no scratches, no twitches, no shifting. After a short while their constant head motion combined with their dead silence began to wear on him.

'Are you even breathing?' he said to the one beside him. Bob, he thought.

Seven consulted a subroutine in charge of imitating respiratory function. It appeared to be working at optimum; visual observation confirmed the monitor data.

'Yes,' it said.

Jordan glanced at him. fuck yes? he thought. What was their damn problem?

Were they having a fight or something? Was this some sort of group sulk he'd walked into? Okay, that's about enough of this shit!

'Look,' he said aloud, and three heads turned, three pairs of eyes aimed at him like howitzers. Jordan's mouth twitched and he frowned. Man! These boys have some attitude! 'I don't know if Ms. Burns briefed you on Sarah Connor, so I don't know if you're aware of what a tough, well-trained customer she is.'

'We know about Sarah Connor,' Bob said.

'Good!' Jordan said. Cause I sure as hell wouldn't want to bore you gentlemen by repeating anything you've already heard! 'But you see, the problem is, I don't know what you know and I don't know anything about you three guys. And since we might be facing some pretty dicey situations together, I'd like to know a little bit about you. Okay?'

Bob looked at him. Jordan glanced in the rearview mirror. Tom and Dick looked at him. Nobody spoke.

'Don't all jump in at once,' he said sarcastically. 'Would anybody like to tell me how long you've been with Cyberdyne, or what your training is, or why I should have you as my backup team?'

'I have a headache,' they all said at once. Then they returned to their lighthouse imitation. As one.

Then it hit him. Burns had introduced them as Tom, Dick, and… Harris. Was that some sort of joke? Had she hired some kind of freelance hit squad to take out the Connors? Could she be a sociopath? he wondered.

Not good, he thought. Not good at all. He could be wrong, he could be making mountains out of molehills, but these men were not normal. He knew nothing about them except their names and the fact that they were carrying Cyberdyne rent-a-cop ID and had licenses for the guns—Israeli Desert Eagle .50-calibers, at that, hand cannon. Usually he despised anyone who carried the things; the engineering was excellent—the Israelis were the world's best practical weaponeers—but the caliber was to big for accuracy, the sort of gun macho blowhards with little tiny dicks bought because they thought it made them bad.

These gorillas looked as if they could actually shoot the damned things.

ROY'S DINER, JUST OUTSIDE SACRAMENTO: THE PRESENT

'Hey, something occurred to me,' John said, pushing aside the second-rate huevos rancheros.

Dieter and his mother had been ignoring each other studiously; John hid his smile at the obvious electricity between them. About time Mom found someone, he thought. I've got a good feeling about this guy. If a human could be Uncle

Bob, Dieter would be it. They probably thought it was a Big Secret, even from each other. From the smile on her tired face, even the waitress here was picking it up.

Now they looked at him. He unfolded his laptop, fingers flicking over the keyboard and trackpad, then swiveled it around.

'You know, one thing always bothered me. About this time-travel shit, the war against the machines, all that stuff.'

' One thing?' Dieter said, raising an eyebrow.

'Well, a lot of stuff. But one thing that my… dad… told Mom. You know, those plasma weapons he wished he had? The ones that fried Terminators good?'

Sarah nodded, a brief flicker of sadness moving like a wave across the tight-held tension of her face at the mention of Kyle. 'Yes?' she said.

'Well, when did they get invented? Like, originally Judgment Day was supposed to have happened by now.'

Dieter frowned. 'I hadn't thought,' he said. 'I just assumed that the future would have more formidable