Psychological studies she had in plenty. Actual social interaction hadn't been covered very extensively. Perhaps because Skynet's contact with humans had been restricted to the military, scientists, and slaves, and then in a very limited way.
Her own time with humans had educated her in regard to basic human nature, but she realized that the circumstances of her education were extremely unlike the present. How the people of this time behaved toward one another was something she would have to find out by trial and error. Turning away she began her search of the premises.
A quick reconnaissance proved that there was no one else in the house. A bedside picture of a young man offering a rather embarrassed smile suggested that this could change, although a completely feminine wardrobe indicated that this wasn't necessarily a high probability. But the woman took birth-control pills and had an assortment of frilly lingerie, so the male could become a problem.
The 1-950 would maintain a high state of alertness for the next twenty-four hours. It would be best to move on by then.
She opened a door at the end of a short, shadowy corridor. The contents brought an actual smile to Serena's lips. Her technician prisoner had an amazing computer setup—endless peripherals, cable modem hookup, the works. Serena could do a lot with this equipment.
First, she tried on some of her unwilling hostess's clothes. The skirts were too short and tight but the trousers fit fairly well. She dressed in a pair of jeans, a red T-shirt, and thong sandals. The woman's underwear was uncomfortable as well as unconventional; Serena removed it immediately. At least the 1-950 hoped it was unconventional. Surely even humans had to have better sense.
Entering the living room, she checked her prisoner. The woman was fine, but her hands were becoming very blue. Serena dragged her into the bedroom and removed the bonds she'd made from the jacket. She replaced them with the handcuffs she'd found in the bedside drawer and then secured the woman to the brass headboard.
She should be able to do a great deal of work from this location. This was an incredible stroke of good fortune.
A search through the refrigerator netted her a sandwich and a drink that she brought into the computer room. Serena turned on the technician's second computer and set up a program to play the stock market using the woman's bank-account balance for seed money and the downloaded records of market fluctuations that Skynet had given her. Then she set herself to creating a personal
history while the computer made her financially independent.
Her parents were both military and she had traveled all over the world, now here, now there, now with one or the other set of grandparents. Her school records were a confusing patchwork whose many gaps could be explained by foreign postings.
One set of grandparents had died of cancer and a suicide. Her father had crashed his plane, a private plane rather than an air-force jet. He'd taken an early retirement but never got a chance to enjoy it. Her mother and other grandparents had died in a car accident; a drunk driver had lost control of his car and hit them head-on.
The 1-950 considered this scenario. Was it, perhaps, too laden with tragedy? She needed to appear stable, and this was a lot to pile on one plate. Still she couldn't afford to claim a living relative.
She changed the suicide to a stroke. Her mother's father got to die of an aneurysm when Serena was just a child. All of these people were only children, not a sibling in the bunch.
Serena arranged biographies for all of them back to the turn of the twentieth century. Her father, on second thought, was MIA in the Philippines, presumed kidnapped and murdered. She was fifteen when it happened.
Yes, it was tragic, but everyone lost his or her parents and grandparents eventually. The 1-950 had given them all full lives, while they lived. No one should have any complaints if she didn't.
Serena gave her work a final reading. She might add more to her family tree as time permitted, but this should do for now.
She rubbed her hands; the increase in production of oil and sweat she'd triggered at her fingertips, combined with her training, would ensure that she left no usable fingerprints, only smudges, but it was uncomfortable.
Now she turned her attention to creating a work dossier. This would be infinitely trickier, requiring people who could be called as references.
Fooling Cyberdyne wouldn't be the problem, she was sure. It was their government contacts that worried her. Perhaps needlessly; Skynet had no enemies now, except possibly the Connors.
Serena paused for a moment. For the first time she realized she might actually meet them in this time. In fact, it was almost inevitable. It would please her immensely if only she could kill them. She could offer no greater service to Skynet.
With an effort she turned her mind back to the task at hand. She decided to work on her own biography for a few minutes. She'd entered USC as a liberal-arts major and gotten her first taste of security work with a part-time job with campus security. It had made her eager to find ways of making things more safe, of removing temptation, making the environment think twice where people failed to.
was sometimes very important.
She changed her major to computers, receiving good marks but nothing remarkable. Her student ID showed her thirty pounds heavier, with glasses and a frumpy hairdo. Serena hardly recognized herself. Not surprising. It was actually a digitally adjusted photo of a home-economics major who'd graduated in 1978.
Checking the dates, she found that she could have audited one of Miles Dyson's classes during his very brief teaching career. With a few taps she created a link with him. A teacher-student relationship would be something she could build on at need.
She studied the records of all of her alleged professors. No serious complaints, pretty much favorable evaluations, and huge class sizes all combined to indicate that it was unlikely they remembered most of their students. Particularly the unmemorable, frumpy blob Serena was in her college days.
Perhaps she should pay a visit to them, plant the notion in their minds that they knew her.
Time for a break, and then that research.
She went in to check on her prisoner and found the woman awake. Sensing a presence, the woman whined and Serena approached the bed.
'Be quiet,' Serena said, utilizing the electronics implanted around her larynx to mimic the voice of Gonzales, a man she'd killed.
'Mmhmm-m-hmm-m-m-mrmrm!'
Picking up a comb, the 1-950 held it against the woman's throat, bearing down slightly. 'Do you want to live?' she growled.
The woman stiffened.
''Cause I don't care if you stink, I just care if you make noise. So, no, you can't go to the bathroom. You gonna be quiet?' The woman nodded stiffly. 'Good.'
Serena lifted the comb away. 'I'm gonna be here for hours, so you make yourself comfortable any way you can, baby.'
And with an evil, masculine chuckle she moved off, patterning her movements and the sounds she made on a much larger person than herself, creating an alarming thought picture for the helpless woman to contemplate.
As she walked toward the kitchen, Serena heard the woman sobbing, and shook her head.
She ate in the living room, reading the woman's magazines with fascination.
Grooming appeared to be of paramount importance to humans, who were obsessed with dandruff and body odor, judging from the number of advertisements regarding these problems. The articles were interesting, too.
