Serena concluded that this was a magazine for females who enjoyed being dominated by men.
Humans were far more practical and egalitarian where she came from. She smiled as she imagined Captain Marie Graber encountering the stupid games the magazine suggested. Any of the women she'd soldiered with and most of the men had far better sense.
Turning the page, she came across an ad about cellulite. It featured a pair of horribly dimpled thighs. Serena stared at it in revulsion.
Putting the magazine aside with a little
Serena spent the rest of the night in research. By the early morning hours she had several promising leads. All of them would require additional research before she made her approaches, but not from this location.
She opened a Cayman Island and a local bank account then cashed out her stocks, putting the bulk into the Cayman Islands and forty thousand into the local one. After a moment she put her prisoner's money back and gave her a thousand-dollar bonus.
After a moment's thought she put in an extra five hundred. She'd take it out with the woman's cash card, then trash the card. After buying some clothing she'd report her bag as stolen to the police and then get a cash card from her bank.
Hmm. She'd also need credit. Serena hacked into a couple of large banks and opened herself a gold Visa and a platinum MasterCard. She gave herself an excellent payment record, with only a few late payments. She was, after all, only
human. Then she sought out American Express and opened a brand-new account, which she used to make a reservation at a large, luxurious hotel that catered to a business clientele.
Her laptop would also be stolen. That would be insured. She started to arrange it, then stopped herself.
It was time to go.
She changed back into the shorts and cotton shirt, but kept the sandals; none of the other shoes would fit. Serena had noticed the ubiquitous joggers, they seemed invisible to the people around them. So that was how she would leave this neighborhood, an unremarkable, perfectly ordinary, early-morning jogger.
The 1-950 frowned. Ordinary except for the shoes. She went to the woman's underwear drawer and pulled out a pair of heavy sweat socks. In a few moments she'd managed to tug them on over the sandals. A brief check in the mirror told her that from a distance they would probably pass. Humans were prone to seeing what they expected to see.
She swung into the bedroom and released one of the tech's arms. Plugging in the phone, she placed it within the woman's reach, but only if she worked at it. She put the key to the handcuffs beside it.
'I'm leavin',' she said in Gonzales's voice. 'Don't move for ten minutes or I'll come back.' It sounded like the kind of stupid thing a petty criminal would say.
As an afterthought she wrapped a scarf around her bright hair and put on a baseball cap. Maybe the tech jogged, too. In any case, nosy neighbors, assuming
there were any, probably wouldn't be surprised to see a young woman leave this house on the run. She found some sunglasses and put them on.
Serena was satisfied. She'd acquired food, clothing, and more than sufficient resources, all within hours of her arrival. Skynet would have been pleased.
NEW LIFE ORGANIC FARM, OREGON: THE PRESENT
Ronald Labane hissed with impatience. His son Brian was crying again.
'For Christ's sake, Lisa,' he bellowed, 'Will you shut that kid up! I'm trying to work!'
She appeared in the door of his office, the howling baby in her arms, a harried expression on her lean face. 'I'm sorry, honey, but he's teething.'
He couldn't believe that she was trying to make excuses. He didn't want excuses; he wanted silence so he could work.
'Take him out on the porch until he gets quiet,' he said in a voice that left no doubt about how angry he was.
Lisa glanced at the window, at cold rain falling out of an iron-gray sky in a steady downfall that suited her mood perfectly. He could see her getting ready to object when the baby let out an earsplitting shriek. Ron started to rise and she turned, grabbed her coat, and went out without another word.
Labane sat back down and seethed for a minute. His concentration was broken. It would be an hour at least before he could get back in the groove. With a curse he
got up and went into the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee. Automatically he checked the fire in the woodstove.
He loved his son, and pitied him for the pain he must be going through. But sometimes he doubted Lisa's dedication to the cause. Didn't she understand that the cause was all that mattered? If his children were to have a future, there had to be discipline. Discipline and one leader.
He glared at the battered van in the driveway. It was partially powered by sunlight and had a solar apparatus on its roof. For all the good that did them in rain-soaked Oregon. That van was a symbol to Ron, a symbol of how he was right and it still didn't work for him.
Ronald ran a frustrated hand through his thinning hair. Even the other members of the commune were beginning to grow tired of his message. They were doing really well now with the produce from their fields and orchards. The public was at last willing to pay a premium for organic fruits and vegetables.
But there was so much more people needed to know, needed to do. They had to leave something for the future, to do more than merely recycle. They had to live more simply, to rely less on machines.
Yes, that was what he'd been trying to say. Machines were the enemy. More power for the machines was the battle cry. And the machines made more machines, putting people out of work, denying men and women the clean pride of earning a living. Men could live without machines, but woe to the human race if ever machines could do without men.
That was good.
Lisa crossed in front of the window, the baby was quiet now, and since he was wrapped up in her coat she was looking a bit pinched and resentful. Ronald tapped on the window and beckoned her in, then returned to his small office and began to type.
After supper that evening Branwyn called a meeting and they all gathered around the work-worn kitchen table. Ronald eyed her with disfavor.
Ever since Brian's birth, all of the women had started to get agitated. At first he'd thought it was just jealousy, but now he thought it was some sort of nest-building mind-set. They talked about the 'children's' future, and how they had to build the 'business' for them.
This was a far cry from the rugged, independent pioneers they planned to be when they started the commune. Then it was all hard work and ideals and group sex almost every night. Now it was spreadsheets and a new truck and maybe a mail-order business. George, one of the older members, had even suggested that they hire some help for the harvest.
'Look,' Branwyn said, staring right at him, 'I hate to say this, Ron, but you're not pulling your weight. Every time someone comes up with a suggestion for expanding our operation, you shoot us down with some high-minded speech about living apart from the capitalists. Well, that might work if you were turning your hand to some of the labor around here, but you're not. We're feeding you, we're washing your clothes, we're paying for the electricity that runs that computer, we're chopping the wood, we're making your bed, and we're doing the dishes. And all we get from you is that we're making too much noise and we're disturbing the great work. Well, who died and anointed you king? What great
work? As far as I'm concerned, you talking to your buds on the Internet isn't going to bring down the
