grew warmer, more passionate. His hand stroked her back, the rhythm becoming swifter, more demanding, like his kiss.
She made the first move, slipping out of the flimsy tunic that was all she wore.
He stared at her physical perfection for a moment as though stunned. Then she leaned forward and began to help him undress, exclaiming wordlessly over small scars on his body, kissing them when she found them.
She lost her nominal virginity to that boy, then broke his neck at Skynet's orders.
A very pleasant interlude, altogether.
FORMER DYSON HOME: THE PRESENT
Serena smiled reminiscently; yes, she'd always been good at getting humans to trust her. Picking up the two baskets, she headed back to her digging.
She had cut through the concrete floor of a guest room to begin removing the dirt beneath. Today she would finish the digging and pour the cement into the holes
for the support poles. As soon as that was dry she would put in a moisture barrier, a cement floor, and concrete blocks and steel posts to support the walls.
Next would be the installation of a sophisticated climate control and air purification system; the parts were already waiting in the guest room. Then she could bring in the rest of the equipment and begin using her lab.
In the meantime she'd been jobbing out the parts needed to construct the skeletons of her T-l0ls, using over a dozen different specialty foundries throughout the United States; their product came to several different post office boxes, none of them closer than two towns away. So far their work had been excellent.
When time allowed, she'd check into using foreign manufacturers for maximum privacy. She imagined that many precision metalworkers knew each other; it wouldn't do if several accidentally discovered that they were manufacturing different parts that looked suspiciously right alongside each other and started to put them together.
But her real concern was that the Connors would learn of her work.
Serena thought about Skynet's enemies as she filled another basket with dirt. The Connors had very effectively disappeared after destroying Cyberdyne's old facility. Sightings of them had been reported for a few months afterward, but none had panned out. To all intents and purposes, the pair had ceased to exist.
She'd posted a lookout for their names on the Internet; should anyone start discussing them or look for information on them, she would be alerted. She had also tagged their files at the FBI and CIA. Anyone looking for information there was more likely to lead her to her quarry.
Hoisting the filled baskets onto her shoulders, she tried to close her mind to the knowledge that Skynet's minions had come out the losers every time they'd tangled with the Connors.
Serena climbed the ladder out of her lab-to-be and forced herself to think of the next step in the process. If she pushed, she could be ready to start the delicate work of creating T-101's by late next week.
She'd acquired artificial teeth and some precision tools from a series of dental-supply companies and a matrix material used to grow new flesh for skin grafts from a surgical-supply store. It was amazing what you could acquire if you had a healthy amount of cash.
She would use her own blood as a starter. The chemicals necessary to promote cell growth were resting in her refrigerator.
Except for the brute effort required to prepare her small laboratory, everything was set to go or on its way. She should have the first Terminator ready to mingle with humans in under two months.
Unless Cyberdyne called on her to begin work she should be able to work undisturbed on her new accomplice. Once she'd made one T-101, it could easily construct others. But she was also eager to begin protecting Skynet.
Tricker? Probably. But the government liaison didn't seem to be anywhere around just now. He was probably doing some last-minute foot-dragging just to assert his authority, or perhaps a bit more investigation. Although she was pretty sure her background sources would check out, Tricker was a deep one.
She would regret it: he was the most interesting person she'd met here. But she could live with regret. What she couldn't live with was failure.
OHIO, ON THE ROAD TO EARTH-FAIR: PRESENT DAY
'People keep imagining,' Ron Labane said to the two filmmakers, 'that someday everyone in the world will enjoy the lifestyle North Americans take for granted.'
He looked off into the distance. 'I can't remember who said it, but it's been estimated that it would take eight more planets to achieve that goal.'
'That seems excessive,' Peter Ziedman said.
'Our lifestyle is excessive,' Ron countered. 'We could all live much more simply and probably be happier for it. Only an economy like this one could support our constant fads, constant upgrading of cars and stereos and computers.
We don't even wear things out anymore; there's no time for that. They're outmoded as soon as you buy them. So we bury them.'
Ron shook his head gently. 'It can't go on indefinitely. Common sense says it can't go on forever.'
'So what do we do?' Ziedman asked. He was pleased. He'd expected a wild man from what the cochairman had said, but he'd gotten a well-spoken, well-informed man with a message. This could work out. With the right handling and maybe a little cash infusion from his father.
'Well, that's going to involve some hard choices,' Labane answered. 'Industry isn't just going to start gearing down voluntarily. They'll use the same excuse they've used for over a hundred years.' He waved his hands and raised his eyes to heaven. 'We have to answer to our stockholders! We must show a profit, it's our duty! Ha! Their duty is to get as fat as they can before they dole out the crumbs to their sacred stockholders.'
'So… laws?' Ziedman said.
Labane shook his head. 'I'm no lawyer, but I'm pretty sure that the Constitution has a few things to say about restraint of trade. Unfortunately that doesn't take into consideration the world around us. Actually, the change has to come from us. Buy less, streamline your life. Learn to live by that old Yankee saying: buy it new, wear it out, make it do, do without. The alternative is to imagine your great-great-grandchildren wading through discarded motherboards and acid rain up to their ankles.'
Ziedman glanced at Tony, who adjusted the camera and nodded. 'This is great stuff,' he said to Labane. 'Where did you get this?'
'I wrote a book,' Ron said. 'I've got to rework it, though; there's far too much
material to get it published as is. I must have read hundreds of books on the subject.' He nodded. 'Hundreds, at least. None of my work is really original; it's a synthesis.' He slapped his knees. 'But ya need those. Every now and again someone has to get it all together and present the salient points. And that's what I want to do. So that people can decide just what it is that they ought to do to save the world.'
'Cut!' Ziedman said. 'I'd like to get some shots of you doing things like walking along a river or the seashore or through a meadow someplace. If that's all right with you? We'd do a voice-over of you, maybe reading from your book. How would that be?'
'I hate to sound mercenary,' Labane said, 'but am I getting paid to be in this opus of yours? 'Cause I'm living in my van right now.'
Peter held up a hand. 'Okay,' he said, 'here's the deal. We're doing this on a shoestring ourselves. So until and unless the film is sold for distribution, all we can offer is room and board.'
'And parking?'
Ziedman screwed up his face. 'Okay!' He held out his hand. 'You drive a hard bargain.'
