Infiltrator

any other time of its existence. The one thing that mattered, the only thing, was that she must not fail.

Perhaps it's time I cloned myself, she thought. Or at least began preparing a safe place for the clone to grow. Right now she was the weak link. If something

unforeseen happened to her, a car accident, for example, Skynet might be stopped cold. Given the way humans drove, it was all too likely.

Very well then, she would prepare.

Serena broke her connection with the computer and looked across her lab at her second completed Terminator. She watched as it assembled a fourth. It was completely hairless just now. The skin was so new and tender that she had left it naked rather than risk chafing the babylike flesh. The skin on its hands was much tougher, about the texture and quality of a five-year-old human's.

Nevertheless she had instructed it to take frequent rests to allow any damaged tissue to regenerate. Anything that might interfere with function, or might risk the new flesh becoming infected, was to be avoided. The synthetic immune system had some weaknesses.

By late tomorrow night its skin would be as tough as an adult human's—by the end of the week, much tougher. But for now it was best to restrict it. The third Terminator basked in the tank, growing its shell of flesh. So far everything was on schedule. Even the unexpected additions to her program were being handled smoothly.

For example, tomorrow Mary Warren, who was a pilot, was flying with some of her friends to San Francisco to attend an art auction. Mrs. Warren loved to fly and her husband seemed genuinely proud of her accomplishment.

Paul Warren had told her everything about Mary's plane. Under the guise of planning security for it, she'd discovered that it would carry six passengers and had all the amenities. Meaning a nice little powder room for her Terminator to lurk in.

Poor Paul. He was going to get such terrible news tomorrow.

Serena had sent her first Terminator, its head and body speckled with stubble, to the airport to accompany Mary and her friends on their trip. Serena smiled to herself.

She'd toyed with several different scenarios, such as a heater pouring carbon monoxide into the cabin, engine failure, a massive fuel leak. She'd even considered having the Terminator shoot them all, making one of the passengers seem a suicide. But then she'd decided to simply have the Terminator break all their necks and bail out while they were over the ocean.

Of course Tricker would question it, but he'd have questioned it whatever they did. It would seem to be just one of those unsolvable mysteries. Serena grinned.

She closed her eyes, and got back to work on her computer's gleanings from the Net. Ah! Here was the report Jeff Goldberg sent to Dieter von Rossbach. It was encrypted, but nothing that gave her too much trouble. Coming from the future did have its advantages. No new material here. The cover note was a surprise, however.

There were a few words of apology for sending Victor Griego to bother von Rossbach. Then something interesting:

I've just found out that Cyberdyne has started up operations again. This time they're located underground on a military base. That ought to be secure enough.

I've also heard that they've recovered some of the stuff the Connors stole from them. What I don't know, my source wouldn't tell me.

Goldberg's source was astoundingly well informed. Serena immediately wondered if it might be Tricker himself, then discarded the notion. Tricker as gossip was just too unbelievable. Unless he wants it known, she thought.

Now that, Tricker would do. She smiled. Oh, wouldn't he, though? It would be just like Tricker to throw the cat among the pigeons like that, just to watch what they'd do. Then he'd take notes and hold interviews at his leisure.

She did like Tricker. A shame he was human.

The Terminator sat in the tiny lavatory of the Warren's plane, its complex systems in wait mode. It looked like a dead man in a tight-fitting coverall; its eyes were closed and it didn't appear to be breathing. All sensors were alert, however—at the slightest significant change the Terminator would come to full function.

Getting onto the aircraft had been much simpler than getting to the airport, which had involved changing buses three times as well as taking the airport shuttle. Then it had walked to this field where private planes were kept. Kept with very poor security.

After standing in the shadow of a nearby hangar weighing its options, the Terminator had elected to walk openly to the plane and enter. It hadn't even been necessary to pick the lock.

The 1-950 had been correct; sometimes boldness was more invisible than skulking. The intelligence unit would also be pleased that there were no collateral deaths to explain.

The Terminator sat immobile, the seconds ticking over on its internal digital display. Waiting.

'My Gawd, Alice!' a woman's voice exclaimed. 'A fox-fur coat? You'll get spray-painted for sure. I'm tempted to do it myself!'

The Terminator came awake and listened. Several humans clumped aboard, laughing and talking, milling about before seating themselves. Wasted effort.

Wasted motion. Inefficient.

'Well, you know how cold I get. It's freezing in San Francisco.'

'It's sixty degrees, honey,' a man's voice protested. 'Chilly for sure, but hardly a reason to pile on forty pounds of fur.'

'Okay, I admit it, I love this coat and I'm just looking for an excuse to wear it.

So there.'

'Give it to me and I'll put it in the closet,' the first woman said, her voice amused. 'But I warn you, there's a huge crowd of those PETA people in that city.'

'Mmm,' Alice's voice drifted to the Terminator from further up the cabin. 'Now you've got me worried. Maybe I shouldn't wear it. I'd hate to see it get damaged.'

'That might be best, hon,' the man said. 'Hey, what have you got to drink on this tub?'

'Tub?' The woman's voice sounded slightly offended. 'You have the gall to call

my beautiful baby a tub? If you can't be polite you can go thirsty.'

The woman's possessiveness regarding the aircraft would seem to indicate that this was Mary Warren, the owner and pilot. The Terminator recorded her voice for future use.

The Terminator made out footsteps going forward.

'Aw, c'mon,' Henry protested.

'Wait till we're airborne, then I'll unlock the bar,' Mary told him.

Henry heaved a deep sigh.

Steps approached the lavatory; the Terminator took hold of the doorknob and easily held it shut. The door rattled, the Terminator held on.

'Hey!' Henry said. 'The bathroom door's stuck.'

'Sit down, Henry!' Mary said. 'I've got to get into position for takeoff. These things are scheduled, you know. Can't it wait?'

'Yeah, I guess,' Henry grumbled.

These people deserved to die, thought the Terminator. Even from a human perspective. Any creatures so stupid needed to be removed from the gene pool for the benefit of the species.

'Strap in you two,' the woman said. 'Here we go.'

The Terminator listened to her speaking to the control tower. It deduced their instructions to her from her responses. The Terminator would bide its time, waiting until they were airborne and the controls on autopilot.

Mary Warren leaned back with a sigh. She never felt as alive as she did when she was flying—hands-on flying, with the aircraft an extension of herself.