Rising Storm

thrower, she flung it into the wall. Shards of plaster exploded into the room, revealing the dented wire mesh beneath. 'Shit!

Fuck! Damn!'

It had taken her forever to coax that damned animal awake, and when it opened its eyes there was John Connor staring back at it. How could she have him that close and not kill him? That stupid, fat, maggot-animal! That slug with fur!

That… that mammal!

She'd killed von Rossbach at least, and had been pleased about it despite the cost. But this! Her real quarry had once again escaped. How do they do that? she asked herself. She picked up one of Viemeister's many trophies and prepared to dash it against the wall.

'Hey! Whatcha doin'?'

She spun around, hissing like an angry tigress. Some part of her will held her motionless as she fought the almost overwhelming urge to kill. Clea chanted Skynet to herself like a mantra, to remind herself that she hadn't been designed to kill but to manipulate these creatures.

'What does it look like… Tricker?' she snapped. She forced herself calm; the governors weren't able to do much in the face of such rage. She'd almost said stupid human. Not something Tricker would be likely to forget. The I-950 glared at him, breathing hard and wanting to tear out his throat.

Tricker had known a few stone killers on a first-name basis in his career— some of them real mad-dog types—and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that right now he was looking at another one. The things ya see when ya haven't got a gun, he thought. But his heart was running wild in his chest. If she'd had a gun he'd be dead right now.

'You okay?' he asked as he watched her straighten from what looked to him like a combat-trained crouch.

'Yes.' She bit the word out.

'What was that?' He gestured toward the broken wall.

'That was frustration.' Her voice, she was pleased to note, sounded cool again.

'Sometimes this work can get to you.'

'Oh, yeah?' he said. Maybe he'd better have the head office look a little more closely into this little lady's past. That kind of rage tended to leave the roses in the backyard looking a lot healthier and the boarder in the attic completely

missing.

'What do you want?' she asked, her voice as devoid of expression as she could make it.

'You hungry?' he asked.

'If I am I'm capable of feeding myself.' She stared at him, willing him to go away.

He raised his hand and backed out. 'Okay,' he said. 'Just being friendly.'

'Don't be.' She sneered. 'My work is more important than your company.'

'You're such a sweetheart,' he said, grinning falsely.

Tricker backed out the door and several paces down the hallway before he turned and walked quickly to the elevator. Which he was going to lock down at the top of the shaft. He suddenly didn't feel at all safe being alone with the lovely and charming Ms. Bennet.

Images of an old movie called The Thing—wherein scientists in a lab in Antarctica are stalked by a monster from outer space—lurched through his brain.

And if Bennet isn't from outer space, nobody is! The only other way out of the lower levels was a single emergency shaft that let out onto the ice. So he'd be sure and lock up the shed, too.

At least the storm is over. More or less. He'd been here long enough to know you couldn't take the weather on faith. But it comforted him to know that if he

needed help it was less than two hours away.

He knew he shouldn't allow himself to be so unnerved by the woman. She only weighed in at like a hundred and twelve pounds. But this was the way the real killers always affected him. They'd find a way, always. No obstacle would hold them back for long, because they really loved what they did.

The elevator door closed and he breathed a little easier. But sleep was gonna come hard tonight.

Wendy watched John sleep in the twilit gloom of the tent, chewing on her lower lip.

The lump on his head frightened her—it was so big, in spite of the snow they'd applied. She kept trying to recall anything she'd ever read about head injuries and couldn't remember if you were supposed to put the patient's feet higher than their head or vice versa. She kept thinking that it was supposed to be dangerous to let them sleep—something about lapsing into a coma. But he needed to rest…

Dieter had left them a very complete medical kit that included several already threaded needles sealed in plastic which she'd used to take stitches in John's torn face. Just remembering the process made her lightheaded. There was a topical anesthetic that obviously helped him endure her clumsy ministrations and the codeine tablets that knocked him out had helped, too. Wendy wished there was a drug that would wipe out the memory. The feel of the needle… And he was bound to scar badly.

She shook her head sharply, then checked the time and fretted. Extra time had been allowed for accidents and so forth, but not that much time, and supplies

were…

Supplies were provided for three people, not two. So supplies, at least, won't be a problem. Wendy looked down at John's battered face, then picked up the torn balaclava and the sewing kit. She'd let him sleep a little longer. Then they'd have to go.

***

Wendy had insisted that he ride on the sledge, inside his sleeping bag, with the tent wrapped around him and the whole mess tied onto the rest of their cargo. He hadn't been crazy about the idea, but he'd been too foggy to put up much of a protest, especially in the face of her determination. He wasn't sure, but he thought he might have called her mom.

If he had she'd taken it well. Things were beginning to become more clear.

Certainly the pain was. I've been attacked by a seal, he thought. just one of the many unique experiences adorning my life. He really wished his life was more ordinary. I wanna go to Disneyland, he thought, staring up at the still-cloudy sky. Maybe if he just insisted on doing ordinary things from now on, that would help. Go to Burger King. Maybe a cruise ship to the Islands… He dropped off to sleep without noticing.

He woke to a fierce bounce that brought a groan from him before he was fully conscious. John opened his eyes to find Wendy looking over her shoulder at him.

He could imagine her face. She'd be looking worried, no doubt.

'Hey, watch your driving,' he said. His voice sounded high and thin. He coughed to clear his throat and tried again. 'Are we there yet?'

Wendy stopped the snowmobile, climbed off, and rushed to his side. She laid one mittened hand against his unwounded cheek before she straightened.

'Almost,' she said. 'According to the map, no more than half a mile.' She looked at him and shook her head. 'Dieter told us to approach the base obliquely, so I've taken the roundabout route he marked on the map, but it's kept us outside longer than I like. What do you want me to do?' She sounded worried.

He sighed, wishing they could see each other's faces. 'I want you to let me up,'

he said. 'I need to get the blood back up to my brain. Maybe if I'm moving around that will help.'

He didn't mention the pain or suggest that he take something for it. Anything he took would only dull his reflexes. When they met up with Clea Bennet, the female Terminator—and they would meet her—he'd need his wits about him.

At least he felt less shocky.

Without a word Wendy began working on the ropes that bound him to the sledge. Then she peeled back the folds of the tent and unzipped his sleeping bag.

John was surprised by a racking shudder as the air hit him. Despite the layers of heavy clothing he wore, the