breeding another 950. It is to be hoped that my efforts will give you more leisure in these matters.'
The problem was Clea herself felt that her efforts were inferior. Instinct told her
that in a better world she would be culled to prevent expensive errors. But in this time and place she was the best available.
No, that wasn't strictly true. Alissa was the better Infiltrator. Clea wished that she dared to use her. Clea looked at her sister for a long time. Then took a deep breath and plunged in.
'In the rush to bring me to maturity I fear that errors may have been made. But that maturity is still a valuable asset, and so I must continue as leader for now. I rely on you to point out oversights such as this one.
It you continue to do so, then we should be all right. Once you have reached maturity I will become your second.'
Alissa gazed back at her with a pretty frown. 'If you were to start another 950
what would happen?' she asked.
'I don't know,' Clea admitted. 'None of us has ever been pushed as I have. It may have affected my eggs, making them either infertile or inferior product. The only way to find out is to use them. Which, as I've pointed out, we don't have the time for right now.'
The child's face was implacable and her eyes betrayed her disgust. She, too, had sensed Clea's weakness and yearned to correct it by terminating her. But she was also the ultimate pragmatist. Clea was not so inferior as to be useless and her loyalty to Skynet was strong. Skynet itself would encourage them both to use the tools at hand.
'Very well,' Alissa said. 'But I think that the Terminator we send to watch
Sarah Connor should be a different type than we usually make. It should be smaller, perhaps older looking. Something nonthreatening.'
'Yes,' Clea agreed, nodding thoughtfully. 'A Watcher rather than a Terminator.
Will you see to it for me?'
Looking annoyed, the small I-950 nodded, her lips tight.
'I would also like to send a Terminator to South America,' Alissa said. 'It may be possible to find out more from that end. It may even be possible to eliminate one or both of them with fewer complications.'
The elder I-950 frowned; her sister had a point. 'You don't think that they can be traced by computer?' she asked.
'Yes,' Alissa said. 'If they use their own names and passports.' She knew her sister could calculate the odds of that happening for herself and so didn't bother to offer the figures. 'I believe that some investigations are better handled face-to-face.'
Clea considered. Her sister hadn't asked to go herself, realizing that the T-101
would be the more logical choice. And it
'Very well,' she said.
'And if the opportunity presents itself?' Alissa asked.
'Terminate.'
The little I-950 actually smiled. 'I'll get to work, then.'
'Excellent,' Clea said, smiling. She went back to her own work feeling more content. They were going to win this time. She could feel it.
Alissa walked away, frowning. She knew very well that her own brain was immature and therefore should have been a tool less keen than her older sister's.
Yet she also knew from several different failures on Clea's part that even with her younger, less developed faculties she saw things more clearly, evaluated outcomes more realistically.
It was troubling, desperately troubling, that Skynet's future was in the hands of an inferior agent.
Alissa tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that even with diminished capacity Clea was still more intelligent than ninety-eight percent of their human enemies. It was the worry that the Connors were among that elite two percent that made her queasy.
She was too young to be in charge. Yet accelerating her maturity might well damage her brain and cognitive function in the same way that Clea's had been.
Skynet would not be better served by two idiots instead of one.
The machine side of her brain decided that panic was imminent and eased back on the production of certain of her brain chemicals, released certain others.
Alissa began to grow calmer, better able to plan.
For now she would have to be the eyes in back of her sister's head, as a human might say. She would have to make up for Clea's lacks. It wouldn't be all that
long before she could take over. At which point she would decide if her sister was useful enough to retain or too dangerous to tolerate. For now, as Clea had said, with the two of them working together, they should be all right.
John and Dieter, wearing identical sunglasses and solemn expressions, stood beside the grave of Victor Griego amid the scruffy grass, wilted flowers, and pictures of solemn dark faces fixed to the tombstones. With their hands clasped before them, they bowed their heads and read:
VICTOR GRIEGO 1938-2001
SHE WAS HIT BY A BUS
'That'd refer to his mother, I suppose,' John said.
Dieter glanced at him. 'I was told that she died of a broken heart.'
John shrugged. 'That's probably why she walked in front of the bus.'
'Poor woman.' Dieter sighed. 'I may not have been an ideal son, but I didn't drive my mother to suicide.'
'Bastard,' John agreed.
'I guess this means that you still own that cache of weapons,' Dieter said, and turned away.
'Yeah.' John read the tombstone one more time and shook his head. 'What a louse,' he muttered, and picking up his backpack, turned to join Dieter. 'My flight is at four; guess I'd better get going.'
With a knowing smile Dieter asked, 'Nervous?'
'Yeah, I guess.'
'Don't worry, John. It's a good disguise. Your own mother wouldn't recognize you.'
John snorted.
'Well, maybe
John gave him a quick glance. 'What about you?'
'Don't worry about me. I've got something in play,' Dieter said. He held out his hand and they shook. 'I'll see you in New Mexico.'
'If they're letting people into the state by then.' John hailed a taxi.
'They will be,' Dieter said confidently. He opened the door of the cab. 'It's a big state.'
John flung his backpack in the backseat and got in behind it.
'Be careful,' he called out the window to Dieter. Dieter raised one brow.
'Funny, I was just about to say the same thing to you.'
John wore a weedy-looking black goatee and mustache and a pair of black, horn-rim glasses. He looked nervous and intellectual and nothing like his usual self.
His body language was deferential as he went through American customs, as though he were leaving home for the first time, like the young man on his way to college that he was.
