Rising Storm

pretty good mix of people. You'll see…' A hopeful note. 'Do you like bridge?'

Clea followed her down the hallway listening to her nonstop chatter and wondering if, in fact, poor Josephine had gone stir-crazy and just didn't know it.

The cafeteria was the single largest room on the base, Tricker told them. With the exception of the warehouse, naturally.

Clea found it almost excessively institutional, with its rows of long, Formica-topped tables on either side of a wide central aisle. There were the same beige floor tiles and walls with the inevitable bulletin board for decoration. At the head of the room one picked up a tray and utensils and dragged it along to the place where food was dispensed. It was rather noisy, and smelled like a medium-priced chain restaurant; Applebee's, say.

The ceiling lights mimicked natural daylight, as did most of the lights on the base, so Tricker had told them. It didn't surprise her that the humans needed to be indulged this way. They were animals, after all, and six months of night or day was not a natural part of their cycle.

The people in the big room seemed to take a polite interest in the three new arrivals, watching them surreptitiously as they got their food and found seats. As Clea moved to join her fellow newcomers she found herself greeted with friendly smiles and nods. The I-950 found them rather… what was the word?

Ah. Creepy.

She joined the conversation already in progress at the table Tricker had chosen.

He glanced at her as she set down her tray and continued to watch her as she pretended not to notice. When she looked up she smiled at him, then let her face drop as he continued to stare at her.

'What?' she asked defensively.

He spooned up some oatmeal before answering her. 'You look familiar,' he said.

Clea looked at him askance. 'Is that a line?'

He swallowed the oatmeal and took a sip of coffee before he answered her, his gaze never wavering. 'No. I've met you. I'm sure of it.'

Shaking her head, Clea told him, 'I don't think so, Mr. Tricker.'

'Just Tricker,' he said.

'Uh-huh. Well, Tricker,' she said, leaning forward, 'have you ever been to Montana?'

He shook his head, spooning up more oatmeal.

'Well, except for one trip to New York and one trip to L.A., both in the last month, I've never been anywhere else. So I don't know how you could have met me. Do you?' She widened her eyes at him and took a sip of coffee.

The two men who'd arrived with her turned their heads back and forth between them. 'Is this important?' one of them asked tentatively.

Clea thought that the fact he asked at all hinted at a habitual arrogance that circumstances had temporarily muted.

'No,' Tricker answered. 'Not at all.' With a last, indecipherable look at Clea, he returned to his lecture about the base's rules.

'Ah, I see we have some new prisoners, Tricker.'

The man's voice had a thick German accent and came from behind the I-950.

South German, her computer half supplied helpfully. Within fifty kilometers of

Vienna, but not actually in Vienna. Originally middle-class. She turned to look and found a tall, muscular blond man looking down at them.

Kurt Viemeister! she thought, and her heart leapt, like a human girl meeting her favorite musician.

Serena had decided that Viemeister was insane because of his extreme hatred for certain classes of human being and had stopped associating with him. But Clea had always felt her parent/sister was wrong.

If the scientist hated humans, well, so did Skynet, and so did the Infiltrators, for that matter. Of course, they hated all humans, and wanted to exterminate them, but why was that reason to judge Dr. Viemeister for only hating some?

Though she was painfully aware that Serena entertained almost fond feelings for humans.

Subversive, misguided, and a failure, Clea thought dismissively. She intended to encourage Viemeister's efforts for Skynet. It didn't matter if he hated humans, but making Skynet sentient did.

Viemeister put his tray down beside Clea, giving her a pleasant smile. 'Aren't you going to introduce us?'

Tricker took a sip of coffee and looked thoughtfully into the distance while the three newcomers watched him. Viemeister buttered his toast and salted his omelet as though he'd never said a word.

Clea rolled her eyes and gave a crisp 'tsk!' Then she turned to Viemeister. 'I'm

Clea Bennet,' she said, offering her hand. 'From Montana.'

'Charmed,' he said, taking her hand gently and giving her a warm smile. He looked at the two men opposite them.

'Joel Gibson,' a heavyset middle-aged man said.

'Maxwell Massey,' his friend said. Maxwell had the dark looks of an East Indian.

'So what have they got on you folks?' Kurt said cheerfully.

Clea blinked as she realized his accent was much less thick than it had been.

Serena had always suspected that he affected it. What he'd said was as interesting as how he'd said it, too. She glanced at the two men.

'See, now this is where you have to watch out,' Tricker interrupted. 'If any of you answer that question, you may find yourselves segueing into a conversation about your work. Now, what did I say about discussing your work?'

'But I already know something about Mr. Viemeister's specialty,' Clea said eagerly. She turned to the scientist. 'My uncle was a great admirer of yours and I've read all of your published work.' Obviously gushing was the right tack to take with him; he fairly glowed in her infrared vision. 'Your ideas on—'

'Hey!' Tricker interrupted. He pointed his spoon at her. 'That's something you and I will have to discuss in private. Do you know why?' He drew out the last word.

Clea rolled her eyes again. 'Because otherwise we'll be discussing Mr.

Viemeister's work and we're not supposed to discuss one another's work.' She raised her brows at him. 'Did I get it right, teacher?'

'Yup,' he said. Tricker scraped his bowl and ate the last spoonful.

'If you're granted permission to talk about your work to one another, you can yak about it all you want in private.' He rotated his spoon, indicating the room around them. 'Never in here. In here, none of us have jobs. Comprende?'

'Yeah,' she said, letting a little insolence seep into her voice. Beside her Viemeister seemed amused.

'Great! If you folks are ready we should get started. I know you all have a lot to do today.' Tricker rose and looked at them expectantly.

'I haven't finished my coffee,' the I-950 hazarded.

'Well, too bad. Chop-chop, Ms. Bennet.' He gave Viemeister an artificial smile.

'Nice seeing you, Kurt.' Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

Gibson and Massey scrambled to follow him, but Clea lingered, taking a last sip of her coffee. Then she gave Viemeister a conspiratorial smile, rose, folded her napkin, and slowly sauntered after the men.

Her walk gave the scientist something to watch if he was so inclined.

Kurt watched the young woman walk away. It looked as though the long dry spell was about to end. And to end very pleasantly indeed. As the girl followed

Tricker and his chumps out the door, she glanced at him over her shoulder and gave him a delightful little