noticed the adjustments immediately and changed the direction of their work accordingly.
One had tried to find her.
Clea had never contacted that one again. That was more human intelligence than she was equipped to handle at the present time.
She took a last look at her face in the mirror. Now that she was adult, it was time to begin interacting with humans directly.
She had applied and been accepted for a job at a burger joint in the nearest town.
Her reading and monitoring of television implied that most people acquired this
sort of employment as their first job. It certainly promised to bring her into contact with a great many humans, if only in passing.
Her feelings about the job bordered on negative. One emotion was definitely nervousness, which was probably appropriate for someone of her apparent age.
The other Clea was less certain of. She suspected it might be fear. She knew that fear in an Infiltrator was something that the Skynet of the future would not tolerate. It was a weakness, and the weak must be culled.
She understood that. She also understood that for now, she was the only Infiltrator available. So she must overcome her weakness and get on with things.
Skynet must be protected.
Ron Labane flipped through the printouts of news reports about the New Luddites' various activities. The movement tended to get good press, but then, with every passing day it became more mainstream. Not surprising, after all; he'd designed the New Luddites to have a lot of middle-of-the-road appeal.
His bestselling book had delineated the basic theories; how and why it was necessary to stop 'progress' that created problems requiring solutions that only created more problems. He'd told the public how and why humanity should return to a simpler, if less convenient, lifestyle. Subsequent books had promoted clean, efficient public transport, with instructions on how to set up a community activist network. He'd created the New Luddite Foundation to promote research into clean fuel and new, less wasteful manufacturing methods. The money flowed in, and with it came increasing power.
He glanced out the window and smiled; his office was deliberately modest, but it looked out on Central Park. Influential backers had flocked to his early seminars, and their backing gave him the clout needed to appeal to the majority.
Once he had a sufficient number of dedicated Luddites in the fold, he could begin introducing the mainstream to more… proactive solutions to the problem of environmental abuse. He smiled. Not as active as the select, underground activists he aided and guided, from a careful distance, of course. But there would soon be a great deal more muscle available to make up for the less extreme tactics.
He would—also of course—continue to enjoy his secret projects; like what had happened to Cyberdyne, for example. The general public knew nothing about the explosion that had purged the weapons designers from existence. But he knew, because his people were everywhere. When he'd heard the news he'd shouted
'Yes!' at the top of his lungs.
Now, perhaps, there would be no more work on that fully automated weapons factory that he'd already helped to destroy once. He hadn't heard anything more from the contact who had warned him about that. Perhaps the government had found out about him and put a stop to his activities. A shame; he burned to know who had destroyed Cyberdyne's hidden base. The movement could use talent like that, since every day brought them a little closer to the seats of power as well as destruction of the environment.
Ron was disgusted with the more established environmentalist organizations.
Long association with government had turned them into lobbyists instead of idealists. Mere horse traders, and dishonest ones at that.
Once he would have checked himself, reminded himself that in spite of their flaws they still got a lot of good work done. Now he felt such an overwhelming sense of time running out, of events careening out of control, that he couldn't forgive the sellouts. More and more even the smallest compromises seemed like selling out.
Perhaps he was lacking a sense of proportion, or perhaps
How could he sympathize with those who were willfully blind to the changes in weather patterns, the increase in skin cancers, the mutated frogs? These were real warning signs, not the daydreams of a few paranoid fools.
Ron dropped the news articles to (ho desk in disgust.
His head came up. Wait! It needed to be more than a war, it had to become a crusade, yes.' He'd often thought that a profound change in the way things were done required an element of fanaticism—like a religious conversion. Like—dare he think it?—Hitler's conversion of the German people to Nazism.
could be done—even now when mere children were drenched in cynicism.
Because human beings didn't really change from generation to generation; they only thought they did.
He grabbed a pad and began writing up ideas.
Craig Kipfer sat behind his brushed-steel-and-glass desk, behind a good half-dozen security checkpoints, inside his bombproof and BMP-hardened bunker of an office. It was hard to believe that the elegant, artfully lit room was a reinforced concrete box; the air was fresh and warm, and rich draperies hid what might have been a window. The complete absence of exterior sounds made the room eerily, almost threateningly quiet. Or perhaps the sense of threat came from the man behind the desk.
He had a rumpled, middle-aged lace that was still, somehow, good-naturedly boyish. Until you looked into his agate-green eyes. Then you couldn't imagine him ever being anything so innocent as a child.
The fading red hair hinted at an impulsive temperament. A tendency he had fought his entire life, so successfully that he was known among his peers for his iron control. A control which at this moment was sorely tried.
Cyberdyne had been bombed out of existence. Again.
Kipfer finished the report he'd already read twice and tapped his intercom.
'Send him in,' he said, his voice dangerously quiet.
The door lock buzzed and Tricker entered, carefully closing the soundproof door behind him. Kipfer indicated the chair before his desk with one finger and waited while his agent took it. Then he waited some more, his eyes never leaving Tricker's face.
Eventually Tricker blinked and dropped his eyes; a hint of color bloomed over his collar, testimony of his humiliation. Kipfer observed these signs and some part of him was mollified; the alpha wolf accepting submission from an inferior.
'Does anyone know the full story of what happened that night?' Kipfer asked mildly. 'Because, from my viewpoint, there are a lot of unanswered questions.'
'If anyone knows the full story, or as much of it as matters, it's Jordan Dyson,'
Tricker said. 'Unfortunately he's covered. He has some very influential friends in the FBI who have made their interest obvious. And he has family who visit him daily. He's also very familiar with interrogation techniques and is therefore not easy to question.'
'So in spite of your own expertise in interrogation,' Kipfer said, leaning back in his chair, 'you learned nothing except that you suspect he knows things he's not telling.'
Tricker stiffened under the implied criticism. He would have leaned on Dyson much harder but for the man's
