But if Connor could mask that movement with something else…
Shifting control of the optic cable to his right hand, he reached over to the vine and pinched off the largest leaf and its stem with his fingernails. He held it up against the opening, making sure to keep it below ground level. Then, watching the Terminator closely, he eased the leaf a couple of centimeters up through the opening as he simultaneously pulled the end of the cable back down.
Holding the leaf in place, feeling the breeze tugging at it, he held his breath.
Even through the ground and the concrete of the shaft, he could feel the vibration of the T-600’s steps as the machine approached and then came to a halt. For a moment nothing happened. Connor forced himself to hold the leaf steady, wishing he could see what the Terminator was doing, wondering if it and Skynet were merely contemplating this green intruder into their lifeless domain or whether they’d seen through the deception and had spotted the soft, vulnerable humans below.
And then, abruptly, the cover was slammed back into position, sealing the gap, cutting off the faint light and crushing the leaf.
And as a soft rain of rust particles drifted down onto Connor’s face and shoulders, he felt the fading thuds as the Terminator continued on its way.
Carefully, in full darkness now, he made his way down the shaft to where David was waiting.
“Terminator?” David whispered.
Connor nodded. “Regular sentry patrol, I assume.”
“What were you doing with that leaf?”
“I didn’t want the T-600 to spot the cable vanishing,” Connor explained, “and I sure as hell couldn’t risk leaving it out there. So I gave the Terminator something more innocuous to notice.”
David grunted. “Good thing their motion sensors require a visual follow-up,” he said. “Who knew they hated plants, too?”
Connor grimaced. “Of course they hate plants. Plants exhale oxygen, which oxidizes metals. If and when they wipe out humans, you can bet animals and plants will be next.”
“Well, as long as they start with lima beans, I’m good with it,” David said philosophically. “So what’s the story with the warehouse?”
“I think there’ll be something we can do from the tunnel,” Connor told him. “It wasn’t a wasted trip, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good,” David said. “So now we get the hell out of here?”
“In a bit,” Connor said as he carefully coiled up the snoop kit and returned it to its case. “As long as we’re down here anyway, let’s take some time and see where else these tunnels go.”
There was a short pause.
“Any particular reason you want to know?” David asked at last.
“Not really,” Connor said. “Any particular reason you don’t?”
“Not really,” David said. “After you.”
One of Orozco’s fondest childhood memories was the farmer’s market that came to his neighborhood every Saturday. He could still remember the sights and sounds of the people and vendors, the spicy aromas from the food carts mixed in with the subtler scents of melon and strawberry and fresh corn. He could feel his mother’s grip on his hand, lest they be separated in the crowds, and the precious weight of the grocery bag he’d been entrusted with clutched tightly to his chest.
Nguyen’s display of goods wasn’t nearly up to those memories. But in the world beyond Judgment Day, it was as close as anyone was likely to get.
“These are apple seeds,” Nguyen said, pointing to a small collection of black seeds. “Not for everyone—they take a lot of space and soil. But if you’ve got all that, I guarantee you’ll love them.”
“Afraid we don’t have that kind of space here,” Grimaldi said, gazing over the collection of seeds, seedlings, ripe vegetables, and grains Nguyen’s people had laid out on a long plastic display sheet. “We could use some of that lettuce, though.”
“Good choice,” Nguyen said. “But you really need some zucchini to go with it.”
“Yes, that does sound good,” Grimaldi agreed, stroking his lip carefully.
Standing back against the conference room wall, Orozco gave a quiet sigh. They had some pretty extensive gardens in Moldering Lost Ashes, and they could certainly use more vegetables to supplement the canned and packaged goods they continued to scrounge from the wreckage of the city.
The problem was that they really didn’t have any room available for expansion. The only practical areas for gardens were on the third and fourth floors, and every square centimeter up there that received even limited sunshine was already packed with either traditional dirt-grown plants or the hydroponic setups Morris and Clementi had put together. There was literally nowhere else in the building where they could set up more gardens.
Just as importantly, they didn’t have any more of the wire mesh they used to shield the plants from casual observation by either Skynet or potential raiders who might be lurking in nearby buildings.
But Grimaldi didn’t care about that. He was still locked into the corporate grow-or-fold mindset that he’d ridden to the top of the stack before Judgment Day, and he was hell-bent on applying that philosophy to this struggling colony he’d built amid the ruins of his former dukedom. In his eyes, Moldavia Los Angeles—as he still insisted on calling it—was destined to become a thriving community, a self-contained city-within-a-city that would someday pull the rest of L.A. out of the ashes along with it.
It wouldn’t happen, of course. What Moldering Lost Ashes was really destined to become was a shattered graveyard. Sooner or later, Skynet would see to that.
Orozco looked over at Kyle and Star, standing at the edge of one of the clumps of residents who were drooling over Nguyen’s display. Kyle, like a good bargainer, was pretending he wasn’t nearly as interested as he really was. Star, without Kyle’s sophistication or craftiness, was gazing at the wares in open, wide-eyed fascination.
“…for ten gallons of gasoline,” Grimaldi finished.
Orozco snapped out of his reverie. What the
“Wait a minute,” he spoke up, leaving his wall and working his way through the crowd to the chief’s side. “Ten
“Is there a problem, Sergeant?” Grimaldi asked coolly, his eyes daring Orozco to argue with him in front of everyone.
“I just wanted to point out to Mr. Nguyen that we have many other items available for trade,”
Orozco said. “We’ve got mechanical systems, tools, plumbing equipment, electrical parts—”
“I appreciate the reminder of our current inventory,” Grimaldi interrupted. “I’m sure Mr.
Nguyen does, too. But he seems mostly interested in our gasoline supply.”
Orozco looked at Nguyen, noting the cautious fervor in the man’s eyes. He wanted their gasoline, all right. Wanted it very badly.
“I trust you to remember that our supply is
“Of course,” Grimaldi said evenly. “But gasoline is a promise for the future. Food is a promise for the present.”
Orozco grimaced. So much for any further argument. Once Grimaldi started in with the slogans and aphorisms, it meant his mind was completely made up. From that point on, not even the Board could sway him.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll get it first thing tomorrow.”
“I’d prefer to have it now, if you don’t mind,” Nguyen spoke up. “Chief Grimaldi indicated that he wanted to start transplanting the seedlings as soon as possible, and I’m sure you understand that once our plants are mixed in with yours, it will be very difficult to tell which ones are which.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting that we might renege on our promise,” Grimaldi said, raising his eyebrows slightly.
“Of course not,” Nguyen assured him. “But things happen. You understand.”
“All the same—” Grimaldi began.
“It’s not a problem,” Orozco said, cutting off what could only be a useless argument. It was still plenty light out, and most of the gangs in the area didn’t come out until it was full dark. “Give me one of your burros, and Kyle
