T2 - 01 - The New John Connor Chronicles - Dark Futures (6 page)

Overhead, the long arm of a mobile crane swept silently through the air. A shiny purple tow truck was parked to one side, its driver waiting for permission to help clear the wreckage. A tractor growled and inched forward in low gear, then stopped, as the police negotiated with emergency workers about what evidence could, or could not, be disturbed. Occasionally, someone yelled out a request or an instruction. Nothing seemed very hurried, but Oscar knew how stressful it all was: the dangerous condition of the building; the detail of the inspections; the inevitable conflicts between solving the crime and following safety procedures.

Oscar decided to take some photographs—for business purposes, certainly not for souvenirs—then talk things through with Rosanna Monk. He took the digital camera from his black leather briefcase, and checked the scene through the viewfinder.

He took some close-ups of the damage and some distance shots, getting the scene from directly in front of the building, then from both ends of the street. He got a good side-on view from the right, but no rear angle on the building, because the way was blocked off. These shots would have to be enough—they'd be useful for his own records, and for briefing the Board.

It was only 9:30 a.m., but he'd already put in a long morning, dealing with police, press, politicians, lawyers, insurers, employees,
 
company consultants, customers, city, state and federal officials, and, worst of all, Cyber-dyne's Board members. He'd made one statement for the TV news networks, and expected to make many more before the day was over. Right now, he had to pick up the pieces. The company's headquarters were in ruins, its future uncertain. There were endless legal questions to sort out with insurers and customers. Even if Cyberdyne survived all this, there was also his own future to think about, for a process of mutual blame was beginning within the company.

Amongst it all, only one thing had turned out right: no one seemed to have been killed except Dyson. The Cyberdyne guards who'd been on duty were okay, and no one else had been working back late. Some of the police had suffered serious injuries, but they'd live. One officer had fallen from a helicopter, and was badly hurt. He claimed to have no memories of what happened to him. Someone had hijacked the helicopter and crashed it miles from the scene. No body had been found.

Mystery after mystery.

He carefully packed away his camera, and found his
cellphone
, then walked to a small diner a couple of blocks away. He sat in a quiet corner, and ordered a chicken and lettuce sandwich for breakfast, plus a coffee. While he waited, he phoned Rosanna Monk.

"Oscar!" she said. "How is everything?" Like everyone else she sounded under stress, an edge of desperation and anxiety in her voice. Before he could answer, she said, "That's a dumb question, I suppose."

"No." He shook his head, though she wasn't there to see. "There's no such thing at the moment."

"What do you think will happen?"

"That's a tough one, Rosanna. Not dumb, just tough."

She laughed nervously at that.

"I've just been to the site," Oscar said. "I'm in the Yellow Parrot Diner, just round the corner from Cyberdyne."

"Yeah. Okay."

"How about I get a cab over to your place and we can have a proper talk about this? There's a lot to go through. If we can get the whole mess sorted out, you could have a very important role in the company's future."

"Oscar, you don't have to sound all positive and cheerful. I know how you must feel."

"Yeah... Thanks. All the same, we'd better talk through the implications. Besides, I need your advice."

"
You
need my
advice
?"

"That's what I said."

Rosanna paused, and the waitress brought Oscar's order. He nodded as she placed it on the table, with the folded check.

"All right," Rosanna said. "Come on over. Just give me a few minutes to tidy up."

"Fine. While you're waiting for me, just think about one question." The waitress had gone. He looked round to make sure no one could overhear.

"Fire away." Rosanna still sounded nervous.

"It's this: Miles's nanochip project..."

"The nanoprocessor? Yes, what about it?"

"It looks like all his work is gone. You know more about the project than anybody."

"I suppose I do."

"The question is just this: Without Miles, or any of his records, is the project still viable? You don't have to answer now, but think about it. We can talk when I get there."
                                                                         

"All right, Oscar. But I've already been thinking about it I can give you an answer now."

"You can?"
                                                               

"Sure. It might take a few years to catch up. I don't know if you have that sort of time."
                                

"Assume we do. What are you saying, that we can do
  
it?"
                                                                              

There was another pause on the line, then she said in a definite way, "Yes. Yes, I'm pretty sure we can."

WEST OF
ROSARIO
,
ARGENTINA

JUNE 1994

Willard Parnell was waiting for them at the
Retiro
bus station in
Buenos Aires
. He helped them with their luggage, and they got in his orange Jeep Cherokee. Soon they were cruising out of the city, heading for the
Tejada
estancia. It was all quick, neat and efficient. No one had looked at them suspiciously on the bus or at the station. It still seemed like no one had recognized them since they crossed the Mexican border and started working their way south.

John sat in the back of the Cherokee, while his mother talked to Willard in the front. Through the Cherokee's tinted windows, John watched the
Pampas
roll by, mile after mile
 
of pasturelands,
 
seemingly
 
endless.
 
They headed towards
Cordoba
on
Ruta
Nacional
9, then turned south after
100 miles
or so, passing through more grain and cattle country, stretched out under a cold, clear winter sky.

Sarah was lost in her thoughts, and Willard kept quiet for a long time. Then he said, "You must have had lots of problems getting this far."

Willard was a tall, redheaded man in his twenties, one of Raoul Tejada's most trusted operators: a cattleman, cook, courier-a
streetfighter
when needed. He loved vehicles and aircraft. Clearly he enjoyed driving the gutsy Cherokee, keeping the accelerator down and overtaking the occasional vehicles that they met.

"A few," Sarah said grudgingly.

"Your ID work out fine?"

"Sure," she said. John and Sarah were traveling under false names. According to their passports and other papers, they were
internationalistas
, originally from the
U.S.
, who'd lived in various parts of Central and
South America
for the past eight years. That much was almost true, for they'd seldom stayed in the
U.S.
for long if they could help it. Sarah was supposedly a nurse named Deborah Lawes. John was used to being David Lawes, though his identity was no secret from the Tejadas and their people.

"So, what,
other
problems, then?" Willard gave a knowing chuckle, as though he could guess what troubles they'd been through. But he didn't know anything.

Physically, it had been tough, especially with Sarah's bad leg. They'd used an assortment of trains, buses, choppers and cars—some hired, some borrowed, some stolen. Whenever possible, they'd relied on their contacts, particularly the
Salcedas
' network.

"Only what you'd expect," Sarah said. "We holed up with Enrique and Yolanda for a few days about three weeks ago. They got us on a chopper ride to
Mexico
after that. Since then, we've hardly stopped moving. It took a full week just getting from
Panama
to
Colombia
." She glanced behind her. "John was great. He hasn't complained, all the way through."

"Hey, thanks, Mom," John said, embarrassed by the praise, but grinning all the same. "You've been pretty cool, too."

"It's not easy doing this when you don't want to be recognized," she said. When necessary, they'd hiked their way south, covering some long distances on foot before they got to
Bogota
. Mostly, they'd traveled overnight, trying to nurse themselves in the daylight hours.

"Anyway," Willard said, "it's good to see you guys back. Raoul can do with another pair of hands, just now. Or two pairs, if it comes that, right, John?"

"Yeah, sure," John said.

"Business is good, Sarah—you know what I mean?" Willard made a pistol shape with his right hand, taking it off the steering wheel. He squeezed back an imaginary trigger a couple of times, laughing. "
Kapow
!"

"I'm glad Raoul's doing well," Sarah said non-
commitally
. "I'm looking forward to seeing him. Gabriela, too."

"Don't worry, you'll get a hero's welcome. That was pretty cool what you did back in
L.A.
What happened to the big guy that was with you, the one on CNN?"

"He had to go away," Sarah said.

"Yeah?" Willard gave her a sideways look, just to let her know he'd asked a fair question and she was jerking him around. But then he shrugged. "All right, keep your secrets. I'm just asking."

"I'll tell you about it later," Sarah said. "But you won't believe me—that's the trouble."

"No? You might be surprised what I'd believe."

"In that case, you've been hanging around with Raoul too much."

"Could be. Raoul's ideas are kind of infectious. Anyway, forget it. I did some good business before picking you guys up-I dropped off a consignment to a big customer back in
Buenos Aires
. Better still, Raoul's made some contacts in
Croatia
. Things are looking up round here."

Raoul and Gabriela
Tejada
ran a huge cattle estate, but their sideline was selling firearms, imported from the
U.S.
Most of the business was legitimate, but they also provided guns to customers who didn't like legal formalities, mainly private security firms. John wasn't sure he liked that, but he'd grown up with guns and other weapons. For as long as he could remember, he'd been hanging out in helicopters over the hills and jungles of Central America, or in compounds with underground weapons caches—or actually getting down and dirty with the guerrilla fighters in Nicaragua and El Salvador. It was something they'd had to do, part of their training for Judgment Day.

"Anyway," Willard said, "we'll look after you. You're in safe hands now."

"Thanks. Just a long, hot shower would really help."

"Yeah, I expect we can manage that."

The good thing was that the Tejadas'
estancia
was pretty neat—luxurious compared to most places John had lived. They were going back to civilization.

Sarah tried to avoid any more conversation, looking out the window, away from Willard. After a few more attempts to get her to talk, he left her alone. "Sorry, Willard," she said. "I'm tired." But John could tell that it wasn't just that. She was thinking. Something was bothering her, maybe lots of things.

She hadn't sounded too happy about Raoul's gunrunning to
Croatia
. The trouble was, they'd had to join up with whatever groups would accept them, and give them the kind of experience they'd need to face the nuclear winter and Skynet's machines. They couldn't be too choosy. From time to time, they'd found themselves hanging out with different groups who had totally different aims. As he'd gotten older, John had figured out that the American mercenaries who'd befriended Sarah in
Nicaragua
had nothing in common with the El Salvadoran
compas
they'd stayed with for months when he was five or six, learning how to melt away from a military attack.

He still didn't understand the politics behind it all, and didn't care about socialism and capitalism and all that stuff; he'd work it out when he grew up. Maybe his mom didn't understand it either, or not all of it. But all those people did actually have one thing in common. They had skills to pass on, skills that might come in handy when Skynet was in control, and humans were forced to fight back or be exterminated.

But hadn't they stopped that from happening, back in
L.A.
, when they took out Cyberdyne? So what good were all those cool skills now?

That was assuming they'd succeeded when they blew up Cyberdyne, actually stopped its research. That Oscar Cruz guy had sounded pretty confident that Cyberdyne