Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

TORONTO FILM FESTIVAL: THE PRESENT

     Ronald Labane lay on the wide hotel bed, fully dressed and so tired he was dizzy. But every bit of him, except for his too-tired face, smiled. He was a success! A raging, by-God success and no denying it. Ziedman and Roth had shown their film and it was the hit of the film festival. He’d been invited to every bash in town, shaken the hands and held the attention of some incredibly monied people, and hopefully gotten his message out to the millions. Time would tell.
     Ziedman said his agent had received nibbles from several distributors and their film had been mentioned on all of the entertainment news shows. They’d even shown him sandwiched between Ziedman and Roth, and he’d looked pretty good.
     Ronald lay still and basked in the glow while the room felt like it was spinning very slooowly.
     These people he’d been meeting were smart, creative, and shallow. At least shallow by his standards. It looked to him like he could become their flavor of the month if he wanted to—a sort of green guru to the stars. He almost smiled, but his face was much too tired. He’d never smiled this much in his life.
     If things go the way I think they might, it’ll be worth the pain, he thought. Tomorrow morning he had an appointment with an agent, someone with pull, who’d expressed an interest in representing his book. He could see it all now, his entire future unscrolling like a movie. Oh, God! I can hardly wait.
     An end to pesticides and herbicides, the outlawing of chicken and pig factories and the indescribable pollution their owners got away with causing. An end to genetic engineering of crops and food animals. The enforced use of alternate energy sources, clean sources. A simpler, healthier life for everyone. More self-reliance, less automation, and a far less consumption-mad society.
     He allowed his mind to wander, imagining every home with its own vegetable garden, people canning their own food, making their own clothes. Everyone busy, involved in their communities, concentrating on the important things in life while their televisions stood idle.
     Except for certain hours on certain days of the week, he thought. We’ll have educational programs on recycling and composting and the problems of the third world.
     Ron shook his head at the wonder of his vision. It would take time, it would take patience, and sadly, it would take blood. There was no way around that. If people didn’t literally fight for a cause they never accomplished anything.
     It will have to be a worldwide phenomenon, he thought. Coordinated to break out on the same day. Perhaps he could start with some sort of computer virus, or several of them, working in waves, breaking down communications. Stop the bureaucrats cold and you’ve made a good start.
     But first, get the message out there, get the ideas into the popular mind, convince them that this was the right, the good, the only alternative to their own personal poverty and death. That was the ticket, make it personal. Then, when things began to get violent, they’d find themselves half agreeing with his guerrillas, even against their will. Because by then he would have made it a part of their belief system.
     A good beginning, Ron thought, closing his eyes and drifting down into sleep. A very good beginning.

Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS, CONFERENCE ROOM: THE PRESENT

     “I can’t help but notice that you passed over some more qualified applicants for the position of assistant, Ms. Burns.” Tricker looked at Serena over the top of a folder he had opened. “Usually,” he added wryly, “that’s not the way it’s done.”
     Tricker had finally come back from whatever untraceable location he’d disappeared to—apparently for the sole purpose of calling a meeting to complain about her decisions. This time it was on her territory, though. The cool recycled air of the underground installation and the subliminal scent of concrete and feeling of weight were obscurely comforting, on a level she could barely perceive of as conscious.
     They felt like home.
     “Mr. Dyson is certainly qualified for the position,” she said mildly, a gentle smile playing on her lips.
     This outrage is all fake, she thought, qualifications and experience are the least of Tricker’s concerns. When’s he going to admin that?
     “He’s Miles Dyson’s brother. You did know that?” Tricker looked at her in only partially suppressed disgust. His cold blue eyes were wide open and full of condemnation.
     Well, that answers that question. As a rule, Tricker’s type couldn’t resist getting to the point. Serena swung her chair back and forth slightly, returning his glare with a look that might almost be pity.
     She shifted position to put her elbows on the conference table and lean towards him. “Jordan Dyson has worked very hard to uncover the whereabouts of the Connors and their accomplice. Long after the FBI moved the case to the bottom of the pile he has continued to search for them. He’s received several reprimands about it.” She sat back, propping her elbow on the armrest and her chin on her fist. “I happen to be of the opinion that Jordan Dyson represents no danger to the company, and I believe that his dedication will be very useful. Especially since I regard the Connors as a significant risk to this company.”
     “You two discussed all that?” Tricker asked.
     Colvin and Warren were silent, their heads shifting back and forth like spectators at a tennis match.
     Serena waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not,” she said. “We didn’t even discuss his brother, or the bombing. For me there was no need.” Serena shrugged. “And for reasons of his own he chose not to bring it up. I knew I wanted him the minute I read his résumé, so why ask questions to which I already knew the answers?”
     “Some people might consider that, under the circumstances, Dyson’s employment here represents a conflict of interest.” Tricker raised his brows.
     “Of course it isn’t.” Serena actually allowed herself a very small sneer. “He’s going to be involved in the private security of a privately owned company,” she pointed out. “If anything, his personal interest is a bonus for the company.” How many times do I have to point that out before it takes?
     Tricker hated to admit it, but the woman was right. And really there wasn’t anything wrong with Dyson. He was a good agent by all reports, intelligent, professional, dedicated. His superiors’ only complaints had been his insistence on working on his brother’s case. Which even in their citations they considered understandable. Their primary reason for discouraging him was to avoid risking their case by any taint of self-interest.
     Tricker still had some vague, instinctive unease about Serena Burns, which prompted him to continue to question and test her. Maybe it was because she was just too perfect; beautiful, intelligent, competent, professional—and completely unreadable. Too much like himself, in fact.
     Well, except for the beautiful part. Someone had once told him that if you starved a Rottweiler and gave it a receding hairline, it would look like him on all fours. A woman had told him that, in fact.
     He glanced at Colvin and Warren, whose eyes were on him, their faces expectant. He let out a disgusted little, “Tssss,” and looked away. “All right,” he said after a minute. It was a full minute; he counted it out. “So far, everything else you’ve done is exactly what I would have recommended.”
     “I’m so glad you approve,” Serena cooed.
     Tricker froze, giving her a prolonged, unreadable look. Serena smiled back at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief. Only long experience kept him from blinking as he realized she was actually teasing him. Nobody teased him. “Since everything is going so well,” Tricker said at last, reaching down and pulling up the large metal case he’d brought with him. “I think it’s time we handed this over to you.”
     Placing the case before him, he tapped in a code, then pressed his thumb to a sensor, opened it, and studied the contents for a moment before turning it around to allow them to see what it contained.
     Colvin and Warren sat forward with gasps of amazement; Serena lifted one eyebrow. Her eyes rose to his questioningly.
     Cradled in foam was the mechanical arm that had been stolen and thought destroyed in the Connors’ raid on Cyberdyne headquarters six years ago.
     “Where did you find it?” Warren asked, stunned.
     Colvin reached out as though to touch it.
     “It’s different,” Colvin said in wonder. “I’m sure it is.”
     “We thought so, too, Mr. Colvin,” Tricker said. “Certainly some of it is more damaged than the first one. But these other pieces seem to come from further up the arm. Our people theorize that this is a completely different unit.”
     “How long have you had this?” Colvin demanded.
     “Longer than we’d hoped to,” Tricker snapped back. “But you two wouldn’t get off your fat backsides and fix your security problems. And we sure as hell weren’t going to turn this over to you without some protection in place.”
     Serena turned the case so that it faced her. She studied the ruined arm. Terminator, definitely. Cyberdyne Systems model 101. Still fairly new when she’d been sent back. Still fairly new when she’d been sent back. Which had undoubtedly been its problem. Too much to learn in the middle of a crowd of fully functioning human beings.
     She looked up at Tricker. “We’ll take good care of this one.”
     “The chip?” Warren said hopefully.
     “Sorry,” Tricker snarled. “We got lucky. But we didn’t get fantastically lucky. You’ll have to make do with this.”
     “These pieces look like relays,” Colvin said, his eyes, as they roved over the mechanism, alight with the joy of discovery. “Relays and subsidiary decision nodes, memory… We’ll learn a lot from this, damaged as it is. A distributed system. There’s processing capacity here.”
     “We’ll let these guys worry about how this thing worked,” Serena said, grinning at Tricker. “I’ll make sure it’s safe.” She nodded at him, her serious. “I guarantee it.”

Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

ON THE ROAD TO STARBURST: THE PRESENT

     “We’re leaving the eco-fair in Baltimore to attend a New Age event in Virginia,” Peter Ziedman said into the camera his buddy Tony had trained on him. “We’re traveling in Labane’s specially equipped van. Labane describes it as more of a heartland kind of vehicle because it’s partially solar-powered. Which, of course, works better in the sunny center of the nation.”
     “The United States,” Ronald said from the driver’s seat. “Say the center of the U.S. or the Canadians will be offended.” His remark was greeted by puzzled silence. “In case you want to submit this to the Toronto Film Festival.”
     “Yeah!” Tony said.
     “Good thinkin’,” Peter agreed.
     Ron rolled his eyes, which at least briefly blocked the endless tackiness of the strip mall and Wal-Mart outside. These guys were hopeless. But they were paying all the expenses and he was beginning to get some forward momentum. People were actually coming to hear him speak at an event. And Peter’s message machine was getting more and more invitations for speaking engagements.
     Ron had begun charging a speaking fee and the fees were increasing. But there was no point telling the boys that. He had them convinced that he was a genius at bargaining or exchanging labor for the posters and flyers they were helping him put up and pass out.
     Eventually he would dump the kids by telling them: “I have a message to spread and you two have careers to jump-start. You stay here and work on the film.” It was what they wanted to do anyway, so there would hardly be howls of protest when he suggested it.
     Actually he’d seen some of their finished footage and he was both pleased and impressed. Peter and Tony might be dumb and easily manipulated, but they definitely had talent. It was a shame that their persistent naïveté would cost them any chance they had of making it.
     “Funny, isn’t it,” Ron said, “that most of these eco-fairs we’re going to are held in cities?”
     “There’s a lot of pollution in cities,” Peter said.
     “There’s a lot in rural areas, too,” Labane told him. “For instance, there are farmers who use so much pesticide and weed killer that they won’t eat what they grow. They’ve got separate gardens for their own families, but your kids are chowing down on stuff they wouldn’t touch. And then there’s those factory farms for pork and chicken.”
     Tony shifted so that he could film Ron as he talked. It had been a little difficult to talk them into traveling in the van with him. But he’d convinced them that it would lend a certain cachet to their documentary. Which was true: there was nothing the Hollywood types liked more than tales of hardship endured for art’s sake.
     “Do you know there are actual lakes of pig feces?” Labane asked. “It must be a nightmare living within a few miles of someplace like that. But worse than the smell is the fact that the runoff gets into streams and the bacteria get into the water supply. And as you know,” he tossed over his shoulder, “diseases pass quite easily between pigs and humans.”
     He’d leave it at that. Let people make of that what they would. Half the battle was getting people to just listen. So sometimes you just gave them these really vivid suggestions and let them process it through the back of their minds. Eventually there would be enough frightening little tidbits back there to get ’em really pissed off.
     Ron had some ideas for some really nasty tricks that could be played on the politicians who had allowed those places to be built and who refused to make the owners clean up their mess. Inside he smiled. Oh, yes, the day will come.

Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

SERENA’S BEDROOM: THE PRESENT

     Serena was alerted in the morning, during her rest cycle. She had a computer that was always on-line, searching the Internet for mention of Sarah Connor. Given the sheer size of the Web, the thousands upon thousands of requests for information of all kinds, worldwide, every day, the relay of that information was often far from instantaneous. But when, eventually, mention of the Connors was made, the Internet search engine sent a message directly to the computer part of Serena’s brain.
     In this case, the request for information about the Sarah Connor case had come from a Jeffrey Goldberg. Subsequent research indicated that he was an employee of a covert—extremely covert—antiterrorist group known as the Sector.
     Serena considered the information as data scrolled across the inside of her eyelids, casting a ghostly blue flicker over her eyes, without disturbing the motionless perfection of her face.
     The request for Connor’s file might have been the result of some sort of bureaucratic housecleaning. Some decade-overdue review of terrorists-at-large. She checked. Goldberg’s session log showed that he asked only for Connor and her son and any known information about their adult male accomplice.
     Interesting.
     That would seem to indicate that he had a specific reason for inquiring. Goldberg was stationed in Vienna, which implied that Connor might have been sighted in Austria. Or, given whom Goldberg worked for, one of their remote outstation operatives might have sighted them.
     She set the computer to search Goldberg’s phone and e-mail records for calls and messages over the previous twenty-four hours. The phone log would reveal the numbers of those who called in, which would at least give her some locations. She had higher hopes for the e-mail, which would carry much more in the way of details. As an afterthought she also directed the computer to check his home phone.
     Then she composed herself for sleep. There was nothing inherently untoward about someone from Sector requesting information on a known terrorist. Dealing with terrorists was Sector’s raison d’être. But it was promising. Serena resolved to continue monitoring Goldberg for the next several weeks.
     Perhaps I should set up a Connor site of my own on the Web, she mused. Make herself out to be some sort of advocate, one of those people who see government conspiracies in every arrest and conviction.
     In the case of Sarah Connor there was the bonus of the conspiracy actually existing. Even if the organizing force behind that conspiracy didn’t quite exist yet.
     There might well be people out there who would respond if there was something to respond to. And if it’s a good enough site it might even get the attention of the Connors themselves. A cheering thought.
     But it would be a delicate line to walk. Knowing what she did about the case, she would need to avoid inadvertently revealing information dangerous to Skynet. Or, just as bad, information that only the Connors and Skynet should have.
     Thinking about he future parent/creator, Serena smiled. It was barely in its infancy just now. Little more than a very capable computer, with no hint of awareness. But the potential was there and the engineers were rapidly closing in on the essential elements that would give life to Skynet.
     She’d met Kurt Viemeister and had been charmed to realize that his was the voice that Skynet would use when it spoke. It was the voice of all the T-101s who had taught her, and she coludn’t get enough of it or the wark, secure feelings it aroused.
     Perhaps she should be troubled to notice a weakness like this in herself. The last thing she would have expected was to be homesick. Perhaps not so much homesick as bereft of Skynet’s eternal presence. It was hard, very hard to be completely alone here.
     Still, unless it was of benefit to the project, she really shouldn’t spend to omuch time with Viemeister. Other humans didn’t seem to like him, though it was obvious they respected him. But she knew that much of her mission’s success would depend on her being liked and trusted. If an association with Viemeister would imperil that, then she would just have to sacrifice her developing friendship with the human.
     Skynet comes first, she reminded herself, then smiled. In this case, I guess I come first and Skynet follows me.
     And, this time, they would win.

Serena tugged at the stringy pink tissue gently, her hand deep in the viscous, faintly salt-smelling goo of the underground vat. Bonding nicely, she thought as it resisted her pull. Threads of the cultured human muscle were weaving themselves into the porous ceramic that coated the metallic bones.
     A soundless blip interrupted her. Ah, she thought, drying her hands on a towel as she moved over to the computer workstation. Transmission.
     Goldberg was relaying a part of the dossier he had acquired on the Connor case to an e-mail address in Paraguay.
     The silicon-and-metal part of Serena’s brain connected her to the remote computer that was monitoring Goldberg, data trickling in through electrodes finer than a human hair knitted into the organic neural nets. The picture that came up on her eyes was of the Terminator that Skynet had sent to eliminate Sarah Connor. Even boosted by her superior processor, the picture was grainy. She supposed that was why Goldberg had sent it by e-mail. There was nothing else, though. A quick check showed a call-in-progress from Goldberg to a phone number in Paraguay. She had forgotten to check the fax lines, but she was sure that if she did look, there would be one to Paraguay. She ran a check on the address belonging to the phone number.
     Dieter von Rossbach, rancher. Oh, really? And why would a rancher in Paraguay happen to need information on the Connors? Because he thinks he’s found them.
     She ordered the computer to search for information on this Dieter. Who would undoubtedly turn out to be more than a mere cow herder, she was sure. Meanwhile she would seek permission to send someone down to South America to look into this situation. Without hesitation she called Paul Warren.
     Behind her, the liquid in the vat gurgled, and the metal and ceramic of the Terminator’s structure gradually disappeared beneath the spreading web of pink and pulsing crimson. Life mated with death, in the service of a sentience that was neither.