Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

OHIO, ON THE ROAD TO EARTH-FAIR: PRESENT DAY
     “People keep imagining,” Ron Labane said to the two filmmakers, “that someday everyone in the world will enjoy the lifestyle North Americans take for granted.” He looked off into the distance. “I can’t remember who said it, but it’s been estimated that it would take eight more planets to achieve that goal.”
     “That seems excessive,” Peter Ziedman said.
     “Our lifestyle is excessive,” Ron countered. “We could all live much more simply and probably be happier for it. Only an economy like this one could support our constant fads, constant upgrading of cars and stereos and computers. We don’t even wear things out anymore; there’s no time for that. They’re outmoded as soon as you buy them. So we bury them.”
     Ron shook his head gently. “It can’t go on indefinitely. Common sense says it can’t go on forever.”
     “So what do we do?” Ziedman asked. He was pleased. He’d expected a wild man from what the cochairman had said, but he’d gotten a well-spoken, well-informed man with a message. This could work out. With the right handling and maybe a little cash infusion from his father.
     “Well, that’s going to involve some hard choices,” Labane answered. “Industry isn’t just going to start gearing down voluntarily. They’ll use the same excuse they’ve used for over a hundred years.” He waved his hands and raised his eyes to heaven. “We have to answer to our stockholders! We must show a profit, it’s our duty! Ha! Their duty is to get as fat as they can before they dole out the crumbs to their sacred stockholders.”
     “So… laws?” Ziedman said.
     Labane shook his head. “I’m no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure that the Constitution has a few things to say about restraint of trade. Unfortunately that doesn’t take into consideration the world around us. Actually, the change has to come from us. Buy less, streamline your life. Learn to live by that old Yankee saying: buy it new, wear it out, make it do, do without. The alternative is to imagine your great-great-grandchildren wading through discarded motherboards and acid raid up to their ankles.”
     Ziedman glanced at Tony, who adjusted the camera and nodded. “This is great stuff,” he said to Labane. “Where did you get this?”
     “I wrote a book,” Ron said. “I’ve got to rework it, though; there’s far too much material to get it published as is. I must have read hundreds of books on the subject.” He nodded. “Hundreds, at least. None of my work is really original; it’s a synthesis.” He slapped his knees. “But ya need those. Every now and again someone has to get it all together and present the salient points. And that’s what I want to do. So that people can decide just what it is that they ought to do to save the world.”
     “Cut!” Ziedman said. “I’d like to get some shots of you doing things like walking along a river or the seashore or through a meadow someplace. If that’s all right with you? We’d do a voice-over of you, maybe reading from your book. How would that be?”
     “I hate to sound mercenary,” Labane said, “but am I getting paid to be in this opus of yours? ‘Cause I’m living in my van right now.”
     Peter held up a hand. “Okay,” he said, “here’s the deal. We’re doing this on a shoestring ourselves. So until and unless the film is sold for distribution, all we can offer is room and board.”
     “And parking!”
     Ziedman screwed up his face. “Okay!” He held out his hand. “You drive a hard bargain.”
     “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Ron said.
     He went along with the two young men to their hotel room—free shower at last!—so that they could discuss the film and terms. They talked like kids from money. They had that insouciant near arrogance of youngsters who’d never had to go without. The hotel was one of those where everything that wasn’t cream-colored was pastel, and where the room service came with chased-silver napkin rings.
     It was pretty certain that these two wouldn’t go out of their way to save the world. So what? Ron thought. There’s nothing wrong with a mutually agreeable arrangement.
     If he got lucky it could be like being the lead singer in a rock group. If this movie hit, he’d be the one the public remembered. Not the two kids singing backup. Ron smiled. Oh yes, he’d milk these kids for all they were worth, and if he did it right, by the time he was finished they’d still believe he was a starry-eyed idealist.
     The thing was to get the message out to those with the ears to hear it. A simple message, really: stop the madness of overproduction, whatever it takes.
     Mentally he sneered at the spoiled boys beside him. He was certain they saw themselves as rebels because they wanted to make documentaries instead of getting real jobs in their daddies’ companies.

Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

THE FORMER HOME OF MILES DYSON, CALIFORNIA: THE PRESENT
     Serena dumped the dirt out of her basket and stamped it down. This was almost the last of it; she needed to excavate only another foot or two down below the house. The California night was scarcely dark to her cyber-boosted eyes; the fog of light pollution made it as bright as day.
     Frowning, she looked around her; it might be best to get rid of the excess dirt in raised flower beds, otherwise she’d end up with a suspicious-looking mound in the middle of the yard. She looked down at the filled-in swimming pool. It had been only seven feet deep at one end, four feet at the other—not deep enough.
     Serena was a carefully calculated five-six, average height for a woman. But the T-101s she planned to construct would all be six feet tall. So, while she was quite comfortable standing in what would be her secret laboratory, the depth of the place must accommodate them.
     With a sigh, she picked up her basket. I wish I had some T-101s now to help me with this. It was heavy work.
     Stage one had been the easiest, hiring a contractor to put up a ten-foot privacy fence around the property. Necessary since she didn’t want the neighbors, or any agents of Tricker’s, wondering why she was pouring dirt into the pool or, more important, where it was coming from. She regretted having to drain the pool; a nice swim after work like this would have been pleasant.
     Gazing at the tiled area surrounding the oblong of raw dirt, she decided it looked odd. Maybe I should cover this part with concrete and make a tennis court. It will certainly improve the resale value. A slight smile quirked at her lips. This could be dangerous; I’m starting to think like a human.
     Actually she had little real fear of that happening; it was like running a subroutine, easily terminable. But such thoughts improved her ability to pass. She’d always been good at that. She remembered…

SKYNET LABS, HOLDING CELLS: 2025
     Serena stepped delicately, like a frightened deer, into the cell. There was a boy here of approximately thirteen, her own apparent age. This would be the first time she’d met a wild human face-to-face.
     She supposed the caretakers and slaves were the same breed, but service to Skynet had tamed them, made them safe. This boy might do anything. Her assignment was to seduce him. Serena licked her lips with a combination of anticipation and slight nervousness. This could be quite a challenge.
     The cell appeared to be deserted. Serena leaned forward, studying the empty walls. Actually she could hear him; he was just above her head, clinging to a beam inside the doorway. So he was clever, a survivor—good genetic stock.
     Well? What are you going to do? Serena wondered, already bored with her shy act. It seemed she would have to provoke a response. “Hello?” she said, putting a quaver into her voice.
     She took a breath and straightened up. Then she took a step backward, reaching behind her for the door latch. She heard cloth slide across metal above her head.
     Well, finally!
     He dropped onto her shoulders and bore her to the ground, his hand crushing her mouth. Serena struggled, making muffled squealing noises as she writhed against him. This was unpleasant; the damned human smelled. He was strong, she noted, but light; the I-950 could have tossed him around the room with one hand.
     “Stop it!” he hissed into her ear. “I’m going to take my hand away. Don’t scream or I’ll break your neck.”
     With a shudder that was actually suppressed laughter, Serena nodded. He slowly took his hand away.
     Part of the offensive smell was his fear—completely justified since his life span could be measured in days. This boy wouldn’t know anything of use to Skynet. His only utility was as a training tool for its children.
     She was the first to approach him. “Who are you?” she whispered.
     “I’ll ask the questions,” he said roughly.
     He still lay on top of her, and unless she missed her guess he was enjoying it. She turned slightly, so that they were lying front to front. Oh yes, he was enjoying this.
     “Please don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, allowing tears into her eyes.
     He seemed to grow, he certainly swelled, as he looked down on her. “Who are you?” he demanded gruffly. “What are you doing here?”
     It was impressive that he could stay focused on the situation at hand, despite his condition and his circumstances.
     “I—I was curious,” she stammered, in apparent fear. “I’ve never met anyone from the outside.” She paused, looking into his face, searching it. “What’s it like to be free?”
     He frowned. “What do you mean?”
     “I’ve never been outside,” she said, trembling. The trembling felt fake to her, so she added a little gasp.
     “Never?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
     “I was born here,” she whispered. Serena choked back a sob. “This is a terrible place. They perform experiments on us.”
     Which was perfectly true. Her whole life was an experiment.
     His face changed; his eyes softened and he caressed her cheek with one rough hand. “I’m sorry,” he said.
     She burst into tears and he moved so that he was cradling her, rocking her and making soothing noises. It was very pleasant. Serena was convinced that if she really had been weeping, this would have calmed her. She reached up and caressed his face, looking into his eyes.
     He lowered his head toward her tentatively, then stopped. Serena put her hand behind his neck and pulled him the rest of the way down. Their kiss was sweet at first, a kiss between two children. Then slowly it deepened, grew warmer, more passionate. His hand stroked her back, the rhythm becoming swifter, more demanding, like his kiss.
     She made the first move, slipping out of the flimsy tunic that was all she wore. He stared at her physical perfection for a moment as though stunned. Then she leaned forward and began to help him undress, exclaiming wordlessly over small scars on his body, kissing them when she found them.
     She lost her nominal virginity to that boy, then broke his neck at Skynet’s orders. A very pleasant interlude, altogether.

FORMER DYSON HOME: THE PRESENT
     Serena smiled reminiscently; yes, she’d always been good at getting humans to trust her. Picking up the two baskets, she headed back to her digging.
     She had cut through the concrete floor of a guest room to begin removing the dirt beneath. Today she would finish the digging and pour the cement into the holes for the support poles. As soon as that was dry she would put in a moisture barrier, a cement floor, and concrete blocks and steel posts to support the walls.
     Next would be the installation of a sophisticated climate control and air purification system; the parts were already waiting in the guest room. Then she could bring in the rest of the equipment and begin using her lab.
     In the meantime she’d been jobbing out the parts needed to construct the skeletons of her T-101s, using over a dozen different specialty foundries throughout the United States; their product came to several different post office boxes, none of them closer than two towns away. So far their work had been excellent.
     When time allowed, she’d check into using foreign manufacturers for maximum privacy. She imagined that many precision metalworkers knew each other; it wouldn’t do if several accidentally discovered that they were manufacturing different parts that looked suspiciously right alongside each other and started to put them together.
     But her real concern was that the Connors would learn of her work.
     Serena thought about Skynet’s enemies as she filled another basket with dirt. The Connors had very effectively disappeared after destroying Cyberdyne’s old facility. Sightings of them had been reported for a few months afterward, but none had panned out. To all intents and purposes, the pair had ceased to exist.
     Wouldn’t that be nice? Serena thought, jabbing the shovel into the hard-packed earth. Nice but unlikely.
     She’d posted a lookout for their names on the Internet; should anyone start discussing them or look for information on them, she would be alerted. She had also tagged their files at the FBI and CIA. Anyone looking for information there was more likely to lead her to her quarry.
     Hoisting the filled baskets onto her shoulders, she tried to close her mind to the knowledge that Skynet’s minions had come out the losers every time they’d tangled with the Connors.
     Serena climbed the ladder out of her lab-to-be and forced herself to think of the next step in the process. If she pushed, she could be ready to start the delicate work of creating T-101s by late next week.
     She’d acquired artificial teeth and some precision tools from a series of dental-supply companies and a matrix material used to grow new flesh for skin grafts from a surgical-supply store. It was amazing what you could acquire if you had a healthy amount of cash.
     She would use her own blood as a starter. The chemicals necessary to promote cell growth were resting in her refrigerator.
     Except for the brute effort required to prepare her small laboratory, everything was set to go or on its way. She should have the first Terminator ready to mingle with humans in under two months.
     Unless Cyberdyne called on her to begin work she should be able to work undisturbed on her new accomplice. Once she’d made one T-101, it could easily construct others. But she was also eager to begin protecting Skynet.
     I know they’re going to hire me, they know they’re going to hire me, what then is the hold up?
     Tricker? Probably. But the government liaison didn’t seem to be anywhere around just now. He was probably doing some last-minute foot-dragging just to assert his authority, or perhaps a bit more investigation. Although she was pretty sure her background sources would check out, Tricker was a deep one.
     I can trust my own groundwork, she assured herself. If worse came to worst, she could always simply eliminate Tricker.
     She would regret it: he was the most interesting person she’d met here. But she could live with regret. What she couldn’t live with was failure.

Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

ECOLOGY EXPO, NEW YORK: PRESENT DAY
     “This is boring,” Peter Ziedman said. He frowned and shifted the heavy camera on his shoulder.
     “No kidding,” his soundman and college bud Tony Roth agreed. “It’s nothing like what I expected.”
     They glared at the neatly set-up booths and the casually well-dressed people around them. Even the loopier outfits had cost real money, you could see that. They’d been expecting a lot more over-the-rainbow stuff from the New York Ecology Fair.
     Ziedman had been pinning his hopes on it, in fact. He’d graduated from Chapman University only two months ago, with honors, and already his dad was asking, “So what did I spend my money for?”
     Like you could get a full-fledged movie together over the weekend. Well, okay, some people had done that, but not lately, and probably not while sober.
     So Peter had decided to do a documentary on an inspired madman. They’d find their guy at a place like this and then follow him around while he tried to convert the world. It would be hilarious.
     But what he’d found instead was a slew of start-up businesses looking for venture capitalists. And while he knew there was a story worth telling in that, at the moment he needed something fast, easy, and moderately entertaining from the first shot. The story of water-purification devices just wasn’t going to do that.
     “Where are the nuts?” he shouted.
     A young woman beside a solar-energy display turned to look at him. “The Rain Forest Products booth is giving away Brazil nuts in aisle four.” She pointed vaguely in that direction.
     Ziedman looked at her; she was attractive in a washed-out, WASPy kind of way. He walked over to her and said, “I’m making a documentary and I was hoping for some more colorful characters to spice up the narrative.” He shrugged and then shifted the camera. “It can’t be all facts and figures.”
     She nodded, looking vaguely disapproving. That was when he noticed that her badge said she was the fair’s cochair.
     “So what exactly are you looking for?” she asked.
     Peter thought that he was probably very lucky that she wasn’t asking him to leave, as he hadn’t received permission from the fair to film here. She looked capable of kicking him out. He decided to be honest.
     “I’m looking for someone with a message,” he said. “Someone who can’t get anyone to listen but who thinks he, or she, can save the world. You know anybody like that?”
     She laughed, and it changed her whole face. She really was attractive. “Oohhh yes,” she said. “I know tons of people like that. But they tend to avoid places like this. To them we’re all sellouts.” She looked around and seemed to spot someone. Pointing to a tired-looking man on a folding chair near the door, she said, “Try him. That’s Ron Labane. He used to be a pretty good guy, associated with a small, fairly successful organic farm in Washington state.” She shook her head. “Now… it’s kinda sad really. He’s got a book he’s trying to get published. He’s kind of into a lone-wolf thing right now.”
     Ziedman looked at the man. He was wearing tan chinos and a sport jacket over a sweater vest and an open-collared blue shirt. Though he was clean-shaven and his hair was neat, there was something a little shop-worn about him. His whole body spoke of discouragement and exhaustion.
     Peter turned on the camera and zoomed in on him. As if by instinct, like the lone wolf the woman had named him, Labane turned to look directly into the lens. He raised one brow and with a lopsided smile raised his hand and gestured Peter over.
     “Thanks,” Ziedman said to the woman. He and Tony hustled over.

Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT
     Sarah watched in the mirror before her, aimed to catch the view through a filthy window, as the man she’d been almost certain was a Terminator reached down to pet the dog. She stood up slowly and let out her breath in a rush, then stood there panting, shaking from adrenaline reaction.
     Licking her lips, she tried to think what to do. If a dog can tolerate him, he can’t be a Terminator. Humans can be fooled, but not dogs. As von Rossbach turned to walk away, she made up her mind.
     Unlocking the window, she lifted it and slipped through, easing it down behind her. “Wait!” she called weakly.
     If he wasn’t a Terminator she had to find out what, or rather who, he was, and why he had come looking for her. He couldn’t have seen her spying on him this morning, could he? Her skills were rusty, but surely not that rusty.
     She went to the nearest building and peeked around the corner. The man was leaning over, trying to persuade the dog to go home, though it was obvious just looking at the mutt that it didn’t have one.
     “You’ve got a friend for life there,” Sarah said, trying to keep her voice steady. The man looked at her. Her voice had quavered a bit and her hands were still shaking; she might as well try to use that, along with her diminutive size, to seem harmless. It might wipe that closed look off his face.
     “I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I’m so sorry.” She brushed her hair back and gave a nervous little laugh. “I thought you were someone else.” She looked at him, wide-eyed, then burst out, “But you’re not. Obviously.”
     “Who did you think I was?” he asked. His voice was quite, but his eyes were hard, evaluating her.
     She lifted her hands and then dropped them; shaking her head, Sarah walked a few steps toward him.
     “Please,” she said, her eyes on the ground as she walked, “I’d rather not say. I’m so embarrassed as it is. Anyway, you don’t want to know about it. It’s just…” She waved her hands helplessly. “Please, could we start over?” Sarah looked up at him and smiled tremulously, trying to look innocent.
     “Who are you?” he asked, still suspicious.
     “I’m Suzanne Krieger,” she said, holding out her hand. “That’s my trucking company.”
     “Oh, really.” He sounded dubious.
     “A lot of people are surprised to hear that,” Sarah assured him, smiling weakly. There was an awkward moment of silence. “I just want you to know that was a very uncommon reaction,” she said, twisting her fingers together nervously. “I really don’t make a habit of running away from my customers. Honest.” Don’t overdo it, Connor, she warned herself.
     “You’re an American,” Dieter observed.
     “Yes. But my husband was Paraguayan.”
     “Was?” Dieter walked by her side as they wended their way back to the trucking company.
     He found her face attractive in an angular way; her blue eyes were very expressive and her mouth was… tempting. A good figure, too, he thought.
     But he was still not lulled by either her fluttering manner or her refusal to explain. He noticed that she kept as far from him as she could in the narrow alley.
     “Yes, he died the year after he bought the company.” She lapsed into silence for a few moments. “Anyway, that’s enough about me,” she said as they came to the open door of the garage. “What is it you came her for?” Boy, do I want to know that.
     Dieter could actually feel the word “sperm” pressing against his teeth, but he restrained himself. “I have a shipment from the King Ranch,” he said instead.
     “Oh, yes,” Sarah said with a smile. “It’s in the fridge, I’ll go get it for you. You know the way out front,” she said with a little laugh and a gesture toward the open door to the offices.
     Sarah looked at him sweetly until at last he nodded and headed out to the front office. When he was gone she leaned against the wall and allowed her shoulders to sag.
     How can this be? she asked herself. Her stomach clenched. He’s the spitting image of no less than two Terminators! Except for the beard. She wondered briefly if Terminators could even grow beards. He even sounds like them! Well, maybe the accent wasn’t as pronounced. But in every other way Dieter von Rossbach was a physical duplicate of the T-101’s she’d known. But how? There has to be a connection, but what?
     Sarah brushed her hair back off her forehead and blew out her breath. It’s time to discuss it with John, she thought. He’ll probably have some ideas. Meanwhile… Sarah went to the fridge and took the special box out. King Ranch—probably sperm, then.
     The labels and stamps and customs papers all seemed authentic, so if this was some kind of ruse, it was a very elaborate one. Also irrelevant. No one smuggled drugs from the United States to South America as far as she knew. So, obviously, that wasn’t it. And going by the paper trail this box had traveled by legitimate courier all the way. So Mr. von Rossbach, in this instance at least, probably was just a rancher interested in improving his cattle.
     She wondered why they’d never dealt with this guy before. Most likely he’d used somebody in Asunción. It didn’t really matter. Getting rid of him and returning home to John to discuss this weird situation did.
     Though I have to wonder if his choosing Krieger Trucking was happenstance or if there’s some motivation behind it. The coincidences were mounting up. She could feel the paranoia taking over.
     “Here you go,” she said as she walked into the front office. Sarah picked up a clipboard from Meylinda’s desk. She noticed that her hands were still shaking. Okay, so we use that, she reminded herself. I’m just a shy, decent widow doing her best.
     Von Rossbach stood foursquare behind the counter, his eyes never leaving her, taking in every movement, every nuance of expression.
     “You’re making me nervous,” Sarah accused as she laid down the box. She presented the clipboard to him with a pen. “Would you sign here, please?”
     He took them, but continued to study her. Sarah ducked her head and looked away. “Please,” she said.
     “I would really like to know who you thought I was,” Dieter said steadily. “Please explain.”
     Sarah took a deep breath, not looking at him and let it out, then nodded. “I can easily see why you might be offended,” she said, swallowing. “Okay.” Sarah paused for effect, biting her lips. “When Paul died someone wanted to buy the company. But I wanted to keep it for our son, and because I’d put a lot of effort into it myself. This guy who wanted to buy it took my refusal personally and was very, very angry. He made threats. I told him to leave us alone.
     She stopped and glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. That unwavering stare of his really was making her tense. Not that I need any help with that, she thought ruefully.
     “You thought I was this man?” he asked.
     “Uh, no, not exactly. Anyway, for a while nothing happened. Then little accidents began to occur, things went missing, and some of our shipments were hijacked. He came back and made another offer. This one was ridiculously low, insulting actually, and I told him to go away.”
     She dipped her head, and shrugged. “That’s when things began to get scary. There was this man, a big man; I began to see him everywhere, watching me, getting closer all the time. I’d be shopping for groceries, for instance, and suddenly I’d feel someone behind me and I’d turn and it would be him, just… looking at me. One day he asked me about my little boy.”
     Her voice broke on the last word. Sarah was proud of that touch; she hadn’t been sure she could do it. She took a deep breath, blinking as though afraid there might be tears to hide. “There’s really not much else to tell. I decided to move the company here to Villa Hayes because I thought there’d be less competition. But I liked that it was so near a big city. I thought we’d be safe here.”
     She gave a little laugh. “I gave up smoking today, so I’m nervous as a cat at a dogfight, and when I looked up all I could see was your outline and”—she shook her head regretfully—“I panicked. I’m so sorry. I am not, ordinarily, such a scaredy-cat. It was like a flashback. You know?”
     Dieter gave her a long look, revealing nothing. He watched her fidget for a few moments, then signed her form. She tore off a portion of it and gave it to him as his receipt.
     “Thank you,” she said, smiling bravely, her heart thudding in a nerve wracking combination of anger and fear. “Good luck evading that dog.”
     Sarah could see the disreputable mutt waiting hopefully outside her front door. I hope he sticks to you like a burr and gives you some horrible parasite, she thought viciously.
     Given her plausible explanation and, to her mind, very convincing performance, she couldn’t help but think of him as a bully. If she really was a helpless little widow, she’d be ready to burst into tears by now.
     Dieter turned to look and his shoulders twitched. Sarah liked that; it made him seem more human and she finally began to calm down.
     He picked up his box.
     “Hasta la vista,” he said, and walked out. The dog fell in behind him, its chin a fraction of an inch from the big man’s boot heel.
     Sarah closed her eyes slowly. Then she turned to check the clock. Five-thirty. I can’t keep quitting early like this, she told herself as she headed for he office. Picking up her purse and her keys she went into the garage.
     “Ernesto,” she called. Her voice was still shaking a little and Sarah frowned at the evidence of weakness. She cleared her throat.
     He came out from under a truck. “You all right, señora?” he asked, his face full of concern.
     “Actually, I feel lousy, Ernesto.” She was willing to bet that she looked almost as bad as she felt. “I’m going home early. Can you close up for me, please?” I’ll lock the front door myself, if you’ll take care of back here.”
     “Sure,” he said, sitting up. “That man…?”
     “Oh…” Sarah waved a dismissive hand. “Mistaken identity. I feel like a complete fool. He’s just a rancher, I guess. “She shook her head. “Nothing to worry about, my friend. I’m just nervous and feeling rotten. I’ll see you in the morning.”
     “Sí. I hope that you feel better soon,” he said and waved to her before pushing himself back under the truck.
     He’d learned early in their relationship that Suzanne Krieger did not take kindly to being coddled. So showing that he was on her side was all he was prepared to do right now. But he would love to know why his tough-as-nails boss had gone running out of the garage with “just a rancher” in hot pursuit. Although he had to admit, at least to himself, if that man had started chasing him, he’d have run, too.
     “Not my business,” Ernesto muttered, picking up a wrench. She knew where to find him if she needed his help.