Excerpt from the novel Rising Storm by S.M. Stirling

LOS ANGELES, SEPTEMBER

     Puzzled, Jordan studied the short E-mail. Reading his E-mail was something he did in order to feel at home—which he didn’t in the furnished-apartment anonymity of the place he was living.

Good news! Your extra spicy South American beef jerky is on the way!
Your shipment should arrive one week from today!

The tag wasn’t one he recognized; it definitely wasn’t Dieter’s and he sure as hell hadn’t ordered beef jerky over the Internet. Let alone the spicy South American kind.
     What the hell is this about? he wondered. Could it be a coded message from John or von Rossbach? Actually it kind of sounded like John. Or maybe it was just that he thought it sounded like a seventeen-year-old might if he wanted to send a cryptic message. Admittedly his acquaintance with John was limited, but he hadn’t really seemed the cryptic type.
     Von Rossbach? he wondered. Maybe. Sector types were the kind of people who’d encrypt their grocery list. And Dieter had been the one to come up with the weather-report shtick.
     Whatever. He decided to take the message both ways. First, Jordan typed a message to the return address stating that he would return their package of spicy beef unopened because he hadn’t ordered anything from them. And next I’ll start looking out for a big guy and a teenager in about a week.
     With a final click he sent off the message, then sighed in disappointment. He had hoped to hear from John or Dieter, in their own persons—not disguised as a spicy-beef company. He had good news for them.
     Sarah had been going through her therapy at Pescadero at warp speed. Dr. Ray had, miraculously, transferred her to the Encinas Halfway House, which had a very good reputation. The counselor there, who was none other than Sarah’s former doctor, Silberman himself, had indicated that she might be ready to leave in as little as two months. Legitimately! A state that Sarah had experienced only rarely in the last seventeen years and John perhaps never in his life.
     Jordan shook his head. To think she’d be going home a little less than eighteen months after blowing up Cyberdyne. Who’d have imagined a year and a half ago that I’d think that was a good thing?

VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA, PARAGUAY, SEPTEMBER

     Dieter made another mark on the map of Mexico and looked over at John, who lounged in an overstuffed chair looking thoughtful. A big corkboard had been one of the things he’d installed in his office in the original modernization when he bought the ranch, and it was perfect for holding big maps. These were modern, based on commercial satellite imaging, and extremely accurate.
     “I think that’s about it for Mexico, South, and Central America,” John said. “At least the ones I know about. Mom probably could show you a whole lot more.” He grimaced. “There was a weapons cache down by Ciudad del Este, but Mom promised that to Victor Griego so he wouldn’t rat on us to you.”
     “But he did,” Dieter rumbled, tapping his pen on the map. “So let’s include it. If he doesn’t like it he can always complain to the police.”
     John snorted and gave him the coordinates. “The stuff was mostly junk though. Maybe we should have a second-tier map, for when we’re desperate.” He looked pensive as Dieter nodded and made a notation on the map. “In the U.S. I’m not so sure,” he continued. “I was pretty young then and after a while I… kinda wasn’t interested. Y’know?”
     Dieter looked at his young friend. “You mean when you thought your mother was crazy,” he said.
     “Yeah,” John admitted.
     “We’ll get her out of there, John. And soon, I promise.”
     With a grimace the younger man sat forward. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, Dieter, it’s don’t make promises you might not be able to keep.” He looked up from under his eyebrows. “And we have no reason to believe that it might be possible to do that. This move to minimum security that Jordan told you about? It could easily be a trap.” He shook his head, his lips lifted in a crooked smile. “It’s just the kind of thing they’d do.”
     Von Rossbach waved a big hand dismissively. “They might. But with the number of things that have happened to your mother while in Pescadero’s care, they might just be trying to avoid a lawsuit.”
     “Okay, whatever you say.” John couldn’t hide his doubt, somehow it smelled like a setup to him, but dwelling on it wouldn’t help anything. He changed the subject with a grin. “Do you think Jordan will think to bring some of that beef jerky to Mom?” he asked. “She absolutely loves that stuff.”
     “He might,” Dieter said mildly. It had been hard on John not to be able to do even the ordinary things one did when one was feeling helpless because a loved one was in the hospital—send flowers, or cards. “Jordan’s very bright and it shouldn’t be hard to make the connection.”
     The young man nodded, a little color rising in his face. He clearly didn’t want to be thought sentimental.
     “Anyway,” John said, nodding toward the map, “I can only speak for the condition of the caches we have in Paraguay. We’ve been checking them every year or so to make sure they were okay. Mostly to keep in practice.” He shrugged. “I guess old habits die hard.”
     “Which is why you’re both still alive,” Dieter commented. He rapped the map with his pen. “We’re going to need a lot more than this.”
     John looked him in the eye. “I know,” he said.
     Dieter wondered what that look and that tone of voice meant. He waited a moment for John to speak. Then, impatiently, he said, “And?”
     “And I’m wondering how practical you’re prepared to be about it.”
     Von Rossbach rotated his hands in a bring-it-forth gesture.
     John’s lips thinned for a moment, then he blurted, “Drugs.”
     Dieter threw down his pen and looked away, leaning back in his desk chair. “That’s one of the things I’ve spent most of my life fighting, John.”
     With a shrug John spread his hands. “Not hard drugs; those guys are crazy. I’m talking about marijuana.”
     “They’re all crazy!” Dieter interrupted. “Something about millions of untaxed dollars does that to people. Not to mention that it’s against the law, and it’s wrong.”
     “So how do you think Mom got these caches we’ve been mapping all day? Working in day care? Taking in laundry? Telling fortunes? She’d be the first one to remind you, Dieter, most people are dead. They just don’t know it yet.”
     “You can’t get something good out of something wrong. I know that if I know anything,” von Rossbach said. He was getting angry, and to no purpose. “I don’t want to discuss this anymore.”
     “Fine,” John said, getting up. “If you can come up with a better way, I am more than open to it.” He shook his head. “I’ve never liked the idea either. But it’s the fastest way to do this I can think of and our time is running out.”
     Dieter lifted his hand to stop him and John raised his and shrugged in surrender. “I’m hungry,” he said. “Think I’ll go hit up Marietta for something to eat.”
     Von Rossbach checked his watch. “Good luck,” he said. “Dinner is in a few minutes. You know she won’t let you spoil your appetite.”
     “I don’t think it’s possible to spoil my appetite, at least not with food,” John said. “Mom says I’ve got hollow legs.”
     Dieter sat thinking about what John had said after the boy left him. He picked up the map and looked at the numerous circles denoting arms and food caches. Well, he’d read her record; he’d known Sarah wasn’t a Girl Scout all those years she’d been running with the wild ones. Still…
     Drugs! he thought in disgust. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t get involved with that. Flinging the map onto the desk, he leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck. Well, if they needed money he was rich. And if Judgment Day was real, and it appears that it is, then my money won’t do me any good afterward. So. He would dedicate his considerable personal fortune to the cause. And he knew a fair number of moneyed eccentrics he could involve, too.
     Meanwhile he would start seeking out arms dealers. Nothing big, at least not at first; he didn’t want to come to the Sector’s attention. Not yet. It would mean a trip to the U.S.
     Maybe we could swing by Pescadero and spring Sarah while we’re there.
     He spent a few pleasant moments imagining her face when she saw him. Then he sighed. No. Given the move to minimum security, there was a good chance she was going to be released anyway in just a few months; it would be pointless to interfere with the process.
     Marietta rang the dinner gong and he got up. I wonder if John managed to weedle any food out of her, he thought.

Excerpt from the novel Rising Storm by S.M. Stirling

VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA, PARAGUAY

     *Craig Kipfer,* John wrote. *Definitely someone up to something. He’s not in science or engineering or computing, at least not that I can discover. His name doesn’t appear on any government payroll after his fifth year in the army, when he was honorably discharged. But his computer is hedged around with more protections than the CIA. Not that they’re the very best, but that’s beside the point. Just thought you might like to check him out.*
     *You found him,* Wendy answered. *Why don’t you check him out? He might just be paranoid. Lots of people are. What’s he supposed to do for a living?*
     *Hell if I know,* he wrote. *Look, if he notices that he’s being watched and finds out where I’m from, he’s going to think I’m more dangerous to him than I am and probably will act accordingly. If he gets your address he’ll think mischievous student with too much time on her hands. Besides, I honestly think you’re probably better at this sort of thing than I am.*
     *Flatterer,* she wrote. *What do you mean he’ll “act accordingly?” Do you think this dude is dangerous or something?*
     Do I? John asked himself. Would he put Wendy in danger to satisfy his curiosity about this guy? Dieter didn’t recognize the name, though he agreed the guy seemed suspicious. Frankly they didn’t know enough to tell if he was dangerous or not.
     *I can’t answer that,* he admitted. *He’s strange enough that I’d advise you to handle him with extreme caution. And if he does seem to become aware of you, lose his address fast. I wouldn’t ask you to check him out if I really thought he was trouble, but anytime you do this stuff you’re taking a risk.*
     *I know,* Wendy agreed. *Okay, I’ll look into it. I need to keep my hacking skills sharp anyway. Bye.*
     John frowned. Kipfer’s files were mysterious enough to raise a warning flag with him. With his experience, though, warning flags meant something very different than they might to Wendy. She could get herself into serious trouble. His mind shied away from the word danger. He felt vaguely guilty about possibly putting her in harm’s way.
     That’s something I’ll need to get over before I become the Great Military Dickhead, he thought scornfully. Still… Aw, c’mon! He’s probably a lot less dangerous than those Luddites she used to tease. Which was almost certainly true, even if he was simply looking for an easy way out of an unpleasant feeling.
     Maybe the reason for this guilt was that he really wanted to get to know Wendy a bit better. He liked her voice. Maybe I could call her again, he thought. Then he remembered that she hadn’t been all that impressed with him the first time they’d spoken. Of course this time he’d be calling because he was interested in her rather than in her skills. But I don’t think she’d appreciate my letting her know that.

Excerpt from the novel Rising Storm by S.M. Stirling

MONTANA

     Clea sat absolutely still; one small part of her consciousness monitored the activity of the Terminator on the roof as it upgraded their solar power system. The (highly capable) remainder of her mind was learning from the future experiences of Serena Burns.
     When she’d been younger Clea had very much enjoyed these lessons, particularly those which allowed her to view Burns’s exchanges with Skynet. Especially those moments when Skynet actually took possession of Serena’s implanted computer, essentially becoming Serena.
     Now she found that they depressed her, reminding her forcefully of what she would never have, never know. Once she actually took up her assignment, Clea was certain that her emotions would settle down. This tendency to brood might well be a side effect of her chemically induced rush to maturity.
     Certainly she found Serena’s lightheartedness inappropriate and her cheerfulness obnoxious. Clea was glad she’d never met her progenitor face-to-face; the I-950 was sure she’d have been unable to avoid terminating Serena.
     The memory she was reviewing today was of Serena’s time with the soldiers of the future, when she was infiltrating the enemy in the human-Skynet war. She closed her eyes and saw Lieutenant Zeller coming toward her. This was how she saw all of these memories, from behind Serena’s eyes, as though they were happening to her.

THE YEAR 2029

     “Burns,” Zeller said, looking grim. She made a gesture that indicated the Infiltrator should follow and stalked off.
     Serena tilted her head, then followed. As she walked she reviewed all of her actions from the past week and found nothing to worry about. Yes, she’d managed to get poor Corpsman Gonzales killed, but there was no way the lieutenant could connect her with it. She’d risked directing a small herd of T-90s to the Corpsman’s station behind the lines. Such lines as they had.
     True, it had been a calculated risk; there was always the chance that someone, somewhere, might be monitoring in hopes of detecting such signals. But finding the source in the middle of a firefight when the whole episode had lasted mere seconds was remote in the extreme.
     Besides, Zeller always looked grim. It was just as likely she wanted to recruit the Infiltrator for some hazardous, secret attack. If so, excellent. She wouldn’t be able to return to Zeller’s unit, but some other, distant group would take her to their collective bosom.
     They made their way to a secluded glen and Zeller turned on her heel to glare at Burns. “I don’t know how you did it, but I know you killed him!” she snarled.
     Serena blinked. “What?” she said. “Who…?” It could, after all, have been one of a lot of people.
     “Gonzales!” Zeller stepped a little closer, shaking her head, her mouth a bitter line, her shoulders slightly hunched forward. “He liked you! He liked everybody, and all he wanted to do was help people. How could you?”
     The Infiltrator allowed her mouth to drop open in feigned astonishment and she couldn’t help it—she laughed, trying to make it sound nervous. “What the hell are you talking about, ma’am?” she said. “I wasn’t anywhere near Gonzales when those T-90s found him! There’s no way I could possibly have had anything to do with his death!”
     Serena watched Zeller straighten up, but her glare didn’t diminish. Instead, contempt twisted her attractive features into something like a sneer.
     “I haven’t trusted you from the first moment I saw you,” she said. “Sometimes you can just smell trouble, and you, Burns, stank of it from day one. I’m gonna be watching you, bitch! Watching who you team up with, watching who you go off with. I tell you right now”—she shoved her finger in Serena’s face—“they’d better come back alive!”
     The Infiltrator gave a deep sigh and reached out, intending to break the lieutenant’s slender neck. Instead, the sweeping hand met Zeller’s knife; Serena clamped down on the pain and clenched the fist, jerking the human’s weapon away.
     Zeller’s eyes went wide as Serena’s face stayed mask calm despite the bloody wound. “You’re one of them,” she gasped, snatching fro the plasma rifle slung over her shoulder. “But you can’t be—”
     “Inefficient.” Serena batted the muzzle aside as the burst of a stripped ions tore past her ear. If you’d just shot, you might have gotten me.
     Zeller clubbed her across the side of the face with the butt of the rifle, and Serena caught her in a bear hug and began to squeez. Knees, fists, and a small holdout knife struck her again and again. With what must have been the last of her strength Zeller plunged the knife into the I-950’s side, high up, as though seeking the heart.
     Serena felt the knife puncture her lung and gave the lieutenant a fierce, impatient shake. If she couldn’t smother the stupid bitch, breaking her spine would do nicely. With a gasp Zeller went limp and the Infiltrator dropped her. Infrared confirmed that the body was losing warmth. Not something the cleverest human could fake.
     With a spasm of coughing Serena fell bleeding beside the corpse of Lieutenant Zeller and lay watching the leaf-shadow rustle against the sky while a few hopeful crows looked down and waited. She woke one of the T-90s she’d secreted nearby in a resting state, gave it her location, and ordered it to come to the dell and destroy itself in such a way that it would look as though she had done it.
     The T-90 acknowledged the communication and broke off.
     Laying her aching head back down and rolling onto her side to avoid drowning in her own blood, Serena ordered her computer to moderate the damage she’d taken so that she wouldn’t die before help arrived. She could actually feel the bleeding slow as veins and arteries clamped down, almost stopping the flow.
     Without a doubt she would need time to recuperate in the base hospital. She licked her lips. Perhaps it was time to move on. Zeller might well have revealed her fears to someone eles.
     There was a clicking sound. The T-90’s approach. Serena saw it come up over the rim of the shallow little dell and closed her eyes, allowing herself to go unconscious, confident that the Terminator would follow her instructions to the letter.

MONTANA, THE PRESENT

     Clea frowned. There! That was exactly the sort of thing that annoyed her about her predecessor. Failing to take notice of how those around her might interpret her actions, having no backup plan. What if Zeller had decided to accuse the Infiltrator in front of a crowd? It was obvious that all Serena had planned to do, if she’d even planned anything at all, was to bluff.
     Such lax behavior had been a hallmark of all her missions. It was the product of overconfidence, in Clea’s opinion. Which, given the many successes that humans were having at the time Serena was sent back, was inexcusable.
     Letting out an annoyed breath, Clea bit her lip. She was supposed to be learning from these studies, yet all she seemed to be gleaning from Serena’s experiences was how much she disliked her.
     With a shake of her head she rose and went to her lab. At least there she could be doing her own work, not imitating her highly unsuccessful “parent.”

Excerpt from the novel Rising Storm by S.M. Stirling

CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

     Wendy brushed back her smooth dark red hair and eyed the phone lying on the table before her, willing it to ring, as she took a sip of the cooling coffee. Her eyes swept the almost empty confines of the shabby café, with its bored waitress and long-dead pastries behind filmy glass; she felt nervous, war… and a bit excited, she admitted to herself.
     Perhaps this secret watchdog group could help. Perhaps they were part of the problem and were onto her and just trying to find out what she knew before they—
     Wow, she thought sardonically, great plot line, there. Maybe I should take a course in screenwriting. Zzzzzt! Cue the black helicopter!
     Real life didn’t have a plot. It just bumbled aimlessly on its way, unless you directed it by sheer force of will. Which was harder to do than to say, she knew. She’d seen that in her father’s life. When he was her age he’d been an ardent activist, fighting against the war in Vietnam, fighting for civil rights.
     Now he ran a moderately successful insurance business, just like his dad had done. And as far as Wendy could tell, he had no idea how he’d gotten from firebrand to burnout. She saw herself at his age, complacently middle class, being careful not to rock the boat too hard.
     Did middle age bring about a failure of will, or did you just have more to lose? I guess, she thought, that you always have a lot to lose, it just seems less important when you’re young. So I guess it’s better that you’re inclined to fight the good fight when you’re young and don’t have a lot of commitments. Yeah, commitments, that’s the glue that slows you down, and when it sets, well, your life’s over, I guess.
     Wendy lifted a brow. Maybe this wasn’t the best attitude to assume when she was about to meet AM. Or anyone else for that matter.
     She tapped the cell phone on the table before her. It belonged to the house mother, a really nice woman who left it all over the place, so it wouldn’t be missed. Everyone “borrowed” it, then returned it with a cheerful “Were you looking for this?” She glanced at her watch. It was four; AM should—
     The phone rang.
     She bit her lip and stared at it. Just before the third ring she picked it up. “Yeah?” she said.
     “Watcher?”
     It was a young voice; the youth of it hit her before the fact that it was also a male voice. “How old are you?” she demanded.
     There was a long-drawn-out sigh. “I get a lot of that, he said dryly. “Not as young as I sound, I know that for sure.” Damn! he thought. “Does it matter?”
     “Ye-ah! Why would I want to get involved in someone’s high-school project? Look, kid—”
     “I found you, didn’t I?” John asked, letting his voice get hard. “It took about a minute.”
     “Oh, no it didn’t,” Wendy snapped back. She’d worked very hard obscuring her trail, no way some kid could find it in less than an hour.
     “Wendy, if I’d known you were going to be so judgmental about my voice, I would have had you speak to one of my associates. If this is an issue for you I can hang up now. It’s up to you.”
     Associates, she thought. The kid has associates. Well, that was intriguing. Besides, though he sounded young he sure didn’t come across as a kid. Still…
     “Look, this was supposed to be a get-acquainted conversation,” she said at last. “So why don’t you tell me something about yourself and, uh, your organization, I guess.”
     “We’re not exactly an organization,” John explained, relaxing a little. “We don’t have a central location, for example. Our associates are spread all over the world, all over the Net—”
     “Do you have a central address where their reports can be accessed,” Wendy interrupted. “I mean I assume that you’re collecting information for a reason, which means that you interpret what you collect. Presumably you allow your contributors to assist in that.”
     “Actually…” John thought for a moment. How to put this? “Evaluating the kind of information we’re going after isn’t something a person can just walk in and do. You need training.”
     “So, train me.” Wendy tapped a fingernail on the Formica table. “That’s my price ’cause I don’t work for free, and I refuse to work blind.”
     John raised his eyebrows at that. He didn’t need a loose cannon on board. “You’re not even hired yet and you want a seat on the board,” he protested with a light laugh.
     “Look, why did you even want to talk to me if you don’t think I’m worth investing time in?” She was beginning to get annoyed. Speaking of time, this is a waste of it.
     “It was obvious that you’re very smart,” John said. “Also that you might be so bored you didn’t realize you were killing time in a very dangerous way. A lot of you computer jockeys think that what you’re doing on-line isn’t real and doesn’t count. You think you’re perfectly safe behind your keyboards and monitors, but let me tell you, Wendy, if you kick the tiger hard enough it will find you and it won’t be friendly. Those are real fanatics you were talking to.”
     He paused and ran a hand through his dark hair. “I wanted to take your intelligence and talent and direct it into a useful channel. I’d like you to be safe, lady. You’re at MIT, for God’s sake! To the Luddite movement that’s like ground zero, and you think they couldn’t find you. You’re kidding yourself.”
     Hunh, Wendy thought, the kid’s really passionate about this. She knew she was suppressing the unease his words had awakened in her. Perhaps she had been foolish. Careless? Well, unwise, maybe.
     “So what do you want from me?” she asked quietly.
     “I want you to keep your eyes and ears open and to report to us anything you find out that might be useful. Useful being defined as something that will prevent harm from being done. I really don’t care which camp is generating the damage. Are you interested?”
     Wendy thought about it. Was she interested? I dunno, this all sounds kinda weird. A kid gathering information for some undisclosed reason and passing out dire warnings? I don’t think I want to get involved. It wasn’t like she didn’t have enough to do with her time, after all.
     “Sure,” she heard herself say. Then laughed at how she’d surprised herself.
     “What?” John asked.
     “Sure, whatever,” Wendy said. “I guess I’m game. Tell me what you want and I’ll try to get it for you.” It wasn’t like she was joining the army or something.
     So John told her what he was looking for, gave her a few Internet addresses he wanted her to check into and a few general guidelines. When he was finished he hesitated.
     “What?” she said.
     “You might like to recruit some friends to help you out,” he suggested. “People you can trust.”
     Wendy sighed. “Well, I’d like to think I’m unlikely to recruit people I don’t trust.”
     John winced. “Well, you know what I mean.”
     “Yeah, I guess. See you on-line, kid.”
     He could hear the smile in her voice and pressed his lips together impatiently. This wasn’t a terribly auspicious beginning to their relationship. He’d prefer that his recruits not find him amusing.
     Hey, he reminded himself, if she knew the real story she’d run a mile. Screaming.
     “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll keep in touch.” He hung up and sighed heavily. I really need to be grown up, he thought. Too bad it wasn’t something you could arrange. I guess I could work on my voice, or maybe get some sort of synthesizer. I feel grown up, I just don’t sound it. Oh, well. For real emergencies there was always Dieter.