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-101's 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.
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 rain 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.
WILMINGTON, DELAWARE: THE PRESENT
Jordan Dyson chewed on his lower lip. The advertisement for a head of security for Cyberdyne was no longer listed. He'd seriously considered applying for the job; he knew that some agents had gone on to lucrative civilian careers in security or related fields. But he liked working for the Bureau. Besides, he probably didn't have the street cred. His job here was primarily research and he was very, very good at it. But they would probably be looking either for
someone who had climbed the corporate ladder, or someone who'd been outrunning bullets and clipping on handcuffs.