Carlsbad California
June 6 2007

"I'm sorry, trooper." The bubble tech was a man in late middle age: gray-haired, bespectacled, and thirty pounds overweight. He had been young and thin as a greyhound when John Connor had sent him uptime, just one subjective year –to her- before. But he'd been sent to nineteen-seventy, and had spent his last thirty-seven years subjective far from the fears and privations of the War. His manner told her that he didn't recognize her from their brief meeting just before he'd transited.

He went on, "I never expected it to take so long, either. But I've had to bootstrap a hell of a lot of tech to get it this far, and material problems stop me cold for years at a time until I can find a source. Hell, some of this stuff, possession isn't even legal. I'm sure I'll be able to build a second one in a matter of months, once I finish the first one. But the first one's taken half my life."

She looked at the crude temporal displacement stage and the racks of off-the-shelf PCs wired together to form a processor capable of managing a time hop. "How much longer?"

"I'm almost there. Couple months, maybe. Three at the most."

She knew there were other time-travelers building future-tech equipment elsewhere and elsewhen, including displacement devices. But she'd been instructed to use this one, and there might be a reason that John hadn't told her about. The delay would make no difference to the date of her arrival at her final destination, of course, and her power cell would keep her running long after Judgment Day; she could afford to wait. She nodded. "It's all right. I'll be back."

Two days later, she was still in Carlsbad. She sat at a window booth in a little diner at a strip mall, an untouched grapefruit half on the table in front of her, and watched the people in the diner and outside in the lot; it was an excellent setting for people-watching, which was a directive of her programming. At the same time, she was considering how she might profitably spend the next three months. Her orders included a contingency plan for early arrival in 1999, but not for a delay in 2007. She had general instructions to protect John and thwart Skynet whenever and wherever an opportunity presented itself, but she had no idea where John was in this when. She had a list of research projects to check off that could be performed just as well here and now as in 1999 –or maybe not. Again, changing the plan would involve second-guessing the man who led the Human Resistance, a high-risk decision. She was considering the option of renting a storage space and going into standby for three months when she heard a voice beside her.

"Excuse me, miss."

She looked up and saw a young man in uniform. Not the uniform of any police or military organization in her data stores: although similar in cut and pattern to U.S. Marine woodland BDUs, the badging was not, and she was sure he hadn't come from the big Marine base to the north of town. Then she saw the ID strip over one shirt pocket, which read, 'BEDELL.'

She recognized the name immediately: Martin Bedell had been killed before she had come to John's service, but John had mourned the man's loss enough to speak of him frequently to her. This boy's age matched, and the uniform agreed with John's account of his friend's history. If he was who he appeared to be, then standing over her was the future West Pointer who would turn the Resistance into a fighting force capable of taking the battle to the machines, as John was the man who had given them the will and direction. In his own way, this man would be as essential to the survival of the human race as John Connor.

The young man smiled. "I know lame this sounds, but have we met somewhere before?" He extended a hand. "Martin Bedell."

She took his hand, smiling in return. "No. I'm sure we haven't. Alicia Phillips."

"Are you sure? I could swear."

"I've been hearing that a lot lately."

"All guys, I bet. Mind if I sit down?"

"No." When his smile faded, she added, "I don't mind."

His smile returned, and he sat opposite, setting the small bag in his left hand on the seat beside him. "What are you having?"

"Just water and grapefruit. And some peace and quiet."

His face fell. "And I'm bothering you, acting like a horny soldier on leave. Sorry, that just slipped out." He started to slide out of the booth, but slowly, as if waiting for a response.

"I don't mind," she said again; it was a stock answer when a human made a statement that her semantic analyzer identified as an apology or request for permission of some sort. She searched for a compliment to put him at ease. "I like your uniform."

"It's true? I always thought it was a bunch of BS."

"What?"

He grinned. "That girls love a guy in uniform." He settled back in. "I'm from the academy up the road. Presidio Alto. In town on a day pass."

She searched her files of cover-story options, looking for something suitable. "I'm visiting friends over the summer, before I start at Dartmouth." Dartmouth was a small, exclusive college located in New Hampshire, a small state on the East Coast; 'returning' to it would be a plausible reason for her later disappearance.

"Dartmouth? You must be a girl genius."

She shrugged her head. "Not really."

"Don't be so modest. I heard they're a need-blind school, and they get, like, twenty applicants for every one they accept."

This was more information than she had on file for the school; she decided it would be prudent to steer him away from the subject. "I'm sure Presidio Alto doesn't accept everyone who applies either."

"No. But the school turns down a lot of guys who're full of lame ideas about what the military is like." He glanced around. "So, where are your friends now?"

"I'm sightseeing. They didn't come with me."

And what kind of sights are you seeing in Carlsbad?"

She consulted her files of local tourist attractions, and found a single entry. "Legoland."

He snorted. "And what did you think of that?"

Taking a cue from his reaction, she said, "Not much."

"Hm." His eyelids lowered. "Sounds like we're both looking for something to do."

Martin Bedell wasn't her mission. But defeating Skynet was. Bedell seemed a likely target for pre-emptive termination by the machines; since she was forced to spend the next several unplanned weeks in this here-and-now without a required task, perhaps shadowing Bedell might be the best use of her time.

"Yes." She searched her memory again. "Do you run?"

-0-

"How … much …" Martin gasped.

She consulted her inertial guidance system as they pelted down the wooded trail, feet kicking up the fine sand that floored it. "Six hundred meters. Should we slow down?"

"No. Just go."

Two point eight minutes later, they reached the clearing near the park's vehicle lot that marked the start and end of the sixteen-mile nature trail. She halted and assessed their surroundings, looking for threats. Martin slowed to a walk, circling her, puffing and coughing. He bent, hawked, and spat. "Sorry."

"Sorry for what?" She scanned the lot and the trees all around, and judged they were safe from attack. The roof of a multi-story building was just visible over the treetops to the east: a possible sniper position. She placed herself between it and Martin, waiting for him to get his breath.

He looked up at her with his hands on his knees, wheezing. "Jesus, you're not… even breathing hard. You… said you ran. You didn't say you… were a marathoner." He coughed again. His face and limbs suddenly shone with perspiration. She filed the observation for future reference, as a reminder to direct her sheath to exude moisture during high levels of activity. She directed it to do so now, and a light sheen appeared on her skin.

She was unsure of the meaning behind his words, so she chose what her options list categorized as a safe answer. "I didn't? My bad."

Martin consulted his watch. "We ran sixteen miles cross-country in just over an hour and a half. I should be dead."

"You're very fit, Martin. Your life wasn't at risk." She had evaluated his performance during the run, and judged that Martin should be able to outrun a Triple-Eight for at least a kilometer on any terrain.

"No, just my pride." He blew heavily, grinning. "You look built for speed, but I didn't expect you to run like you could do it all day."

She could run for years, not that she would tell him so, of course. She unbound her ponytail and retied it, re-trapping a few locks that had come free. "I'm sure I could. I'm not tired at all."

Martin grinned as he mopped his face with a hand. "Endorphins. Nature's NOS." His sleeveless sweatshirt was soaked with perspiration. He noticed her regard. "I must look like a drowned cat. How come girls look hot when they're a little sweaty?"

"They do?" It seemed an odd observation; overheating was, after all, the whole point of perspiration.

"Well, you do, anyway." He pulled the damp material away from his skin and flapped it. "I was going to invite you out to dinner or a movie, but not like this. If I go back to the dorm to shower and change, I won't get back out." He looked hopefully at her. "I shouldn't ask, but I've got another change of clothes. Do you think your friends would mind if I used their shower?"

"My friends live in …" She searched memorized maps for the name of a distant suburb. "Palmdale."

"Oh."

An idea occurred, prompted by the map still displayed in her inner vision. "Hotel rooms have showers."

He stopped flapping his shirt. "Huh?"

"There's a hotel close by. I have money." She added, "But you'd have to sign the register." Her database for this here-and-now didn't include any forgers who might supply her with ID and, until this afternoon, she hadn't foreseen a need for any.

He studied her carefully for six seconds; his sudden tension made clear that she'd committed an error of some sort. "Maybe I'm a little slow on the uptake, Alicia. What am I being offered here?"

Cautiously, she said, "I'm offering to buy you a shower. So you can invite me out."

He relaxed. "You're a very hard girl to figure out. Anybody ever tell you that?" His grin told her he was joking.

Since it seemed appropriate, she laughed, just a short chuckle; she knew that a human's reaction to laughter changed unpredictably if it was too loud or went on too long. Socializing with humans was orders of magnitude more difficult than blending in; there were so few consistent rules, and so many instructions and variables to learn and keep track of. She noted that he was breathing almost normally now, and, still mindful of the tall building nearby, decided to move them under cover. "Let's move under a tree and talk."

"Yeah. A little shade would be good." He studied her again. "I know I'm beating a dead horse here, but I swear I've seen you before. You ever modeled? Been on TV, maybe?"

She shook her head. "Nothing like that. Maybe I have a twin somewhere." Or my template strongly resembles her mother. This couldn't be the same sort of mistaken identity as Dyle's; if her template had been born yet, the girl could be no older than a kindergartner.

Martin ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Call me old-fashioned. But if we go to a hotel, I'm paying for it." He seemed suddenly uncomfortable, and looked away. "We could take turns in the shower, if you've got a change."

Bathing was an infrequent practice downtime, but fresh water was plentiful in this here-and-now, and all the people she'd observed were clean and well-groomed. Nevertheless, Martin's tone and manner told her that he wasn't sure of her reaction to his offer. Was he embarrassed to imply that she was dirty? Or… perhaps he preferred she not shower for some reason, but was being polite? She considered a number of responses before saying, "Okay."

His demeanor grew even more cautious. "If we go a little upscale, pick a place with a restaurant … we could stay in and order room service. If you want."

She decided that the reluctance of his second offer was too strong to ignore. She turned toward her stolen car. "A movie would be best. I'm not hungry."

"Alicia. I'm sorry."

She stopped with a hand on the door handle. "Sorry for what?"

"Don't be like that. Look, if you want to forget the whole thing, we can part ways here."

What mistake had she made? She turned back to him and studied his face and posture, trying to determine what to say. He stood eye-to-eye with her, waiting tensely; even though he'd felt compelled to suggest it, she decided, he didn't really want her to leave.

"I don't want to do that," she said. Remembering his reaction to her earlier offer, she added, "Martin, sometimes you're hard to figure out."

He laughed, and she smiled in response, completely mystified at what had just transpired, but relieved at her apparent success at salvaging the situation. She almost suggested they share the shower to save time, but decided to leave well enough alone.

-0-

"You're really enjoying this?" Sitting beside her in the dark and nearly empty theater, Martin stared up at the screen. "It's not too late to see something else. There are six screens in this place. There's got to be at least one chick flick showing."

"What's wrong with this one?" She watched a screaming man on the screen staring down at the makeshift spear which had just pierced him through, blood jetting from his chest. She noted that a real injury so severe in that location would have punctured and pinned the diaphragm, making drawing breath to scream impossible.

"The production values suck. I've seen better acting in high school plays. The story is lame and pointless." Then he added, "Doesn't all the blood and gore bother you?"

"You're training for a military career. Does it bother you?"

"Senseless violence does. Career soldiers work to keep people safe."

"I'm sure you'll be good at it." She rose. "What's a chick flick?"

Twenty minutes later, in another theater, she felt Martin's arm settle gently around her shoulders. After a moment, he said, "Am I pushing too hard?"

The pressure of his arm was negligible; she was certain he was holding most of its weight off her. "You're not pushing hard at all."

"You sure? You seem kinda stiff."

"That's just the way I am."

"It's not the way you seem." His hand cupped her shoulder and pulled. It took her a moment to realize he was trying to draw her closer. She let him close the small gap between them until she was tucked into his side. "I'm really surprising myself right now," he said. "I'm not a skirt-chaser, honest to God. I haven't pressed a girl this hard since eighth grade. You just seem so …"

"Different?"

"It's not a line."

She didn't understand, but she knew that sometimes it was risky to ask for clarification in matters where knowledge was presumed; any but the most neutral responses could be dangerously revealing. She let her posture relax. "It's not?"

"Well… not this time. Bad time to ask, but do you have a boyfriend?"

"No," she said. "Never."

"Never?" His tone of voice told her that he didn't believe; further, that what she'd said was unbelievable. She recalled that, in the tunnels, females her apparent age were seldom without mates, although some of those mates were very short-term.

"Not lately," she amended. "And not memorable."

His fingers moved gently up and down her shoulder. "Bad one, huh? Want to talk about it?"

"No." Again remembering the girls in the tunnels, she leaned her head over, nearly touching his. "I want to talk about you."

A peevish male voice spoke up behind them. "Then take it outside. We all heard enough already."

-0-

"Whoa. Have we really been talking for two hours?" Martin's regard shifted from his watch back to her face, where it had been for most of the time they'd been sharing this park bench.

Her internal clock registered an elapsed time of two hours, six minutes, and forty seconds since they had picked this spot and sat. "About." She had questioned him closely about his skills and training while steering the conversation away from herself. Nevertheless, he'd had many questions of his own, and she'd been forced to assemble an elaborate cover in exchange for her expanded file on Martin Bedell, future Lieutenant Commander of the Human Resistance. She concluded that, however they'd met, John had been very lucky to find him.

"I got to get back, or I'll miss evening roll." He grinned. "Wouldn't do for the Cadet Captain to get a demerit." He grew serious. "Can I call you?"

"No." When he frowned, she went on, "I don't have a phone."

"A girl your age doesn't have a phone?"

"I don't talk to many people."

He watched the pedestrians strolling by. "Lise, am I gonna see you again?"

She considered. "Can't I stay with you?"

He blinked, then smiled. "Err, no. Even in a uniform, nobody'd mistake you for a cadet. Stop teasing, I'm serious."

"When will you have another pass?"

"This weekend, if I keep my nose clean."

She reached up and drew a fingertip along the side of his nose. "So far, so good."

"Yeah. So far so great." He closed his hand, tipped her chin up, and brushed a thumb across her lower lip.

She put two fingers to her lip; she could still detect the warmth of his thumb's passage across it. "Why did you do that?"

"Because those lips were made to be kissed. But it's too soon."

More puzzling statements. She studied his face, trying to determine an appropriate response, but her inputs didn't generate any options. Instead, she said, "Can I drive you to school, then?" The trip from town to the Academy seemed a good ambush opportunity.

He grinned. "Only if you drop me off at the front gate. I don't want any of those characters to lay eyes on you. I'm worried enough about hanging on to you as it is." His eyebrows rose. "Wait, I didn't mean that. Well, yeah, I did, but I don't mean to say you'd …" He stopped. "I'm just digging myself in deeper, huh?"

"I don't mind." She added a small smile.

Ten minutes later, she brought the car to a stop among the trees twenty meters short of the school's gate. She said to Martin, "Is this close enough?"

"Perfect." He reached over the back of the seat for his bag and set it in his lap. He studied her, seeming to weigh a decision. "If you really want to see me again, I'll be at the restaurant on Friday, eighteen hundred."

She shook her head. "Meet me here at seventeen-thirty. I'll pick you up."

He grinned. "Guess I made an impression."