Chapter 14

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Cambridge Massachusetts, October 18, 2011

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Surveillance, even the most professionally conducted, carries a high risk of self- absorption. By focusing so intently on the intended object, the people conducting the operation can become oblivious to searching eyes watching them. James Ellison had seen that happen before and as he looked through his binoculars, he was seeing it again. Auldridge and his team had taken up positions surrounding Carlisle's. To Ellison's experienced gaze, the cover identities were as obvious as their attempt to remain inconspicuous on the well-traveled street.

From his vantage point on the roof of the office building, Ellison counted the watchers, the young woman trying to look like a casual window shopper while using the reflections in the glass to monitor the street behind her; an unshaven vagrant sitting on a doorstep taking periodic swigs from a bottle encased in a paper bag – an oldie but a goodie; the two men ostensibly arguing over an article in the newspaper, although neither looked squarely at the paper or at each other. There might be others, but Ellison doubted it. These four and the squad commander would be the best number for a discreet non-violent surveillance. Backup wouldn't be summoned until they were ready for an arrest– an extraction.

As if on cue, the squad commander stepped out the door of Carlisle's and looked quickly up and down the street. Good God, Ellison thought. What has happened to Auldridge? The man looked ten years older than he did the last time they had met. He reminded Ellison of people he had known who were dying of cancer. Auldridge had that same emaciated, hollow look of a man being consumed from the inside. Yet, he didn't move like a sick man. Indeed, there was bounce, an intensity in his step, like a tightly coiled spring about to break loose.

Auldridge studied the street, verifying the positions of his people before glancing at his watch. Ellison could imagine the thoughts going through the agent's mind. It was nearly twenty minutes until three. If the girl was going to work today, she would be coming along in just a few more minutes. Evidently satisfied that everything was in position, Auldridge turned to reenter the bar. At that moment, Ellison saw the man walking behind the Homeland Security agent. There was nothing particularly threatening about him, but he was closer to Auldridge than a normal bar patron might be. He was well inside the zone of personal privacy that most people tried to maintain, but Auldridge seemed unaware of the man's presence. For now Ellison cataloged his observation for further thought, turning his mind back to the task before him.

"I will find him, I will bring him home." Expansive promises like that should not be lightly offered. He had known that even before the words were spoken. He had not been able to restrain himself, however. The look of desperate hope in Tarissa's eyes was so fragile that he could not bear to see it fade from his wife's pleading expression. The call from Scarpelli had been the first concrete encouragement she had received in so long that she had seized on it with all of a mother's tenacity. There was a chance she might see her son again. The promise had tumbled from his lips before he could contain the words. Now he had to find a way to keep his promises.

It was not going to be easy, he thought as he again swept the street with his binoculars. From his private sources, he knew that the FBI's original missing person search for Daniel Edward Dyson had morphed into something much more serious. The security tapes from Georgia Tech as well as the incident reports from Chicago and Houston had raised suspicions of a computer plot. Homeland Security's concentration on Dyson and Angela Jessup as possible domestic terrorists had taken on an even greater urgency when Auldridge became chief case agent. Any connection, however tangential, with the infamous Sarah Connor would necessarily inflame Auldridge's obsession.

The most immediate question turned on what Auldridge and his people had planned if Angela Jessup, wearing her Christine Miller identity, appeared today. Would they arrest her immediately? Ellison doubted it. Their primary target was Danny Dyson. They wouldn't want to risk spooking him by prematurely arresting his girlfriend. They would watch and wait for the opportunity to trail her home. So his first task would have to concentrate on contacting her and persuading her to trust him. Do that right under the noses of Auldridge and his people in a crowded bar. Nothing to it, piece of cake, Ellison thought sarcastically.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – –

"Are you sure you want to do this Angela?" Danny sounded uncertain.

"It is the best way", she responded. "Eddie has been a good guy; I don't want to leave him in the lurch. Besides, I can get my last check and one last night of tips. We're going to need every penny."

Angela picked up her jacket preparing to leave when she saw the concern on his face deepen. Don't go overly protective on me now, she thought. Pregnant does not mean helpless. It suddenly felt a bit odd since he was usually the strength that she relied upon. Today ,it was her turn to be the reassuring force.

She stepped into his arms and kissed him, a quick soft motion of most lips. She did not want to stir him up too much... Not now at least.

"Eleven o'clock and we are on the road. We always travel faster late at night anyway."

With that wry expression of resignation men adopt when the women they love outmaneuver them... again, Danny nodded. He smiled until the door closed behind her. Then the look of worry and doubt returned. Mentally, he was still wrestling with the ground shaking shock of impending fatherhood. For the first time since they had fled California, he could not focus his thoughts on the grand analytical puzzle they had been working to solve for so long. Angela was going to have a child... his child.

Activity. Physical movement. That was what was needed now. Get on with the packing, catalogue the computer data, go check the car. Do a variety of things so his thoughts could be forced away from his one abiding concern- her. He inwardly conceded his own foolishness. She was right, Angela was always right. Pregnancy did not make her helpless. She was the same strong, brilliant, and independent young woman today she had been yesterday or the day before. She could handle her responsibilities with the same ease she always did.

Danny suddenly slumped into a chair by the kitchen table. He looked at the pile of notebooks he had filled with calculations, new cyber strategies, mathematical insights – the fruits of his well acknowledged genius. No, he thought, as he absentmindedly stacked and re stacked the notebooks. She had not changed, he had. He would not feel content or secure until she was safely beside him again.

The winds were blowing from the north giving the city breezes a sharp briskness. Angela smiled as the chilly air stirred her blood like the biting sensation of a cold shower. For the first time in days, she had not felt sick when she arose. Perhaps it was knowing that she was no longer keeping secrets from him, perhaps it was the awareness that this would be their last day in this city, perhaps it was just the physical pleasure of stretching her legs. Whatever the reason, the mile and a half walk to Carlisle's flew by in the glow of a pleasant afternoon.

The large wooden sign hanging over the door to Carlisle's was swinging slowly back and forth in the soft wind as she strode up the block. She had almost reached the bar when she felt the eyes on her. It was truly a feeling – a physical perception as real to her as touch or sight. Angela knew that men usually found her quite attractive. She was accustomed to their calculating glances, their flirtatious attention as they measured their chances of success with her. This was different. It was concentrated attention not a random glance at a pretty girl, a focus specifically on her – on her as the fugitive Angela Jessup, not as an attractive bartender named Christine.

Nonchalantly, she stopped to check her hair in the reflection from the window of a secondhand bookstore. As she patted it into place, she let her purse slide out of her grasp. It was artfully done, the leather bag struck the pavement and a few items – a compact, a pen, some coins spilled-out. With a look of bemused embarrassment, she knelt to gather up her possessions. An older gentleman, well past the age of romantic pursuit, stopped to help. As they retrieved her various possessions she let her eyes sweep the surrounding area. She picked out at least two of them.

So what now? There were almost certainly more than just the two she had identified. If she tried to run, they would catch her. Her sharp analytical skills fell into place. If they just wanted her, they would have arrested her as soon as she walked into view. No, she thought, they wanted both of them. They wanted Danny.

The blood was freezing in her veins now but she still managed a kindly smile at the ageing Samaritan. Then, with the same easy pace as before, she resumed her walk toward the bar. Her mouth had gone dry while a choking sensation tightened her throat. None of her distress was visible. In the last two years she and Danny had become experts at pretense. For the moment she was just another attractive young woman on her way to work. It would be hours before Danny came to pick her up. She had time to think.

Auldridge had taken the table near the back of the room. Phoebe Marcum, the lone female agent on the crew, came in and joined him, creating the impression of a couple on a date. The others had moved into positions to guard the main door in and out. The bar was secured , the Jessup woman could not leave or Danny Dyson enter without being seen.

Brontë approved of Auldridge's thoroughness. The surveillance detail had blanketed the area. Before the night was over Homeland Security would have young Dyson in custody. Then it would only be a question of gaining sufficient proximity to carry out the leader's directive. The method of termination would rest within his discretion. While his innate sense of personal artistry preferred the idea of closing with the target, followed by the quick snap of the neck, the projectile weapon under his jacket would allow a cruder human-like response, if necessary.

He took another sip of his Scotch, watching Angela Jessup gracefully slide from patron for patron along the long bar. From his position on the last stool on the left, he could see all of the bar's interior space except for the hallway to the restrooms behind him. As Angela moved past him, an inquiring gesture at his glass prompted a negative shake of his head. There was still plenty to savor before a refill. For a moment Brontë wondered about the young woman. The termination order had not specifically included her but it might be prudent to deal with her as well. While he was weighing that point, a sudden shout and the crash of chairs from the table where Agent Auldridge was sitting demanded his attention.

Angela was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain her casual façade. It was almost 9:30 now and the clock was ticking inexorably toward the time Danny would arrive for her. They rarely used cell phones – the possibility of tracking was not a risk that Danny wanted. Her only means of contacting him now rested with the bar's payphone – a rarely used relic of less technological age. Three times she had tried and on each occasion there had been no answer. He must be running errands, loading the car, the possibilities were endless. The time remaining was not.

She felt confident that by this time she had picked out most of the surveillance team – the man and woman sitting for hours at a back table, drinking nothing but soft drinks or club soda, the two men standing against the side wall whose conversation looked forced and unemotional. There was another man just outside the front door who stepped inside occasionally and then almost immediately retreated. There might be one or more outside watching the street. She considered whether the Scotch drinker at the end of the bar might be part of the squad. At times he seemed to be looking at her with a peculiar expression. Finally, she dismissed him from her calculations. He was drinking hard stuff – a fairly large amount of it, in fact. The cops, or FBI, or whoever these other people were, would not let one of their people get drunk. Yet, she could still feel his eyes – a clinical stare with none of the usual romantic undertones of other men.

Her last attempt to call Danny again went unanswered. God dammit Danny!, she cursed to herself. Where the hell are you? It was after ten now so her options were closing fast until only one was left. Whatever the cost, these people would not be allowed to capture him. She would not permit it.

She realized what she had to do. At the end of the hall where the restrooms were located, there was a fire door. Opening it would set off alarms, sirens and flashing lights all over the bar. She looked again at the clock, almost 10:15 now. Wait another half hour or so and then just go. Down the hall, push open the fire door, set off the alarms and run like hell. She had been on the track team in high school so she knew she could generate speed. It would not be enough, of course. They would catch her, but every block she could lead them away would help Danny. He would arrive to see police and firemen all over the area. He would understand that there was nothing else to do except leave, leave her.

Angela's throat tightened as she quickly blinked back a tear To hide her growing despair, she smiled broadly at one of the men at the bar. Keep the illusion, she thought. Hold yourself together just a little longer. There was a poem she suddenly recalled from high school literature class. THE HIGHWAYMAN. Bess, the landlord's daughter fired a musket into her own body to warn her outlaw lover of a trap. At the time she had thought it was sappily romantic – an old maid's wet dream. Now suddenly it seemed inspiring. Be patient and calm. Just a little bit longer.

Patience was something Auldridge was finding it difficult to achieve. In the last hour the headache – a blinding pain behind his eyes- had returned with an even fiercer intensity than usual. The pills he tried to swallow unobtrusively had only dulled the ache. In the last few minutes, the room had suddenly become hot, so oppressively hot that he mopped his brow repeatedly but perspiration still poured into his eyes. He became aware that Agent Marcum, sitting at the table with him had begun to study him with suspicion rather than sympathy. She probably thinks I'm on something he thought. Why didn't Dyson just show up so they could get this over with.?

Glancing around, he was trying to locate one of the waiters –order a cold drink – when he saw her. She had come down the hall from the restrooms, stopped at the entrance to the bar, and leaned against the doorframe. She looked relaxed, unconcerned in her blue jeans and a sweater. As she made eye contact with him, she smirked in a taunting expression and he could almost hear the words, "I never liked funny boys."

He leaped to his feet so quickly that he kicked his chair away. It clattered and rolled hard against another customer who cursed in response. Ignoring him, he drew his service pistol from his shoulder holster. "Sarah Connor! Don't move, Homeland Security!"

With a contemptuously dismissive air, she ignored his command, spinning around and disappearing down the hallway. Pushing, shoving, Auldridge drove himself through the throng at the bar, desperately trying to reach the hallway. Danny Dyson had just become irrelevant. Behind him Agent Marcum watched, first in shock, then dismay. So much for covert surveillance, she thought. Reluctantly pulling her own pistol, she started in pursuit of Auldridge. The two other members of the team moved toward her as well. Pointing at the front door, she shouted at Agent Frank Shekels of her office who had just stepped inside. "Stay there. Guard the door. No one leaves."

Auldridge had already reached the restrooms at the end of the hall when Marcum caught up. He was staring wildly in one direction and then another, his eyes gleaming with a manic intensity.

"What that the Hell is going on?"

"Sarah Connor. Didn't you see her? She was right here!"

Marcum, of course, knew who Sarah Connor was. At that moment she was far less certain that she knew who Auldridge was.

"Where is she then?" Marcum looked at the undisturbed fire door. No one had opened it.

"She must be in one of the restrooms. We have to search them both, now!"

It took five minutes and produced several screams of outrage from the women's facility as men with drawn weapons stormed inside. When the now thoroughly confused detail reassembled back in the hallway, Auldridge found himself the unwelcome center of attention.

"You must have mistaken someone else for her." One of the male agents tried to sound understanding.

"No I didn't. I wasn't wrong. I tell you, I saw her."

"Then where did she go? Did she vanish into thin air?" The second male agent made no attempt to even pretend sympathy.

Auldridge ignored the taunt, holstered his weapon, and stormed angrily back into the bar.

"What do we do now, Phoebe?"

Marcum shook her head wearily. "He is still the case agent in charge. I'll go talk to him, but we might as well just go ahead and arrest the Jessup woman. She's got to know what's going on now."

The scene back in the bar was one of barely managed disorder. The normal buzz of conversation had degenerated into a roar of questions, speculation, anger, and concern. Over by the door, Frank Shekels was finding the task of controlling the exit one of increasing difficulty. A small crowd was gathering around him, shouting a broad range of threats if he did not let them leave. Shekels was on the verge of drawing his weapon.

Marcum saw that Auldridge had returned to the table where he had slumped back into his chair, burying his face in his hands. Before trying to deal with him, she waved her hand toward Shekels. "It's all right Frank. Let them leave if they want."

Shekels stepped aside, allowing a knot of angry customers to storm past him. Surprisingly, there were also people outside seeking to enter. The hypnotic appeal of excitement had exerted a pull. Shekels, however, had had quite enough of this crap so he followed the exodus, seeking to regain his more secure position outside, watching the street.

Back inside, all the other members of the detail had gathered around Auldridge's small table. Before anyone could speak, he lifted his head, his face red and streaming with perspiration.

"I tell you I saw her!"

"I'm sure you think so." Marcum's placating tone carried a note of condescension. It was the voice used to reassure an old relative fading into dementia. "But we can't find her and we are blown here. We might as well take her into custody and see what we can get by interrogation."

As she spoke, Marcum gestured toward the bar. Auldridge looked up to see Angela Jessup staring at him from her bartender post. He felt a strong sense of surprise – as if he just remembered that there was another reason besides Sarah Connor for his presence there. He was about to agree with Marcum when his gaze shifted to the front door. Two men of college-age strolled in headed for the bar. Behind them came a woman, dark-haired, blue jeans, a pullover sweater. She stopped three or four steps inside and looked at him. The smile on her face now was even broader, triumphant, almost laughing at him.

His cry had an animalistic quality. There were no recognizable words – only a visceral scream of rage. The various inhabitants of the bar, trying to settle back into an atmosphere of normality, recoiled from him in shock.

Before any of the other agents could stop him, Auldridge again he drew his weapon. People frantically tried to get out of his way but in a crowded area near the door the seemed to be no place to go – or no place until Auldridge smashed through them driving bodies in different directions. She again turned away when he jumped to his feet. It would not help her now; he was only a few feet behind her. He saw her walk out the door, but she wouldn't get away, No, not this time.

Caleb Brontë watched this latest example of guerrilla theater with a mixture of curiosity and displeasure. His plan to acquire the younger Dyson with official assistance appeared to have struck the rocks. Humans were such unusual and unpredictable creatures. Rising from his stool, he decided to follow the agents and the latest stream of fleeing customers desperately trying to get outside. Whether Auldridge's value as a Skynet asset had been fatally compromised was a matter that needed to be assessed. The Jessup woman appeared frozen in shock behind the bar, so the situation might still be retrieved.

Or not. Brontë immediately realized that Auldridge was close to erupting into an emotional fireball. He was shouting, screaming at the one named Shekels while the remaining agents were trying unsuccessfully to calm him.

"I tell you that no woman came out." Agent Shekels sounded nearly as angry as Auldridge. "I was right here. The only people who came out ahead of you was an old black guy and a kid with pimples. I would have seen a woman."

Brontë carefully edged around the agents who were encircling and increasingly incoherent Auldridge. Was this what happened then, Brontë wondered. Was this the effect on human brains when Fischer's psychological conditioning broke down?

The answer to that question followed instantly. With sharp piercing stare, Auldridge looked at Brontë – really looked at him- saw him in a way that was not supposed to happen. The conditioning called for Auldridge to ignore him completely unless the code words had been spoken. Now those code words were spoken, but not by Brontë.

"Old college buddy, old college buddy, old college buddy." The words poured from Auldridge's mouth with a liturgical precision. With each repetition the level of his voice rose from a whisper to a shout to a scream. The pistol, still in his hand, rose to a firing position as the hysteria took control. Auldridge squeezed the trigger just as Phoebe Marcum frantically pushed his arm upward. The shots rang out, one, two, three before the other agents were able to seize Auldridge and pry the gun from his hand.

Watching the agents wrestle their berserk colleague to the ground, Brontë mentally crossed Agent Auldridge off of the Skynet asset list. So this was, indeed, what happened. Mr. Fischer would be interested. Madness lay the end of the process. Pity, Brontë thought. Auldridge had been quite useful.

The screeching wail of a fire alarm erupting from inside Carlisle's put the final touch on the scene of unrestrained chaos. The agents struggling to restrain Auldridge had managed to handcuff him and were trying to pull him toward a vehicle when a flood of panicked humanity surged out the door. To make matters worse, if possible, the noise had attracted attention at the other nearby establishments. The thrill seeking patrons from those buildings also poured onto the street.

Brontë made no effort to return to the bar. The Jessup woman was intelligent so she wouldn't be in there now. She would have used the exploding confusion of the shots and the fire alarm to slip out the fire doors at the back. The situation might still be salvaged, however. When she arrived for work, she had come walking down the street from someplace east of Carlisle's. She had no vehicle, so she would be on foot, trying to get back to where ever she and Dyson had been staying. With a quick stride he moved through the outer edges of the crowd and down the street.

She was almost two blocks away when he saw her. Her arms were tightly clutched to her side, and she appeared to be shivering. In her frantic escape from the bar, she had not even taken time to retrieve her coat. She maintained a steady brisk gait, while staying close to the storefronts in an effort to be as inconspicuous as possible. Brontë slowed his pace so the sound of his footsteps on the pavement would not carry to her ears. There was only one place she could be going now –home – the place where Danny Dyson would be waiting. The plan would still succeed. All that was required of him now was stealth and patience. Brontë was confident, as he watched Jessup's progress, that he had more than a sufficient supply of those qualities.

He was a half a block behind her, covered by the shadows on the opposite side of the street, when she stopped. The ground-level door to an upstairs apartment swung open and she disappeared inside. Excellent, Brontë thought. The prey was running to ground. It was time to conclude today's work.

Slowly and deliberately, he walked across the street. Parked by the curb near the door he saw a nondescript older model sedan with signs of having been hurriedly packed. The rear seat was filled with boxes and clothing all thrown in somewhat haphazardly. This must be their vehicle, he thought. They were preparing to run. Too late for that.

The street entrance door had locked behind her, but it took only a quick push of his hand to break it open. Listening carefully for voices, he climbed the stairs, twenty three steps, and he stood on the landing facing the last barrier to the apartment – a scratched and battered old door that would not be an obstacle.

The voice came from inside, a male, a young man with a tone of urgency in his words. " Hurry up Angela. We have to get out of here fast."

True, Brontë thought. You do have to go. Placing his palm in the center of the door he shoved. The old wood cracked in protest as the door burst open. A young African-American male was standing by a kitchen table gathering up a sheaf of papers. Over to the left, behind another cheap wooden door, Brontë could hear the sound of water running. The girl was in the bathroom. Good enough, she wasn't the immediate concern anyway.

As Brontë stepped into the room ,the young man dropped his papers in a fit of surprise. "Who the hell are you? What do you want?"

Brontë's internal processors accessed the files, examined the photographs, and compared the stored images with the man standing before him in the room. Yes. This was Danny Dyson.

"My name is Brontë, Mr. Dyson. I would say that I am glad to meet you, but I fear you will not share the same sentiment." As he spoke, Brontë pulled out a pistol aiming at Dyson's chest,all in one smooth movement. The prey raised his hands, almost in supplication, and managed one plaintive " No!" before Brontë fired.

The pistols was an automatic so four shots struck with near simultaneous force. He staggered, looked down at the gushing red liquid oozing through his shirt, and collapsed onto the floor. Brontë was about to turn the bathroom when he heard the sound of footsteps, multiple footsteps pounding up the stairs. While completely confident that he could deal with any number of intruding humans, his sense of artistic simplicity, of economy of effort counseled withdrawal. The task was completed.

It took him only three quick strides to reach the window overlooking the street. Using both hands, he shoved at the framing, sending the entire window assembly crashing to the pavement below. He could tell the humans on the steps had almost reached the top. Too bad he couldn't stay to greet them. Feet first, he swung himself in the opening and dropped the street. Human ankles would have shattered, but he landed, and walked away in one unhurried motion.

James Ellison was slightly embarrassed. He believed that he was in good, perhaps even excellent physical condition, so he fully expected to be the first one up the stairs. Sarah Connor, however, had both physical stamina and a fierce will more driven than his own. Even with the heavy prototype plasma rifle in her hands, she still beat him to the door by a full stride.

Inside the apartment Sarah swept the muzzle around as she scanned the room for any hostile movement. Ellison, confident that she was covering his back, rushed over to the shattered window. He thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of a solitary figure as it passed around the corner and down the street – out of sight.

"Clear." He said turning back to face her.

"Clear", Sarah responded.

"No!" The tortured scream was ripped from Angela's throat as she stared with disbelief at the bleeding body on the floor. She stood transfixed in the doorway to the apartment, her breath coming in short bursts from the pounding exertion of running up a flight of stairs.

"Danny! No!" She stumbled forward her body jerking, fighting two impulses. She wanted to run to him but another voice told her it was pointless – everything was pointless now.

Ellison virtually leaped back across the room, holstering his gun, and wrapping his arms around Angela. "Listen to me ,Angela. Listen to me. That isn't Danny."

The disbelief, the confusion on Angela's face turned into a stunned amazement. The blood seeping from Danny's body began to flow back into him while changing color from red to a glowing silver. Then the body itself took on the same metallic sheen as it changed shape, first into formless mass, then the outline of the standing figure. Angela blinked and where her dead love had been sprawled on the floor, there now stood an attractive red-haired woman dressed in an elegantly tailored designer pantsuit.

"What….how?" Angela's ability to form a coherent sentence slipped away.

"Catherine, where is Danny?"

Catherine Weaver smiled, her best Mona Lisa impression, and pointed toward the bathroom. "He is in there. I'm afraid I had to be a bit forceful. There was not time for prolonged explanations."

Angela's eyes darted towards the bathroom door. Renewed hope acted as a powerful jolt of adrenaline. Spinning out of Ellison's grasp, she raced to the door, jerked it open, and for a moment, froze into a portrait of unrestrained wonder. Jammed into a seating position on the floor between the commode and the sink, Danny looked up at her with an expression of amazement that matched her own. He held out his arms and whispered, "Angela".

She dove into his arms, weeping, laughing at the same time. In that most unromantic of settings possible, they kissed each other with a passion beyond measure. At the doorway James Ellison looked down at them was something approaching paternal affection. He had kept his word to Tarissa.

After a long minute, Danny looked up at him while Angela rested her head on his shoulder. "Who are you?"

Ellison knelt on the floor beside them. "My name is James Ellison. Your mother… my wife sent me. She sent me to bring you home… both of you." The sincerity in Ellison's voice was all Danny needed to hear. He reached out with his free hand and greeted his stepfather.

Sarah walked over to stand along side Catherine. They both looked at the emotional reunion taking place with varying degrees of satisfaction.

"I believe you can contact John, Sarah. You can report mission successful."

Watching as James helped Danny and Angela to their feet, Sarah nodded in agreement. "You did good work tonight, Thelma."

Catherine smile actually looked mischievous. "Do you really think so?"

Sarah took a deep breath. She was really going to milk this for all it was worth, she thought. But it was still the truth. From her multiple Sarah Connor impersonations, to the image of a frightened Angela hurrying down a darkened street, to a death scene good enough to fool a sophisticated cyborg assassin, Catherine's shape shifting talents had been invaluable. It just pained Sarah so much to admit it.

"Yes, Catherine. I really do think so."

"Well, well, well. Praise from Sarah Connor. I would never have expected that."

"Don't let it go to your head" Sarah replied. " It probably won't ever happen again."