Tek Kill

by William Shatner

  “Up to Frisco to trace the Tek connection,” answered Bascom. “Strive to remain alive.”

  21

  THE naked young woman seated herself before the dressing-room mirror. After considering the five wigs scattered on the small plastiglass table, she selected a bright red one and began fitting it over her close-cropped blond hair. “Darn sakes, Marney,” she said, addressing her image, “what’s somebody with your batch of talents doin’ in a dump like this—in the Texas Territory, for cryin’ out loud? Once upon a time out west you were a—hey!”

  The neowood door had come flapping open. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Pistol Packin’ Marney?” inquired the large, wide black man who pushed in, smiling.

  “Heck almighty!” Marney jumped up, grabbing the kimono off the back of her chair and starting to slip into it. “Haven’t you ever heard of somethin’ called privacy?”

  “Every hour on the hour you go out there and, after singing, dancing, and giving an exhibition of trick shooting, you do a strip,” the intruder reminded her. His right arm was made of silvery metal and he began massaging it now, as though it were giving him pain. “So being observed in a state of undress ought not to faze you.”

  “Darn sakes, that’s show business out in the club, an’ this here is my private dressin’ room, an’ what in the holy heck is the idea of your bargin’ in like a—”

  “I’m your new agent, Marney,” he explained, shutting the door behind him and approaching her.

  “I already got one rude an’ crude agent, which is more than plenty.”

  “Oh, but you need me, Marney.” He held out his metallic right hand.

  Very reluctantly, she shook it. “I would like it very much if you’d just up an’ get the—yow!” An electric shock had gone jumping from his hand to hers. She pulled free of his silvery grip, turned her back on him, and sat again in the chair. “What in the almighty heck was that for?”

  “A sample of what you might experience,” he answered. “Keep in mind, Marney, that what you got was the lowest setting.”

  “What the darn heck do you want?”

  “My name is Sam Cimarron,” he said. “When I’m not acting as a talent agent, I serve in assorted capacities for Sleeper Farris.”

  “Oh, heck,” she said. “I only owe Sleeper somethin’ tiny. The amount still due on my loan isn’t more than—”

  “$15,900.”

  “It can’t, nope, be anythin’ like that.”

  “Well, you haven’t been keeping up your weekly payments for a while now, Marney. Interest is compounded daily, remember.”

  Marney tangled her fingers in the red hair of the wig. “All righty, I suppose I can make a token payment right today,” she said tentatively. “You gotta be aware that the salary they’re payin’ me in this hole isn’t anywhere near lavish.”

  Cimarron smiled more broadly and snapped his metal fingers. “Sleeper is willing, if certain conditions are met, to cancel the entire debt.”

  “I’m not going to bed with any more of his ugly friends.”

  Leaning toward her, resting his silver hand on her slim shoulder, Cimarron told her, “I’ve got you booked up in Sweet-water, Marney. At $2,500 a week. You’ll be playing the lounge at the Sweetwater Casino.”

  She frowned at his image in her mirror. “Do I have to take off my clothes?”

  “No, not at all. This is a high-class situation. Sing, dance, do some shooting. All very tasteful.”

  “What’s the darn catch?”

  Cimarron said, “You spent quite a lot of time out in Greater Los Angeles.”

  “I worked on the vidnet for a couple years, until I—”

  “Among your many friends was a private eye named Sid Gomez.”

  She looked up at him over her shoulder. “He really was a friend. Gomez pulled me out of a heck of a mess once, an’ it was just only ’cause he was my friend. Of all the—”

  “Gomez, so we hear, is coming to Texas.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t cheer me,” she confessed. “No, ’cause it sounds like you got somethin’ nasty in mind for him.”

  “Not at all,” Cimarron assured her. “Not at all, Marney. The situation is simply that there are certain people curious as to what he’ll be doing once he arrives in the Sweetwater area.”

  “You want me to spy on him, huh?”

  “Let’s call it supplying us with information,” he said, still smiling. “You do that for a few days, or however long it should take, and then Sleeper will forget completely that you ever borrowed any dough from him.”

  “And what happens to Gomez?”

  “You have my word that no serious harm will befall him.”

  “But they’re gonna do a lot of unserious harm.”

  The pressure of his metal fingers increased on her shoulder. “Were I you, Pistol Packin’ Marney, I’d accept this little assignment,” he advised her. “Otherwise I’ll probably have to do you serious and substantial harm.”

  Marney asked, “They won’t kill Gomez?”

  “If they wanted to kill the guy, they’d just go kill him, wouldn’t they?” He shook his head. “What they want, though, is a detailed inside report on what he does and whom he sees while poking around Sweetwater and vicinity. You can provide that. And, by the way, I won’t even take the usual agent’s fee out of your $2,500.”

  After almost a full minute, she asked, “When do I go to Sweetwater?”

  “Right now,” Cimarron answered.

  THE SKYCAB SAID, “I never can get used to this GLA weather.” The windshield wipers came clicking on as the cab climbed higher into the rainy midday sky. “It’s sunny, then it’s raining, then it’s foggy, then it’s smoky, then it’s sunny. All in the same blinking day.”

  In the passenger seat, Jake said, “Aren’t you a local cab?”

  The voxbox on the dash replied, “Naw, I was built in Outer Detroit four years ago. Michigan, now there’s a place for dependable climate. You understand what I’m saying? You get a blizzard and it lasts a week, and it’s a blizzard all the way through. Then you get a tornado and it’s a plain and simple tornado. Weather there has a beginning, a middle, and an end. As in classical drama. None of this back-and-forth Greater LA crap.”

  “Interesting,” said Jake.

  “They shipped me out here a year ago and it’s been inconsistency ever since.”

  “Interesting,” said Jake.

  “If I’m bending your ear too much, just push that green button on the panel there.”

  Jake responded, “Just so I get to the Skyport on time, your babble doesn’t faze me.”

  “Going on a vacation, are you?”

  “Business trip.”

  “Where to?”

  “Elsewhere.”

  “None of my beeswax, eh? There, let me tell you, is another difference between out here and back there. Sure, in Michigan just about everybody is open and confiding. ‘Where you bound, pal?’ ‘Why, I’m heading for Singapore to have a wart removed from my backside. Anything else you’d care to know?’ Out here, however, maybe because of all the show business going on, everybody is sneaky and secretive. You ask me—oh, boy!”

  The cab was suddenly swaying and slewing through the rainswept sky. Then it commenced to drop down through the wet grayness.

  “What’s going on?” asked Jake.

  “I’m losing control of this crate,” said the voxbox in a feeble, fading voice. “Somebody’s—awk!”

  Jake unfastened his safety gear and pulled out his stungun.

  Glancing down through the see-through plastiglass floor of the rapidly dropping skycab, he saw that they were heading for a landing on a deserted stretch of scrubby beach someplace in the Long Beach Sector.

  The skycab landed hard, bounced twice, and ceased to function.

  22

  IT was raining hard when they came to take her away. The wind was rubbing and scraping at the windows of Susan’s room.

  She’d been sitting in the deep armchair,
listening to the rain hit at the domed ceiling. Beside the chair rested a lunch tray that held an uneaten soyloaf sandwich, an untasted plazcup of citrisub, and a cold mug of nearcaf.

  Days like today, slow gray days, she didn’t like at all.

  Well, to be honest, she’d long since lost the capacity to enjoy just about any sort of day.

  For a while last night, though, she’d felt almost hopeful.

  “Yes, almost hopeful,” she said aloud. “I guess that pretty much sums up my state of mind.”

  Being there with Molly and Dan and Dan’s father, she’d started to feel that she still did have a chance. She’d be able to straighten out the tangle of her life. Quit Tek for good, lose any need for the comforting illusions the electronic drug created. Equally important, she would find a way to talk to her father, tell him what she was feeling, explain why Juneanne Stackpoole’s being in their house was so painful to her.

  The talk Susan had had with Jake Cardigan while he flew her home in his skycar had buoyed her up, too. He was outwardly tough and cynical, but she sensed a gentleness and a caring inside. With him for a friend, somebody she could get in touch with if she felt herself slipping, Susan was almost certain she could get herself straightened out.

  Cardigan had handled her father, too. He delivered her home and explained she’d simply dropped over to visit with Molly and his son. Made all the trouble with Juneanne seem like an accident and actually calmed her father down. Very few people were able to subdue her father’s spells of anger.

  What she had to concentrate on was getting out of the slump she was in today. She had to work up the nerve to contact Cardigan and ask him to—

  “This will go extremely smoothly and painlessly.” Someone, unannounced and uninvited, came into her bedroom.

  “Who are you?” She pushed back deeper into the big chair.

  The intruder was a tall blond android in a spotless pale yellow suit. He smiled and said, “I’m Alyn—that’s A-l-y-n—and I’ll be your indoctrinating therapist at—”

  “Go away!” she cried. “You’re from them. From Stolzer’s.”

  “I work for Dr. Stolzer, yes, that’s true,” said Alyn, leaning back against the shut door. “You’re a very bright and intelligent girl, Susie. I know because I’ve spent the morning doing my homework on your case. Someone as smart as you are ought to be able to perceive that Dr. Stolzer can, if you’ll simply relax and let it happen, clear up all your problems.”

  “Go away! This is my room. I didn’t send for any goddamned nuts-and-bolts medic who—”

  “Easy, easy.” The android came closer and she noticed a faint medicinal smell.

  “Who sent you? My father wouldn’t try to drag me back to that hellhole without discussing—”

  “Is that a nice thing to say about Dr. Stolzer’s establishment, Susie?” Alyn moved nearer. “Is that a kind or thoughtful thing to say about a man who did you such a world of good?”

  “If he did me so damned much good, why do I have to go back there?”

  “You’ve slipped, I’m afraid. You’ve become dangerous, Susie. To yourself, of course, and to those around you who are concerned for you.”

  “Juneanne. It’s that bitch who’s trying to ship me off to the loony bin.” She stumbled up out of the chair, stood facing the big mechanical man.

  “I’m running out of time,” he said evenly. “Come down to our comfortable medivan now or—”

  “Where’s my father? I won’t do anything until I can talk to him.”

  “I’m afraid he’s away on business,” said Alyn. “He did, however, consult with Dr. Stolzer and give him an unqualified okay before he took off.”

  “Where’s Juneanne?”

  “Consulting with her physician at the BevHills Health Management Complex,” answered the android. “She suffered serious injuries when you attacked her yesterday, Susie.”

  “That’s not true. She’s trying to—”

  “You’ll have to come along.” He reached out for her. “Let Dr. Stolzer help you, Susie.”

  She tried to run, tried to dodge around him and get at the door.

  “I said, come along.” Alyn caught her arm. His palm made a tiny clicking sound as a needle shot out and bit into her flesh.

  “You can’t—”

  She lost consciousness all at once.

  The android stood back, let her fall to the floor. Then he bent, picked her up, and carried her out into the rain.

  THE DISABLED SKYCAB was sitting on the empty stretch of beach with the rain hitting at it.

  Jake, stungun in one hand, was working at getting a door open. But both of them were frozen.

  “… back in Detroit,” muttered the cab’s voxbox. “… back in Detroit… back in Detroit…”

  There was no sign of anyone outside in the rain.

  About a dozen yards away sat a defunct food stand with a sign reading SOYDOGGIES IN THE SAND dangling from its neowood awning.

  All at once both the metal doors went flapping open.

  Jake ducked down, staring out at the rain-swept beach.

  After a moment, he dived free of the cab. He went out the leftside door and kept the downed vehicle between himself and the food stand.

  The rain was heavy and chill. It slammed at him as he crouched down, scanning the stretch of beach.

  “Nobody’s going to get hurt,” called a fluty voice.

  The large bald man emerged from the hot dog stand. He held both empty hands out in front of him.

  It was the goon Jake had recently identified as Malcolm Summerson.

  Jake remained ducked down.

  “We have a simple business proposition for you, Cardigan,” piped Summerson, moving a few steps closer.

  “Outline it to me from there,” advised Jake.

  “Hey, there are no hard feelings. Even though you fouled me the last time we met,” called the big hairless man. “The people I work for have looked into your background, Cardigan, and—”

  “That would be the NewTown bunch, huh?”

  “Might be, maybe. Anyhow, Cardigan, they found out you were an ex-con with an unsavory reputation. They decided—‘Why not just bribe the guy?’ It’ll save us all a lot of trouble. Am I right?”

  “So you hijacked my cab and landed it here simply so you could offer me a payoff?”

  “Exactly,” Summerson assured him. “Oh, and also to impress you with our capabilities for tracking you and getting our hands on you if need be.”

  “And you’re alone here? There wouldn’t be, say, two or three other louts waiting in that shed with lazguns?”

  “I’m by myself. And I’m no lout, Cardigan. During my college years I—”

  “Sorry. I’m not interested in a bribe.” Jake suddenly stood up and, just as Summerson reached for his shoulder holster, fired his stungun.

  The sizzling beam snapped into Summerson’s chest and he, making an angry, groaning noise, took two unintended hopping steps backward. Then he hit the beach with a splattering thud and passed into unconsciousness.

  Jake had thrown himself to the wet sand as Summerson fell. And when the two husky men came charging out of the stand with drawn lazguns, he was again behind the disabled skycab.

  Before they realized that, he shot them both.

  23

  GOMEZ was whistling quietly, but what he was feeling was uneasy.

  The night streets of Sweetwater, Texas, were brightly lit and filled with noise, laughter, and music. The huge litesigns throbbed and glittered in multicolored brilliance, the walkways were crowded with people. The Museum of Western Swing was sending loud, twangy music out into the glaring streets over a dozen large floating voxboxes, the Longhorn Saloon was promising SIMULATED CATTLE STAMPEDE—EVERY HOUR ON THE HALF HOUR!! And the oil well atop the Wildcat Hotel was sending up a continuous simulated gusher.

  Gomez had the impression that somewhere in the midst of this festivity there was someone who was watching him. Someone who wasn’t especially fond of him.
r />   “Muy loco,” he advised himself. “Quit giving yourself the heebie-jeebies, amigo.”

  What he had to concentrate on was his job.

  He turned onto the side street he was seeking. There was less light here, less noise, and fewer people.

  Just outside the entrance to the Estrella Café stood a battered, chrome-plated robot wearing a dusty Stetson hat. “Spare a few Banx chits for a bot what’s fallen from grace, pard?”

  “How’d you fall, pobrecito?” inquired the curly-haired detective, halting.

  “I was once the lead singer in a prominent country and western robot band,” began the forlorn mechanism. “One fateful day—”

  “Is O’Rian in there?” Gomez asked, leaning closer.

  “Who wants him?”

  “Sid Gomez.”

  “Hold on a mite, pard.” The robot took off his hat and fiddled with the crown. A faint humming sound commenced in his metal skull and his left eye glowed yellow as he looked Gomez up and down. After thirty seconds, he said, “Go sit in Booth 13, Sid, and consult the astrologer andy there.”

  “Gracias.” Gomez moved on and entered the Estrella.

  The café was long and narrow, and the high-domed ceiling offered a view of a star-filled portion of night sky. There were fifteen booths on each side of the place. Some were devoted exclusively to dining, but more of them offered consultations with robot fortune-tellers and android astrologers.

  The android in Booth 13 replicated a plump middle-aged woman. She wore a star-studded black robe and a matching turban. Inhaling sharply as Gomez slid in opposite her, she pressed both hands to her bosom. “Ah, I fear that the stars do not favor you, young man.”

  “Could just be heartburn, señora. I want to talk to Zodiac O’Rian.”

  “Close the booth,” she ordered. “I am Madame Futura.”

  “Catchy name.” He touched a toggle on his side of the table and a one-way plastiglass screen slid shut around the booth. “Now, what about O’Rian?”

  Madame Futura rested both hands on the tabletop and spread her fingers wide. “You are not especially popular at the moment,” she informed him. “Were Zodiac to meet with you in person it might affect his popularity as well. ¿Sabes?”