Tek Kill

by William Shatner

  “You’re doing terrific work, Molly,” he said. “I assume one of your lawyer uncles is going to be able to keep you out of the pokey.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Where’s Susan now?”

  “She seems to have left there while the andy was out of commission,” she answered. “My uncle tells me not to admit I know where she is. But if she sees anything else, I’ll contact you.” She leaned forward. “You will get Dan out of that damn work camp, won’t you?”

  “I will, yeah,” he assured her, and ended the call.

  AVRAM MOYECH was neither tall nor thin. Standing now in the center of the scarlet room, his bare feet flexing on the thick scarlet carpeting, wearing a short, black sinsilk robe, he measured under five feet four and weighed something over two hundred pounds.

  The tall blonde in the neoleather slax and halter was saying, “Of course you’re handsome, Av. Gorgeous, to tell the truth.”

  “You mean that, Francesca?”

  “I could never lie to you, darling.” Smiling, she took one more step closer to him.

  The scarlet drapes covering the high, narrow bedroom windows fluttered gently in a faint night breeze. The five globes of light floating up near the scarlet ceiling glowed a pale scarlet.

  “In college, out in Greater Los Angeles,” the chubby, bearded man told her, “I had the idea you didn’t much like me.”

  “Ten years ago that was, Av dear.” She ran her fingers through his long blond hair, ruffling it, and moved slowly nearer and nearer. “I’m older, wiser. I appreciate you for what you are.”

  “You told Sam Hollis you thought I was a schmuck. A fat little schmuck.”

  “Obviously I don’t think that now, darling.” Francesca stopped quite near to him. Her smile deepened as she put her hands on his pudgy shoulders and pulled him to her. “And we’ve got all night for me to prove it to you.”

  “Back to reality, pobrecito.” Gomez was standing beside the blonde.

  She grimaced, let go of Moyech, vanished. So did the scarlet bedroom.

  Moyech shook his head from side to side, blinking. “How the hell did you get into—”

  “I’m notorious for invading Tekheads’ dreams,” explained the detective. He held the Tek gear he’d just yanked from the fat man’s head.

  Moyech, fully clothed, was sitting on a circular airbed. “Who the hell are you? How did you—”

  “Actually, mierdita, I’m the one who asks the questions.” His stungun suddenly appeared in his hand. He fired it at Moyech.

  The man’s left hand swung out at his side, the fingers spread themselves wide and then closed into a fist as he passed out and fell back onto the bed.

  Gomez hefted up the stungunned Moyech, managed to get him tossed over his shoulder. “Ai,” he remarked, “this guy is muy grueso.”

  Marney, who was across the bedroom, yanked open a door. “Let’s us skidaddle, darlin’,” she suggested. “We got to vacate this joint real quick.”

  “Lugging a two-hundred-fifty-pound technical expert around slows a feller down, cara.” As best he could, he made it over to the doorway.

  They stepped into a dimlit corridor. “If I recall rightly, from the research I did before we invaded the Tekelodeon, this passway’ll lead us to where we can sneak out into—”

  “Trouble.”

  A thickset gray-haired human guard had come around a bend about thirty feet down corridor. He reached for the lazgun in his belt holster.

  But Marney was quite a bit faster. She snapped out a stungun, fired it, and hit the man in the midsection before he had his gun out of its holster. “Darn sakes, my shootin’ has been top-notch this evenin’,” she said, grinning. “This current lunkhead yonder makes my score three human beings, one bot, and one android so far.”

  “Let’s haul Moyech someplace where I can question the guy.”

  “And let’s get me somewheres where nobody can kill me graveyard dead.”

  33

  JAKE’S skycar, picking up speed, climbed up into the bright late-morning sky, circled out over the sea, and then headed toward the southern United States.

  Once he’d punched out a flight pattern for Mississippi, Jake activated the vidphone. He used Walt Bascom’s private agency number and in under a minute the Cosmos Detective Agency phone system had rerouted the call to the chief at a NorCal number.

  Bascom appeared on the small rectangular screen. He eyed Jake, frowned, and asked, “Something wrong?”

  “Dan’s missing. I’m taking time off to find him.”

  “Give me some details?”

  Jake provided a concise account of what he knew and what he suspected. He concluded with, “I’ve been working on getting inside the San Peligro NewTown plant on the sly. Trouble’s been, the first person who was set to help me has ceased to exist.”

  “These are very rough folks we’re up against.”

  “When I get back I’ll—”

  “Your son comes first,” said the agency head. “Do you really feel you can put much faith in the Grossman girl? Seems to me, this kind of bunk is about one step above Tarot cards when—”

  “I trust her, yeah. I can’t explain what Susan Grossman does, but it seems to work.”

  Bascom inquired, “Did my daughter show up down there?”

  “She did. I assume you’re the one who sicced Kacey on me.”

  “Well, I might’ve provided her with a few helpful hints, extolled the wonderful weather in the Caribbean and so on,” admitted his boss. “It was either that, Jake, or have her tag along with me up here to Frisco.”

  Nodding, Jake asked him, “What are you finding out up there?”

  “That Zack Excoffon, noted Teklord, is one of the lads behind the murder frame-up. I’ve got a lead on somebody inside his organization who’s willing to talk—for a hefty fee. Another day or so and I’ll know.”

  Jake asked, “Has anybody contacted the agency about Dan? Asking for ransom, warning us to lay off the case, wanting to contact me and make some kind of deal?”

  “Not so far, Jake. And I got a report from your chum Roy Anselmo less than an hour ago,” said Bascom. “Nobody’s contacted you, I take it?”

  “Nope, I checked with my condo and no messages about Dan have come in,” he said. “I figure they took Dan to keep him from poking around into the Susan Grossman end of things. Which may mean that Molly Fine’s in danger, too. Better put a watch on her.”

  “Soon as we quit chatting.”

  “Any news from Gomez?”

  “Still in Sweetwater on the trail of the genius who rigged those very convincing sectapes of my debut as a crazed killer.”

  “I’m going to get Dan out of that camp,” he said quietly. “And it probably won’t be through legal channels, Walt.”

  “I’ll get you the names of some Mississippi locals who should be able to lend a hand in various ways, legal and otherwise,” Bascom promised. “Take me about an hour. I’ll call you back.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is Kacey still on the island?”

  “Far as I know. I’ll be calling her next.”

  Bascom shook his head. “She’s liable to walk into trouble.”

  “She’s pretty capable. Hard to take, but capable.”

  “I’ll see if I can provide some local backup for her so she won’t know about it whilst you’re away.”

  Nodding, Jake ended the call. He punched out a new number.

  “Where are you?” was the first thing Kacey asked after her image materialized on the phonescreen. “Up in a skycar it looks like,” she guessed, head tilted to the right. “So you’re sneaking away from me again, huh?”

  “If I were sneaking away, I sure as hell wouldn’t call you to announce the fact.”

  “There’s something wrong. You look very upset,” the young woman said. “What is it? Has something happened to my father?”

  Jake replied, “My son’s been snatched. I think I know where they’ve taken him and I’m
going there. It means postponing the island part of the investigation for a day or so.”

  “Jake, that’s terrible. Where are you heading? I can meet you there and help you.”

  “Nope,” he told her. “Thanks, but this has nothing to do with you. I’ll handle it, Kacey.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, she said, “Okay. I’ll keep working things here.”

  “Fine, but don’t go trying to solo—these guys are extremely nasty.”

  “Oh, so it’s perfectly okay for you to go off and play one-man army, but I’m not qualified to—”

  “It’s just that I’d hate to see you get killed.”

  “Meaning you have some feeling for me?”

  “Your dad would be annoyed with me if somebody knocked you off,” he explained.

  She said, “You’re an absolute—”

  Jake ended the call.

  THE PALE BLUE SKYVAN had TEXMEX CATERING emblazoned on its side in golden letters. Gomez, hunched in the pilot seat, was flying it through the dusk in the general direction of Mexico. “Once we arrive in the land of my ancestors, cara,” he was saying, “I can arrange to have Señor Moyech shipped, very unobtrusively, up to Greater LA and into the arms of the Cosmos Detective Agency. From whence he’ll be handed over to the minions of law and order. They in turn will persuade him to repeat the story he told me about rigging the Bascom sectapes. Of course, the cops probably won’t use a trudisk, but they’ll be able to persuade him to babble a bit.”

  Marney was sitting next to him, the fingers of her left hand drumming on the control dash. With her right hand she was fiddling with the security screen scanners. “What’s that, Gomez darlin’?”

  “I’ve been outlining my brilliant plan for transporting Moyech—who slumbers back in Pantry 2 on this crate—from Texas to SoCal by way of Mexico. What’s preoccupying you?”

  “Well, sir, I’m sort of jumpy.” She nodded at the screen. “I been checkin’ up on whether anybody’s tailin’ us.”

  “Sí, and?”

  “No sign of anybody doggin’ us.”

  He glanced at the small screen. “It appears we are as free as a pajaro.”

  “Sam Cimarron and those lunkheads he works for aren’t goin’ to be very happy with my conduct in this business.”

  “Once I get Moyech safely delivered,” he reminded her, “I’ll arrange for you to be installed in a safe spot.”

  “We haven’t delivered him yet.”

  “We’re moving closer to our goal. It won’t—”

  “Darn sakes!”

  “¿Que?”

  She touched the screen. “Two big black skyvans are comin’ up on our tail.”

  34

  AS Jake’s skycar began to descend toward the landing area behind the large domed house he sought on the outskirts of Yazoo, Mississippi, the dash voxbox spoke. “Switch to a circling pattern. Do not attempt to land yet or you’ll be fired upon.”

  “I’ve got an appointment with Attorney Krishovnik,” said Jake.

  “Continue to circle and identify yourself.”

  “Jake Cardigan, Cosmos Detective Agency. Walt Bascom arranged for—”

  “Set down in Landing Section 2. Do not attempt to leave your craft until instructed to do so.”

  Jake brought his skycar down and waited.

  After a moment the voxbox instructed him, “Step clear of your car. Walk to the gate designated X3 and wait there.”

  “Do all of Krishovnik’s clients have to go through this sort of stuff?”

  “Attorney Krishovnik has a rare talent for rubbing people the wrong way. Hence he’s found it necessary to live a secluded and secure life most of the time. Now move to X3.”

  Jake did that, stopping on a small yellow rectangle labeled STAND HERE—OR RISK BEING SHOT!

  Finally he said, “I’m here to see Krishovnik.”

  “Lean closer to the gate,” said the voxbox in the high neostone wall. “You’ll now have your ret patterns scanned.”

  After his eyes were checked, he was required to press his palm against an ID plate.

  “Everything checks out.”

  Clicking once, the gate swung open inward.

  Jake entered a large circular patio paved with simulated flagstones. Across it was another neostone wall and a door labeled GUEST CLEARANCE.

  The door slid slowly open and a metallic voice invited, “Step in here, Mr. Cardigan, if you please.”

  The room beyond the door was furnished like a parlor. There were two white enameled medibots seated in it, each in a striped armchair.

  One of the bots said, “Do you object to a blood test? To further confirm your identity, sir.”

  “Matter of fact, I do,” replied Jake. “Tell Krishovnik I’ll find a lawyer on my own and—”

  “Hotheaded, as advertised.” A large frizzy-haired man of about fifty had entered through a side door. He wore a polka dot sinsilk robe and the part of his broad chest that showed was thick with fuzzy grayish hair. “You should’ve learned by now, tovarich, that your fiery temper doesn’t gain you anything. Except extended stays in prisons like the Freezer.”

  Jake eyed him. “Walt Bascom recommended you,” he said. “I sure as hell can’t see why.”

  “It’s because I happen to be the best—as well as the sneakiest—lawyer in all of the South,” said the big man. “Now, sit yourself in one of these chairs and we’ll have a discussion of your problem.”

  “It could be that I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Don’t be a ninny, kapusta. Nobody else is going to be able to help you spring your wayward son from that work camp.”

  “And you can do it legally?”

  Krishovnik laughed. “There is no legal way to do it, Cardigan,” he informed him. “But there are several really terrific illegal ones. Sit down.”

  Jake sat down.

  WHILE ONE of the pursuing black skyvans remained above and behind the craft Gomez was piloting, the other dropped altitude and sped up.

  “How tricky a flier are you, Gomez darlin’?” asked Marney as she unhooked her safety gear.

  “Extremely tricky,” he assured her. “Why do you ask?”

  She tapped the screen. “This here van’s aimin’ to come in underneath us and the other one’s probably goin’ to attack from above.”

  He consulted the screen. “Appears very likely, sí.”

  “So if you can do a wide backward loop—I think I can take care of both of ’em.”

  “Alas, chiquita, this delivery van we’re using in our daredevil escape doesn’t come equipped with built-in guns.”

  “Darn sakes, that’s not a problem.” She hurried across the cabin to yank open the door of one of the storerooms. “You’re forgettin’ that I brought most of my collection of guns along with me. I got a couple of powerful lazrifles that’ll do the job.”

  “¡Chihuahua!” The low skyvan was firing at them with its lazcannon, and the upward loop Gomez went into took them out of range only a few seconds before the crackling orange beam went sizzling by.

  Marney dived into the storeroom, rushing out a moment later hefting two lazrifles. She carried them to a small round window and opened it a few inches. “Do a wider loop now, darlin’, and shift us a mite to the left.”

  “Bueno.” He started the maneuver.

  Their skyvan went climbing up through the darkening sky. At the top of the loop they were flying upside down.

  Marney thrust a rifle barrel through the opening, aimed, and fired.

  The crimson beam knifed downward and hit the plastiglass window of the black van beneath them.

  The window was sliced in half and came popping out.

  Marney fired again, this time into the control cabin.

  Considerable sooty smoke came swirling out after a moment. The van commenced wobbling and shimmying. It dropped, rapidly, down toward the ground below.

  She laughed. “Got ’em good and proper.”

  Their skyvan continued its loop and she tried two more s
hots with the lazrifle.

  This time she hit the other pursuing black van, once in its side, slicing a door up, and the second time cutting a large rut in the underside of the engine compartment.

  The lazcannon the van had aimed at them went astray. The craft went into a spiraling plummet.

  “Bingo,” said Marney with satisfaction.

  She withdrew the rifle, shut the window, and returned the weapons to the storeroom.

  “Should you ever need a testimonial to your abilities as a shooting whiz,” offered Gomez, “call upon me, Marney. And now—on to Mexico.”

  35

  FROM the wide curving viewindow of the living room in Rowland Burdon’s villa you could see a good part of the island. Night was closing in, sweeping across the beaches and filling the jungles. Lights were blossoming in the houses, hotels, and condos. All the lights in the NewTown facility just downhill came on at once and the complex seemed to come bursting out of the darkness.

  Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Burdon slid out a model of NewTown Pharmaceuticals’ newest Mood Mist Dispenser. “Very depressing night,” he observed as he inserted the plaz barrel between his teeth.

  A touch of the trigger squirted a cold-feeling swirl of spray. For a few ensuing seconds his mouth and tongue felt fuzzy.

  He swallowed a few times. “We’ll have to improve this damned delivery system.” Burdon crossed to the Entertainment Sector of the large room. “And the spray sure hasn’t pepped up my spirits one hell of a lot.”

  After settling in one of the low armchairs that ringed the holostage, he picked up the voxselector. “Shakespeare,” he said into it.

  “Very well, sir.”

  The wide circular stage began to glow faintly.

  A princely figure, life size, materialized. “0! that this too too solid flesh would melt,” he said, “thaw, and resolve itself into a dew. Or that the Everlasting had not fixed his—”