Tek Secret

by William Shatner

  “There’s no need for that, Mr. Cardigan.” Seating himself on the cot, the robot opened a panel in his side. From it he withdrew a sheaf of faxpages. “Although you do have a criminal record, we—”

  “Wrong again,” interrupted Jake. “I was in prison, but I later received a full pardon.”

  “I can see you’re something of a jailhouse lawyer, Mr. Cardigan.” The big black bot produced a hollow chuckling noise deep inside. “I’ll have to watch my words more carefully than I do with our average criminal.”

  Jake grinned thinly. “Exactly what charges am I being held on?”

  “You’re not being held, Mr. Cardigan.”

  “Detained then.”

  “Technically you’re not being detained.”

  Jake pointed a thumb at the mural. “Wall’s been telling me for the past two hours that I’m in a detention cell.”

  “That’s simply because our infirmary is full up,” explained the staff robot. “This was the only space in the jail complex for you to sleep off the aftereffects.”

  “Now that I’m wide awake, can I go?”

  The robot made the chuckling noise again. “Just as soon as we take care of some necessary red tape,” he said. “You’re required to answer a few simple—”

  “Who requires that?”

  “The law in Farmland isn’t as loose and sloppy as it is out in Greater Los Angeles, Mr. Cardigan,” the robot informed him. “Well, let’s get rolling, shall we? What is the true purpose of your visiting Topeka Complex?”

  “Vacation,” answered Jake.

  “And why would a private investigator with one of the nation’s leading detective agencies want to vacation here?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same darn thing,” admitted Jake. “But before Farmboy Industries gassed me, I had the notion I could spend a quiet, restful time hereabouts.”

  “You refuse to state your real reason for being in the area?”

  “I just stated it. Pay attention.”

  “Refuses to answer.” The robot checked a box on the top sheet with the electropen built into his forefinger. “The next question has to do with how long you intend to remain in the Topeka Complex.”

  “Not long.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “No more than another week.”

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Cardigan, that a stay of such duration isn’t possible for you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s the policy of the Topeka Complex Local Police to move out all undesirables and agitators within forty eight hours from the time of—”

  “Which am I?”

  “Neither, yet you do happen to fall under the provisions of the statute.” The robot rested the pages on his ebony knee. “I feel that I ought to warn you that if you continue to respond in this negative manner, you may cause your jail release to be delayed.”

  “Then I’m not really free to go?”

  “You are, certainly, provided you first fill out these simple forms in a manner that satisfies—”

  Something started banging on the hidden door. After a half dozen thunks, it slid open again. A black young woman came striding in. “Don’t say anything else to this junkheap, Cardigan,” she advised. “I’m your attorney.”

  The robot popped to his feet with a clang. “Miss Petway, you happen to be intruding on an official—”

  “Scan this, pinhead.” She shoved a crinkly sheet of real paper at him.

  “An Unconditional Release Order?”

  “Very good, you got it right on the first try.” She nodded at Jake. “My name’s Georgia Petway. We can go.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “Joe Chatman, of course. Most of your other buddies in Farmland are much too chicken to go up against Farmboy.” She stepped over to the open doorway. “We’ll gather up your belongings, see how many they’ve tried to swipe, and then shake off the dust of this shithole.”

  He followed her into the grey corridor.

  The wall said, “This detention cell is made possible in part by a grant from Farmboy Industries—Feeding America from the heart of Farmland.”

  21

  “YOU AWARE OF THOSE assholes?”

  “The ones tailing us in the grey skycar?”

  “That’s the very assholes I mean.”

  Jake nodded. “They picked us up as soon as we departed the hoosegow.”

  Georgia said, “I supposed I could do some fancy skywork, ditch them.”

  “You know who they are?”

  “They’re cops.” She was sitting slightly hunched in the driveseat of her crimson skycar. “They’re still interested in you—are anxious for you to leave Topeka soon as possible.”

  “They must know Joe Chatman’s the one who brought you into this.”

  “You mean that even if I cleverly elude these motherhumpers, they’ll just hop over to Joe’s and wait for us there?”

  “Seems logical, yeah.”

  “You really would have been impressed by my tricky flying, but, okay, let’s save everybody’s time and fly direct to Joe’s.”

  Jake grinned. “I’m already sufficiently impressed by you,” he assured the attorney. “You sprung me out of that detention cell very smoothly.”

  “That was easy. I’ve been outfoxing the local cops for years.”

  Jake observed, “This smells like a company town.”

  “Sure, but it’s more complicated than that.” They were flying over the twilight city and she was guiding the skycar deftly through the heavy air traffic at their designated level. “Farmboy Industries is owned—though nobody’s been able to prove it, not even Joe—by the biggest Tek cartel in Farmland. Until a few months ago that cartel was, I’m near certain, controlled by a supposedly legit business mogul named Bennett Sands. Then he up and—”

  “Got killed,” supplied Jake. “I know, yeah. Who runs the cartel now?”

  Georgia snapped her fingers, glancing over at him. “Hey, that’s right. You’re the guy who killed Sands, aren’t you? It was on the news.”

  “Whoa,” cautioned Jake. “I was there when Sands got knocked off. As a witness, however, not as the perpetrator.”

  “But he and your wife were fooling around? I got that part right, don’t I?”

  “Ex-wife,” he said. “Now can we get back to local color?”

  “I’m not trying to piss you off, Jake, but Joe gave me the impression you didn’t go in for too much bullshit in conversation. So I figured—”

  “Okay, sorry. I’m probably still touchy about the subject of my onetime wife and Bennett Sands,” he admitted. “Who runs his cartel now?”

  “That’s uncertain, since a couple of different factions are still contending for control.”

  Leaning back in the passenger seat, he watched the dozens of skycars rushing through the fading day. “What about the Mentor Psych Centre? Are they tied in with—”

  “You really are an outlander.” She punched out a landing pattern on the dashpanel. “Around here, most everybody knows that the money that set up Mentor some twenty years ago came from Farmboy. The joint’s been extremely profitable, especially because of some of the dubious services it offers its customers.”

  “For instance?”

  “Joe can tell you a lot more than I can, because he’s been doing research on the life and times of Dr. Isaac Spearman.”

  “Spearman runs Mentor, doesn’t he?”

  “Runs Mentor, sits on the board of Farmboy, is a wonderful person and a real asset to Topeka Complex. Or so one frequently hears on the Farmboy-controlled local media,” she said. “Here we are.”

  Her skycar was settling down on the rutted rooftop landing area of a six-story apartment building in the middle of a block of similar buildings. The streets below had a neglected, rundown appearance. Lights were showing at only a scatter of windows.

  “Thanks for springing me.” Jake stepped clear of the landed car.

  “You ain’t absolutely free and clear yet, but I�
��m working on it,” Georgia said. “Our tail’s landing over there on the roof of that gutted hotel. Want to wave to them?”

  “Nope, that would spoil their fun. I appreciate the lift.”

  “You’ll find Joe down in 4C,” she told him. “His guardbots are expecting you, so it’s not likely either one’ll shoot you.” Smiling, she shut the door and then took her skycar up into the gathering dusk.

  A wide, white-enameled nursebot was helping Barry Zangerly back into bed when his brother came pushing into his room.

  “Take a hike,” Roger advised the robot.

  “Sir, there are certain rules of behavior that should be adhered—”

  “That’s okay.” Barry disentangled himself from the nurse and sat on the edge of his bed. “He’s my brother.”

  “Kinship certainly doesn’t excuse—”

  “Out with you,” urged Roger, making a shooing motion. “We’re going to have a private conversation.”

  “I’ll be within hailing distance, Mr. Barry, in case he gets violent.” Sniffing twice, the robot nurse left the large offwhite room.

  “Well?” Barry asked as his brother sat down in the wicker chair. “Did you find out something about Alicia? You must have or you wouldn’t be—”

  “Hold it.” Rising up again, Roger glanced toward the door. From his pocket he drew out a small bug-detector. “Let me sweep this place first.”

  “C’mon, Rog, nobody is listening in on us.” He watched his hefty brother check out the room for eavesdropping gear. “Don’t be idiotic.”

  “Just shut up for another minute or two, huh?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Instead of replying, Roger eased over to the door.

  The nursebot had stationed herself just outside. “Am I wanted?”

  “Not by us, sweetheart. Move along now.” Shutting the door, he returned to the chair.

  “Are you satisfied that—”

  “Yep, the room isn’t bugged,” he said. “But there sure is something odd going on. Thing is, brother dear, I’m damned if I can figure out exactly what it is.”

  “Tell me about Alicia. Do you know where they’ve got her?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head, causing the wicker chair to creak. “Haven’t the faintest idea. But I can sure tell you where the android dupe is.”

  Leaning, Barry took hold of his brother’s arm. “Then Cardigan was right,” he said, inhaling sharply. “What did they use it for?”

  “Keep calm,” advised Roger. “Far as I can tell, this dupe—which looks exactly like her, down to the last freckle—was built approximately fifteen months ago.”

  “That’s about the same time she was away at the Mentor Foundation.”

  “Yeah, just about, Barry. The andy is kept in one of our warehouses in the Oxnard Sector. But twice in the past week it was activated and checked out.”

  “Who? Who used it?”

  “Fellow named Rob Stinson, who works for Mechanix as a Vice President in the Oxnard facility.”

  “What’s this Stinson say about why he—”

  “Stinson, as of yesterday, is on an extended vacation leave,” answered Roger. “And, strangely enough, I haven’t located anybody who knows where he’s gotten to.”

  Barry frowned. “They must’ve used that damned android dupe to plant a false trail, Rog,” he said. “Which has to mean that—”

  “I agree, something very unusual is happening.” Roger coughed into his fist. “Well, I’m going back to my office to do some further digging. I wanted you to know what I’d found out so far.”

  Barry caught his arm again. “Wait—you sound sort of funny. Is there something else you know that you’re keeping back?”

  “Well, yes, in a way.” Slowly, he stood up. “I was able to poke into the wandering Stinson’s message records. In the past week or so he had five vidphone calls from Dad.”

  “No, Dad can’t be involved in any plan to hurt Alicia,” Barry insisted, shaking his head:

  “Maybe not.” Roger shrugged. “I’ll find out.”

  “Then I better tag along.” He started to get up.

  Roger pushed him, gently, back to a sitting position. “You’re not ready to leave here yet,” he warned. “Stay in bed and recuperate. I can handle things.”

  “Don’t go barging in, the way you usually tend to do, and accuse our father of kidnapping Alicia.”

  “All I intend to do, in my best executive manner, is find out what the bloody hell has been going on,” he promised. “Trust me.”

  22

  JOE CHATMAN ASKED, “WELL?”

  After a few seconds Jake answered, “I’m not the best one to give advice on how to lead an exemplary life.”

  The black man said, “Georgia says it’s because I’m still looking for pity.”

  “She’s a very direct person.”

  They were sitting in the newsman’s small, uncluttered parlor, Jake in the windowless room’s only armchair, Chatman in his silvery wheelchair.

  “Has been awhile,” admitted Chatman. “I could be, you know, fitted for legs.”

  “Do it when you feel ready.”

  “I might never feel ready.”

  Jake said, “Suppose we switch back to my problems for awhile?”

  “Sure, sorry.” He touched a button on the arm of his chair and came rolling nearer to Jake. “First off, Sharon Harker’s legit. I did suggest that she contact you.”

  “So you don’t think she set me up, huh?”

  “No, I don’t, but there’s no way to be sure right now,” he said. “She and her kid don’t seem to be around anyplace. I got some people hunting, though.”

  “Someone grab her, or is she hiding out?”

  “I’m afraid, Jake, it’s the former.”

  “Who else knew she was going to get in touch with me?”

  “I did, she did,” answered Chatman. “I didn’t confide in anybody.”

  “Did she give you details about what she knew?”

  “Only that there was something going on wrong at the Mentor setup, something that bothered her,” he said. “When you showed up, I suggested that Sharon talk to you. She’d heard of you and was impressed by—”

  “Hell of a lot of good it did her.”

  “Jake, hey. Every time a lady gets in trouble, it ain’t your fault.”

  “How long ago was it she told you she was uneasy about something at the center?”

  “Few days.”

  “That’s since Alicia Bower disappeared, so this could tie in with her.”

  “Sharon didn’t come right out and say so, but I’m near sure that it must.”

  Jake leaned forward. “I’m going to have to get inside that place, Joe.”

  “A very tough thing to accomplish. Dr. Isaac Spearman runs a very secure—”

  “Damn it, I’m going to see Chatman!”

  Someone had started yelling out in the hallway.

  A robot guard warned, “Buddy, stand back or we’ll use force to—”

  “Chatman! You son of a bitch, where is she?”

  “Watch it now, buddy.”

  “Where’s Sharon Harker?” A fist hit the door. “Where is she, damn you!”

  Chatman nodded at the door. “Maybe this is somebody we ought to meet.”

  Getting up, Jake moved to the door. “Yeah, sounds like,” he said.

  The frail, greyhaired woman reached out, very carefully, to touch the edge of the doctor’s huge offwhite desk. “No one has been able to help him,” she confessed in a faint, faraway voice.

  Dr. Spearman smiled. “That’s because no one has truly tried, Mrs. Emers.” He was a plump, pink man of fifty and his curly hair and crinkly beard were a golden blond. “But here at the Mentor Psych Centre we’re most certainly going to try.” He left his offwhite chair, walked around his large desk and stood beside the pale young man who was seated, hunched in on himself, next to Mrs. Emers. “And I can assure you that your son is going to want to help, too. Aren’t you,
Norby?”

  The pale young man glanced up, smiling wanly. “Screw you, Doctor.”

  “Norby, please,” cautioned his mother, reaching out and, carefully, putting her hand on his sleeve.

  “That’s allright,” Spearman assured her. “We understand Norby here and he’ll find that he can’t annoy us or make us angry by—”

  “Screw you, Doctor.” Lifting the silver ballclock off the desk, Norby tossed it to the floor.

  “Or make us angry by his behavior.” Ignoring the clock, the doctor returned to his chair.

  Mrs. Emers, very softly, began to cry.

  Norby stomped on the fallen clock with his foot, five times.

  Dr. Spearman smiled. “You’ve made the wisest decision for your son in bringing him to us.”

  “It’s quite expensive, but we—”

  “Time for a little chat, Isaac.” Sam Trinity, dressed in a loose-fitting blue suit and wearing a goldplated hand, had come pushing into the office and was approaching the offwhite desk, shoulders up and head thrust forward.

  “Just as soon as I’ve completed this indoctrination conversation with Mrs. Emers and her son, I’ll be more than happy to—”

  “Ditch them right now, Isaac.”

  Norby looked at the redheaded government agent. “Screw you, too,” he said quietly.

  Trinity laughed and took hold of Norby’s ear with his metal fingers. “Kid, it’s not really very polite to talk nasty to your elders,” he advised him.

  His golden fingers crackled. The young man screamed in pain.

  Norby brought his hand up to his ear as soon as Trinity let go. The flesh was a blistered red all across the lobe. “You hurt me, asshole.”

  Mrs. Emers put an arm around him. “Dr. Spearman, who is this man? Why did you allow him to—”

  “Lady, unless you want me to fix that scrawny neck of yours the same way,” warned Trinity, “you better drag your halfwit son out of here. Quick pronto.”

  Spearman was on his feet. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Emers,” he said. “This is one of our patients—and I’m at a loss as to how he got loose. If you’ll take your son into the foyer, I’ll have Dr. Weber attend to him.”

  “His poor ear’s burned like a—”

  “Get the hell out,” urged Trinity.