Tek Vengeance

by William Shatner

  “I was married once.” Jake looked out at the bright morning sky. “The—well, you know all about Kate. Point is, I think I’m ready to try again.”

  “Bueno. You can’t do better than Beth.”

  “Sure, but I think she can do better than me.”

  “Not unless I was available.”

  Jake said, “I’m going to be fifty.”

  “That happens to us all—unless we shake hands with a kamikaze or otherwise cash in our chips prematurely.”

  “Beth isn’t even thirty.”

  “That’s not an immense gap. Besides which, she obviously loves you.”

  “There’s Dan to take into consideration, too.”

  “Trust me, Jake, your son likes her and she likes him,” his partner assured him. “Soon as you two are back in Greater LA, go fetch a preacher. I’ll do the best man chores.”

  Jake grinned. “It’s a deal,” he said.

  The highly polished silver bellbot stepped over to the living room’s high, wide viewindow. The window was blanked. “And what view would you like, senhor?” he asked Gomez, silvery fingers hovering over the control panel.

  “How about just what’s out there?”

  “Ah, but the Hotel Maravilha offers no less than twenty-five exceptional views, brought to you by our exclusive skycam system,” explained the robot. “There is, for example, an absolutely stunning view of Sugar Loaf. Or you and your associate might prefer gazing on the famous immense statue of Christ that adorns—”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Jake told him. “You can go now.”

  “There is also, for the politically minded, a twenty-four-hour view of our perennial president, General Silveira, delivering choice—”

  “Depart,” advised Gomez, nodding in the direction of the door.

  “I’ll leave you with this one.” The bellbot touched a button. “An awesome vista of Ipanema Beach complete with a bevy of—”

  “So long,” said Gomez.

  “Adeus. Enjoy the view—and your stay at the Maravilha.”

  Gomez switched the window to Actual View. “Our actual view seems to be a stunning vista of the wall across the way.”

  “Well, enjoy it,” said Jake. “I’m heading for the São Jose Private Hospital.”

  Gomez turned his back to the view. “I’ve worked on cases in Rio before,” he said. “While you’re calling on the ailing Jean Marie, I’ll contact some of my erstwhile informants and pay a few calls. Meet you back here at nightfall at the latest.”

  Jake headed for the door. “Be discreet.”

  “I’m incapable of anything else,” his partner assured him.

  7

  ON THE SIDE OF the 5-story building that Jake was passing was mounted a 3-story-high vidscreen. Showing on it was a huge image of General Silveira, wearing an impressive, glittering blue and gold uniform. A short, pudgy man in his late fifties, the ruler of Brazil was striding back and forth on an ornate elevated dais addressing a massive crowd of enthusiastic, cheering citizens. The general’s words came booming out of a multitude of speakers, some mounted on the building and some floating over the afternoon street.

  Slowing, Jake stopped and gazed up at the Portuguese politician. He stood there, looking up and seemingly taking in the general’s speech, for over a minute.

  Then, without looking behind him, Jake continued along the Avenida General Silveira. At the next corner he turned onto a side street. Sprinting, dodging pedestrians, he slipped into an alley alongside the Carmen Miranda Museum.

  Jake pressed his back to the mosaic tiles of the museum wall, watching the people passing. “Let’s talk,” he suggested, stepping out and grabbing the arm of the broadshouldered young man who’d been following him.

  “I beg your blinking pardon?”

  Jake yanked him into the alley, spun him around and pushed him front first against the wall. “Start off by explaining why you’re tailing me.”

  Larry Knerr scowled. “How the hell did you tumble that I was?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jake with a shrug. “Maybe it was the sun glinting on your silvery hair, maybe it was a glimpse of your fetching skyblue suit.”

  “Actually, Cardigan, I’m simply working.”

  “At what?”

  “Could you, do you think, cease grinding me into this blinking wall?”

  Letting go of him, Jake stepped back. “So?”

  “I’m a newsman, remember? This is a story, probably a big one.”

  “No, this isn’t a story at all,” Jake told the Fax-Times syndicate editor. “This is a job that China Vargas’ father hired Cosmos to handle. A job that requires privacy, not limelight.”

  “Well, hell, Cardigan.” Knerr brushed dust off his skyblue coat. “I work for the Vargas family, too, you know. And, shit, this job you’re on has the makings of a tophole yarn, something our—”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At the Hotel Triunfo.”

  Jake advised, “Go back there.”

  “You can’t simply order a newsman off a—”

  “Otherwise the state of your health may plummet.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Jake gave him a bleak grin. “I am, yeah.”

  Knerr bent, brushing dust from his knee. “Okay, sure, Cardigan, allright,” he murmured sullenly. “But, I better warn you, I’m going to report this whole nasty incident to China Vargas.”

  “When you do, remind her not to put any more nitwits dogging me.”

  Knerr took a deep breath, scowling at Jake. Instead of saying anything, he pivoted on his heel and went hurrying out of the alley.

  Whistling a samba, Gomez strolled along the Avenida Atlantica. On his right stretched the bright midday ocean, on his left rose the multicolored towers of the Copacabana beachfront buildings. In the palm trees that lined the street, brightly plumed tropical birds fluttered, singing.

  “Admirable workmanship,” observed the curlyhaired private investigator, looking up at some of the robot birds.

  Out over the Atlantic hovered a half dozen circular sunning platforms. As Gomez paused to watch, a deeply tanned and completely naked young woman stood up, moved gracefully to the edge of one of the platforms and then executed a flawless dive into the sea some forty feet below.

  “Well, enough of tourist attractions,” Gomez told himself. “Back to business.”

  He resumed his strolling and a block further along, just beyond a 2-story-high viewscreen showing General Silveira making a speech, he turned onto a mosaic pathway that led to a business tower.

  The elevator greeted him warmly. “Glad to see you, senhor. What floor do you wish?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The elevator didn’t move. From its wall-placed speaker it said, “The only thing located on fourteen is the Cafe Carioca, senhor. A low dive and, if you don’t mind my saying so, a blotch on our otherwise pristine tenant list.”

  “Exactly,” the detective agreed. “I have an appointment with an unsavory lout and, usually, unsavory louts prefer to hang out in low dives. Upwards, if you please.”

  “As you wish, senhor.” Speaking no more, the elevator carried him up to the floor he wanted.

  The Cafe Carioca lay behind an opaque plastidoor. The door hissed open before Gomez reached it. Beyond was a murky room dotted with small tables. On an assortment of dangling perches sat a variety of mechanical parrots, and behind the small ebony bar glowed an animated painting of a steamy stretch of Brazilian jungle.

  There were less than ten patrons in the place and one waiter. A robot dressed in the top half of a tuxedo, the copperplated waiter came hurrying over to Gomez as the door shut him into the cafe.

  “A table, senhor?”

  “No, I’m meeting ... Ah, there he is over yonder.”

  Following his gaze, the robot waiter inquired, “Are you a friend of Fado’s?”

  “Friend is probably too extravagant a
word.” Gomez made his way to the small table where the fat young informant was sitting.

  Fado was in his late twenties, weighed just under three hundred pounds and had a filigreed silver right arm encrusted with gems. He was wearing a floral vidshirt and its bright flowers flickered and changed patterns continually. “Bom dia, Gomez,” he said.

  Gomez sat opposite him. “You’ve upgraded your arm since last we met.”

  “That was, afterall, nearly two years ago.” Spelled out on the metal arm was the word Mãe. Each letter was studded with a blend of diamonds and rubies. “Mãe is Portuguese for mother. I’m very fond of my—”

  “I know. And how is the dear lady?”

  “A pain in the ass, frankly. But as you may have noticed in life, Gomez, it’s possible to be fond of someone who’s a constant source of irritation.”

  Nodding, Gomez asked, “What have you found out for me?”

  Pushing aside the glass of cupuassu punch he’d been sipping, Fado rested his arm atop the table. It had a computer terminal built into it. “Since I got your call, I’ve been actively tapping into my multitude of info sources.”

  “What do you have on Will Sparey?”

  “Nada,” he said apologetically. “Well, not exactly nothing, but not anything near something.”

  “Clarify that.”

  “The consensus thus far is that Will Sparey of the GLA Fax-Times was slaughtered by guerrillas during the final days of the final Brazil War,” he said. “That was over a decade ago and it happened, far as anyone knows, somewhere in Mato Grosso.”

  “None of your sources thinks the guy’s still alive somewhere?”

  “No, but I’m putting extra people to work on dredging up info. That’s going, by the way, to cost you an additional $1000.”

  Gomez, tapping his forefinger on the table, watched the nearest mechanical parrot. “Okay. Now what about Jean Marie Sparey?”

  “She’s a longtime Tekhead.”

  “What else?”

  “She’s twenty one, has resided in Brazil off and on for the past five years or so.”

  “Employed?”

  “Not at the moment.” Fado played with the keyboard on his arm. “Her last job was nearly a year ago, in Recife. She worked six months for an outfit called Comida, International.”

  “Which is a subsidiary of?”

  Fado consulted his arm. “BenSan Industries.”

  “Once owned, no doubt, by the late Bennett Sands.”

  “That’s him, sim. Didn’t you and your hotheaded partner have a run-in with Sands recently?”

  “We did,” answered Gomez. “But Sands is currently among the angels and, far as I know, we don’t have to worry about him.”

  “If you’d like I can ... Hold it.” Fado’s filigreed arm had commenced making a faint beeping sound. “Message coming in.” He depressed a key.

  “I’ll be taking my leave, Fado.”

  “Wait, this is for you, Gomez.”

  “Oh, so?”

  Fado tapped the screen. “Do you know a lady named Alma Zingara?”

  “Nope. Should I?”

  “She’s the editor of a weekly faxpaper called Verdade. That means truth in—”

  “I know. Move on to the kernel of this.”

  “She found out somehow that you were asking about Sparey and, according to my contact, she’s anxious to talk to you.”

  “Where and when?”

  “Soon as you can get to her office. She’s over Botafogo way.” Fado gave him the address.

  Pushing back his chair, Gomez rose. “Keep nosing around. I’ll check back later.”

  “You, by the way, owe me $1500 for what I’ve already done.”

  “Put it on the tab.” Smiling, Gomez took his leave.

  8

  THE DIMLIT ROOM IN the private hospital was small and edged with shadows. It smelled of medicines and sickness. Over the humming, whirring and ticking of the life support machines surrounding the bed Jake could hear the sound of the slow, labored breathing of Jean Marie Sparey.

  Standing near the bed, between the scanner that was providing continuous monitor pictures of the dying young woman’s heart and a three-legged respirator, was a blackrobed robo-priest. Ebony beads dangled from his metallic right hand and he was, very softly, reciting prayers for the repose of her soul.

  The priest turned as Jake approached the bed. “It would be best, senhor,” he suggested quietly, “to leave her alone.”

  “She wants to talk to me. I’m Jake Cardigan.”

  “But the poor child is at death’s—”

  “Take a hike, Father Ambrose,” suggested Jean Marie in her thin, dry voice.

  She, slowly and with considerable effort, moved her right hand to touch the control panel on her bedframe. The bed whirred, raising her to a sitting position.

  “My dear, you ought to be concentrating on Deus and not on—”

  “Go away,” she said, “please.”

  “Yeah, do that,” Jake seconded. He took hold of the robot cleric’s blackclad arm and gave him a start toward the doorway.

  “Very well, little one. But I shall call on you again—if there’s time.”

  “What a schmuck,” observed Jean Marie. “Uncle Jake ... I’m glad ... you came.”

  He took hold of her frail hand, which was cold and damp. “I won’t bother to ask how you’re doing.”

  “I’ve been ... seriously hooked on ... Tek for ... for much too long,” she told him. “You know ... how that can be.”

  Nodding, he asked, “What about your father?”

  “I thought ... he was ... dead ... one reason why I ... got so serious about using ... Tek, I guess.”

  “Will’s not dead?”

  “I’ve been living ... in Rio again for about a year ... I keep coming back to Brazil ... hoping I’d ... hear something about him.”

  “And have you?”

  “Yes, Uncle Jake ... and it’s good news ... sort of ... they told me that my father ... is alive ... but he’s ... in serious trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Not sure ... but it’s the kind ... that can kill you.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Only that he’s ... in Brazil ... someplace ... but ... he’s going to need help to ... get from wherever he is ... to here ... I really do ... want to see him ... once more.”

  “Who told you about him?”

  “Couple of men contacted me ... I think they’re tied in with ... the Bulcão Tek cartel ... that’s a major one down here ... they said ... my dad wanted to see me ... but couldn’t risk coming here ... he needs help.”

  “When was this?”

  “Hard to keep track of time lately ... about three weeks ago I think ... I was still up and around then ... but I had another bad seizure right after ... ended up here ... can you help, Uncle Jake?”

  “Sure,” he promised. “How can I contact these guys?”

  “You have to contact ... a man named Sargento.”

  “Know where I can find him?”

  “No, but ... people in Rio ... they know how.”

  “Okay, we’ll track him down.”

  “Who’s ... with you?”

  “Sid Gomez.”

  “I remember him ... curly haired and cute?”

  “That pretty much sums up Gomez, yeah.”

  “Uncle Jake, I think I better ... rest now ... don’t want to ... but ... ” She drifted off into sleep.

  Her thin hand gradually went slack in his. Jake let go, but remained watching the sleeping girl until an android doctor came into the shadowy room to remind him it was time to leave.

  The plump, dark woman told Gomez, “Don’t jiggle so much, okay?”

  “Everywhere I go lately,” complained the detective, “people question my identity.”

  Alma Zingara looked from him to the bank of viewscreens on the wall of her small, gadget-packed office. “Just want to compare you with what I have on Sid Gomez in my files,” she s
aid, studying the pictures and data that were showing on the various screens. “You seem to be who you say you are. Though you’re not aging well.”

  “Most of those pics were taken within the past year, chiquita. “

  Shaking her head sympathetically, the editor said, “Well, yours is a stressful profession.”

  He leaned forward. “Now can we get to what you want to talk to me about?”

  “I heard that you were asking about Will Sparey.”

  “True.”

  “Why?”

  Gomez glanced toward the office’s single window. Thick tangles of greenery masked any view. “It has to do with a current investigation by the Cosmos Detective Agency.”

  “I get the impression you think he’s alive.”

  “We’re looking into the possibility that he’s alive.”

  Alma Zingara exhaled slowly, eyeing him. “You aren’t telling me much, Gomez.”

  “I’m not,” he agreed, starting to get up. “But then, I didn’t send for you, you sent for me. If you’re only after fodder for your paper, then—”

  “I knew Will Sparey,” she said, waving him back into the chair. “During the last war I worked with him.”

  “Oh, so?”

  “We were pretty close,” she continued. “So I was aware of what Will was really up to.”

  “You mean the lad was doing something besides covering the conflict for the GLA Fax-Times?”

  She answered, “Will was ... How’d you get in here?”

  The door of her private office had come whispering open. A smiling chromeplated robot stepped over the threshold. He held a large bouquet of yellow roses in his metal left hand and had the word Flores etched across his wide silvery chest. “Boa tarde,” the robot said. “I’m here to deliver your birthday bouquet, senhora.”

  “Nobody can get through that door unless I release the lock from here,” she said, slowly standing. “And this isn’t my birthday.”

  “You’re right, it’s not,” agreed the smiling robot. With his glittering right hand he yanked a lazgun out from among the roses.

  9

  “GET DOWN!” ORDERED GOMEZ, reaching for the stungun in his shoulder holster.

  Alma Zingara started to duck down behind her metal desk.

  The robot, tossing the bouquet of yellow roses aside, fired his lazgun at her.