Tek Vengeance

by William Shatner

  “She has to be either clever or influential to have gotten in here,” observed Gomez.

  “I’m both,” she assured them. “My name is Jenny Keaton.”

  Gomez wandered over to an armchair. “You drop that name as though you expect us to snap our fingers and exclaim, ‘Ah, of course!’ ”

  She was frowning. “Didn’t Bascom warn you to watch out for me?”

  Jake shook his head. “Nope.”

  “He didn’t tell you about the fracas I had with Deputy Director Waugh?”

  “Would that be Gerald H. Waugh of the United States Internal Security Office?”

  “Well, yes. Who else?”

  Gomez snapped his fingers. “Ah, of course,” he said. “Waugh and Bascom are longtime chums. The ISO must be the US government agency that hired Cosmos to dig into this.”

  “That’s exactly what happened,” Jenny said. “I assumed you two knew whom you were working for.”

  “Bascom is ofttimes fond of keeping us in the dark as to who our client might be,” explained Gomez.

  “Well, I told Waugh that I was perfectly capable of handling this myself,” continued the young woman. “I didn’t need a couple of moronic excops stumbling around Berlin, making buffoons of themselves and generally getting in my way.”

  Gomez smiled at her. “I bet you never studied public relations or diplomacy in school.”

  Jake asked, “You work with Internal Sec, Miss Keaton?”

  “Obviously. The ISO was assigned the job of investigating the possibility that someone in the International Drug Control Agency might be involved in some way with these assassinations.”

  “You have any credentials?”

  Sighing impatiently, she yanked out an ID packet and tossed it at him. “Here.”

  “Did you drop in on us to suggest we work together on this, chiquita?” inquired Gomez. “That we pool our resources and become a jolly team dedicated to—”

  “Far as I know, you don’t have any resources.” She stood up. “No, I simply came by to warn you bozos.”

  Jake had finished looking over her IDs. “These are authentic.” He flipped the packet in her direction. “Says you’re an Assistant Director with the ISO. I keep getting mixed up—is that higher or lower than an Associate Director?”

  “Lower.” She slipped the IDs away inside her coat.

  “You were going to warn us about something,” prompted Gomez.

  “To stay the heck out of my way,” she said. “I had to cajole and yell to get this assignment. I don’t intend to let either of you foul me up.”

  “Could it be,” suggested Jake, getting slowly to his feet, “that the reason Deputy Director Waugh brought in an outside agency is because he doesn’t quite trust everybody in his own outfit either?”

  “He trusts me.”

  “But you had to cajole and yell to get sent here.”

  “Okay, you know how Tek money can sometimes reach pretty high,” she said. “Right now—well, certain people in Washington are suspicious of each other. Personally I don’t for a second believe that anyone in our agency is unreliable.”

  “You couldn’t convince Waugh of that, huh?”

  “Not completely,” she admitted. “But I did get him to agree to let me work on the assassination case. Independently and entirely on my own.” She crossed to the door. “To sum up, gents—stay clear, please, of me and I’ll stay clear of you. Keep in mind, too, that if I find out you’re crooked, I won’t hesitate to run you in.”

  “That’s understood.” Jake opened the door for her. “And we’ll do the same for you.”

  At dawn Jake tapped on the door of Gomez’s room. Then he opened it and went in.

  Gomez sat up. “Trouble, amigo?”

  “Nope, I’m just letting you know that I’m heading out.”

  “This is, if my body clock is functioning properly, an ungodly hour in the morning.”

  “Around six A.M.,” said Jake. “I didn’t want you to find me absent and think I was off frequenting some Berlin Tek parlor.”

  “So where are you going?”

  “To talk to Will Goldberg.”

  “I had the impression the Berlin cops don’t want you to do that.”

  “When Spellman was out in Greater LA some years ago, I did him a couple of favors.”

  “And you’ve convinced him he owes you one?”

  Jake nodded. “Spellman’s going to sneak me into the hospital where they’re holding Goldberg.”

  “I’ll probably loll around in bed for at least another hour,” his partner told him. “Then I’ll venture forth to look up some of my old contacts in town.”

  “You have contacts just about everywhere.”

  “Despite what Jenny Keaton says, I’m a very personable and winning fellow,” Gomez said. “And the last time I worked a case in Berlin I was generous with my payoffs and bribes. Which is why so many local informers will remember me fondly.”

  21

  THE FOG PERSISTED. THE early morning sky over Berlin was thick with it as Inspector Spellman piloted the police skycar toward the psychiatric detention center.

  “I don’t know how you might feel about attending,” he said to Jake, “but there’s to be a memorial service for Beth Kittridge and the two IDCA agents this afternoon.”

  “Where and when?”

  “It’s to be held at the American Embassy Chapel at three.”

  “Maybe I’ll go.”

  “We aren’t exactly close friends, Jake,” said the police officer as they flew through the misty morning. “But I’ve known you for many years.”

  “Before and after my fall from grace.”

  Spellman said, “You were obviously very hard hit by Miss Kittridge’s death. It’s possible that your strong feelings are getting in the way of your—”

  “You mean if I wasn’t temporarily goofy I’d accept the notion that Will Goldberg killed her?”

  “Well, you might at least consider the facts more calmly than you have.”

  “The facts are that Beth was killed by a kamikaze android, the kind the Teklords use,” Jake said, “and Goldberg is a phony dragged in to divert suspicion.”

  “We have, as I’ve told you, considered those possibilities, Jake.”

  “And then gone right back to this bullshitter.”

  “Our forensic staff is going over the fragments of the android now.” Leaning forward, Spellman tapped out a landing pattern. “So far they’ve found nothing to indicate that the dupe of you wasn’t built originally in Southern Cal.”

  “Maybe it was built there, maybe Goldberg put the damn thing together singlehanded,” said Jake. “But that asshole was never a friend of Beth’s.”

  “Our inquiries indicate that he was.”

  “Have you sent anyone to Greater LA?”

  “No, but we’ve had the GLA police conduct the necessary—”

  “Hell, there’s no use arguing about this,” Jake told him as the skycar settled down on the roof of the multistoried black building near the Volkspark. “You’re never going to convince me that Beth was having an affair with this religious fanatic. Nor that he went bonkers and decided to kill her because she was involved with me.”

  “The man is admittedly not rational, but that, in my view, gives weight to his story.”

  Jake said, “I appreciate your sneaking me in here.”

  “I’m hoping this unofficial visit will convince you that the true killer has been found and there’s no need for you to linger in Berlin.” Opening his door, he stepped out onto the misty landing area. “Here’s an ID packet that shows you’re Dr. Warren Steiner of the Frankfurt Krankenhaus Foundation.”

  Jake accepted the false identification papers. “You probably think I’d be more convincing posing as a patient,” he said.

  The Cafe Elektrisch was off the Marx-Engels Platz and next door to the Nazi Nostalgia Shop. Gomez, whistling quietly, paused to glance in the shop window at a display of Storm Trooper trading cards and then to s
can a gloposter announcing an upcoming Hitlercon in Hamburg.

  “Maybe I need a hobby,” he told himself as he moved on and entered the small cafe.

  There were fewer than ten patrons in the place and the only waiter, a fat android in lederhosen, lay flat on his back near the breakfast buffet. “Waiter’s on the blink,” called the thin, overcoated young Chinese who stood up and beckoned to Gomez with his metal right arm. “You’ll have to serve yourself from the buffet.”

  Approaching the young man’s table, Gomez said, “I came for information, Timecheck, not food.”

  As the informant settled back into his chair, he consulted one of the watches built into his arm. “Took your sweet time getting here, buddy,” he observed. “I phoned you at 6:14 A.M. and here it is way past 6:31.”

  “I paused to dress.” He sat down. “How come you’re in Germany?”

  “Seeing the world,” replied Timecheck. “We, none of us, don’t realize how little time we have. I made up my mind to do more sightseeing before I conk.”

  “You implied that you had some important news to sell.”

  “Have you had breakfast?” There was a large plate of food in front of him.

  “A brief, hasty one enroute.”

  “Go fetch yourself some knackwurst and a side order of potato salad.”

  Gomez winced. “I favor oatmeal at this hour.”

  “There’s another mistake many people make. Life is short and yet there’s a multitude of different foods to consume. Yet we get in ruts and refuse to—”

  “I never tire of oatmeal. Now what exactly is it you—”

  “Can you imagine my surprise, chum, when I got wind that you were here in Berlin same as me.” Timecheck tapped his metal arm and then brought it closer to his face. “My damn watch that shows California time is running four seconds slow again.”

  “Let’s attend to business.”

  Timecheck filled a fork with purple cabbage. “Why don’t you at least have a helping of strudel?”

  “What do you know about the murder of Beth Kittridge?”

  “I don’t know a damn thing,” replied Timecheck. “But I’ve sure heard some interesting stuff the past couple of days. You see, that’s one of my strong suits, Gomez. I hear better than most anybody.” He ate some cabbage. “I was going to take some spaetzle, too, but it looked a little too gummy. Just as I was consulting the waiter about it, his battery went flooey and he took a flop. Been sprawled there for about ... ” He pushed back the sleeve of his plaid overcoat to consult another watch face. “ ... about thirteen minutes and ten seconds. They’re very casual and relaxed here. A waiter falls over, that doesn’t cause any stress.”

  “Tell me,” urged Gomez, “what you’ve heard.”

  Resting both elbows on the table top, Timecheck said, “This fellow Goldberg is a ringer.”

  “That conclusion we’ve already reached on our own.”

  “He’s a washed-up electronics whiz with a serious Tek habit,” continued the informant. “He thinks they’re going to spring him in a short while and pay him a tidy sum.” Timecheck laughed, shook his head, gathered another forkful of purple cabbage. “Actually, however, when they filled his brain with false memories to fool any possible police probes, they planted a little something extra.”

  “Such as?”

  “Let’s just say that Goldberg’s time, unbeknownst to him, is pretty near run out,” said Timecheck. “The guy really did attend school with Beth Kittridge, by the way, except they were never friends. That’s one of the reasons, though, that they picked him to take the rap for this job. His background could be shuffled a little to make the romance angle plausible.”

  “Who’s behind this?”

  “Don’t know yet. But it’s got to be one of the bigger Tek cartels.”

  “Got anything else?”

  Timecheck laughed again. “Would I charge you $2000 for what I’ve passed along thus far? Not likely, buddy.”

  “Well, then you better come up with another $1500 worth of information.”

  “Goldberg, the patsy, didn’t build the sim of Jake,” said the informant. “Who did? Well sir, to learn that you have only to go talk with the Amazing Otto.”

  “The Amazing Otto,” echoed Gomez without much enthusiasm. “Who might he be?”

  “A magician.”

  “And?”

  “The guy knows who really constructed the killer andy.” Timecheck gave him an address. “Go see him.”

  “I shall.”

  “But first why not try that strudel?”

  Jake and Inspector Spellman descended through a glaring white silence, along white-walled corridors and over white tile flooring. At each level was stationed a large white-enameled medibot who checked their ID packets and then allowed them to move down to the next level.

  “You can only talk to Goldberg for a few minutes,” said Spellman quietly.

  “That may be enough.”

  “And, obviously, you’re not to threaten him in any way or use force.”

  “I understand, yeah.”

  “He’s in a private room just around this next bend.”

  They entered another white corridor. About a third of the way down it a white door stood open.

  “That his room?” asked Jake.

  Spellman started running. “Ja, it is.”

  The room was furnished with a white bed and two white metal chairs. The bed linen lay in a tangle on the floor.

  Will Goldberg was not there.

  22

  THE OLD MECHANIKER SCHAUPLATZ theater was full of shadows and hollow echoes. As Gomez made his way down the threadbare carpeting of the center aisle toward the brightlit stage he was aware of the mixed smells of damp, mold and decay, along with the scent of freshmade nearcaf.

  Up on the stage sat a banquet table with a dozen splendidly dressed men and women around it.

  A small greybearded man in a tuxsuit pushed back his ornately carved chair and left the table to walk to the footlights. “Herr Gomez, is it?”

  Gomez halted just short of the orchestra pit. “You’re the Amazing Otto?”

  “I am, ja.” He bowed, then straightened and raised his metallic left arm. He plucked a bouquet of yellow roses out of the air. “Before this theater converted to android performers many years ago, I was the star attraction.” He tossed the flowers high in the air and when they reached the apex of their climb, they vanished with a flash of golden light.

  “Impressive.” Gomez scanned the group seated around the table. “All the rest are androids, huh?”

  “Ja, Herr Gomez. I’m the caretaker now and I don’t like to breakfast alone,” he explained. “But I also don’t care for inane chatter, so I rarely activate them. Would you care to join me for a cup of nearcaf?”

  “Much obliged, sí.” He climbed the sidestairs onto the stage.

  “Timecheck told me you were coming, and provided me with a portrait.” In his metal hand now appeared a faxpic. “You’ve put on a little weight.”

  Gomez took the picture and studied it. “Only around the middle.”

  The Amazing Otto took hold of a handsome android actor by the collar of his tuxsuit and yanked him free of his chair. “We need your seat, Herr Baron.”

  The mechanical man hit the stage with a resounding thud.

  Stepping over the fallen actor, Gomez seated himself next to an immobile redhaired young woman. “According to Timecheck, you have something to tell me,” he said to the grey-bearded magician.

  The Amazing Otto returned to his chair. “It could be highly dangerous for me to pass along what I know.” He stared out into the shadowy theater. “So far, fortunately, only you and Timecheck are aware of the information I happen to possess. It is quite valuable.”

  “How valuable?”

  The Amazing Otto pointed his metal forefinger at an empty cup. Steaming nearcaf came spouting out. “What I know is, I estimate, worth $5000.” He handed him the cup.

  “That’s a very handy finger y
ou have there.”

  “I have over 500 tricks and gadgets built into me,” said the magician proudly. “No other performer in all of Germany, past or present, comes near that.”

  “Impressive,” repeated Gomez. “For the price do we get the identity of the maker of the android that was used to kill Beth Kittridge?”

  The magician sipped his imitation coffee. “I can tell you, ja, who built it,” he promised.

  “That’s worth $3000 tops.”

  “Nein, $5000.”

  Shaking his head, Gomez started to rise up. “Looks like, then, we won’t be—”

  “$4500.”

  “$4000.”

  The Amazing Otto slumped slightly in his chair. “Very well, Herr Gomez.”

  “Was the kamikaze made here in Berlin?”

  “Ja, near here. That’s how I came to have knowledge of it.”

  “Who built the thing?”

  The magician held up two metal fingers. “There were two of them, a couple,” he answered. “That is to say, a married couple. At the moment they are touring in Switzerland, but until last week they—”

  “You’ve talked quite enough this morning, old man.” Directly across the table from him one of the androids stood up. He was holding a lazgun in his gloved right hand.

  They found Will Goldberg in the Emergency Wing. The confessed killer was hooked up to a white medibed and had two white-enameled robots and a plump human doctor attending him.

  The young man was writhing on the bed, eyes tight shut, teeth gnashing. His skin was a chalky grey, his breath was rattling in his chest.

  Jake and Inspector Spellman were standing outside the room, looking in through the see-through plastiglass wall.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Jake.

  Spellman touched the keyboard beneath the vidchart mounted on the wall. A report on the young man appeared on the greenish screen. “According to this, he’s dying,” he said after skimming it. “From a synthetic virus—what they call a timebomb virus.”

  “Something that was injected in him before he got here?”

  “Yes, exactly. A week to ten days ago, judging from the prelim tests. It apparently just kicked in at five A.M. this morning.”