Tek Vengeance

by William Shatner

Glancing at the shut bedroom door, Gomez said, “Now we’re even, chiquita.”

  Leaning back in his skyliner seat, Gomez said, “You’re not following my example, Jake. You aren’t relaxing.”

  “Damn it, I’m worried about Dan.”

  “So am I, amigo. But all the fretting and fidgeting in the world isn’t going to get us to Greater LA ahead of the plane.”

  Jake had the window seat and was looking absently out at the afternoon sky. “It’s just that it seems like they’re out to get everyone who’s close to me,” he said, twisting his hands together. “Now, if they kill Dan—”

  “They won’t do that. Not yet anyway.”

  “There’s no way you can be sure of that.”

  “They have two ways of working, these cabróns. Either they strike at once without warning, or they tease and torture for awhile,” observed his partner. “I’m betting Dan’s alive.”

  Jake said, “Roddy Pickfair fits into this someplace, too.”

  “It’s my impression that young Roddy is a silent partner in their Tek cartel—make that was, since that Vienna-based bunch is pretty much defunct.”

  “Soon as we—”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Cardigan.” A robot attendant had halted in the aisle.

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a satphone call for you,” explained the robot. “If you’ll come to the lounge?”

  “Is it about my son?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Jake worked his way into the aisle and walked back to the lounge. Stepping into the phone alcove, he sat.

  “Hi, pal. Remember me?”

  Jake studied the copperplated robot on the screen. “You’re Rex/GK-30. What—”

  “Listen, kiddo, I’m not supposed to make calls like this,” explained Rex, glancing around. “It could put my toke in a sling, so I got to talk fast before any of the school brass get wise.”

  “You’re at the academy now—is this about Dan?”

  “You got it, boss.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Not exactly, but I’m working on it. Meantime, I wanted to pass along what I do know. I was going to spill this to Bascom over at Cosmos, but then I got wind you and Gomez were heading home via skyliner.”

  “Okay, what do you have?”

  “Your offspring, along with a bright kid named Molly Fine, have been digging into the life and times of several parties,” explained Rex. “I have been, unbeknownst to the mucks around here, lending a hand.”

  “Which parties?”

  “They commenced with Larry Knerr, then branched out to Roddy Pickfair—and China Vargas,” the robot informed him. “Plus which, Molly’s been using sources of her own to delve further into the background of Pickfair. She’s come up with the fact that his birth records are phony, but I don’t know where that leads anybody.”

  “Do you know why they were at the GLA Civic Plaza?”

  “Yeah, sure. That was my fault in a way,” answered Rex/GK-30. “There was a big charity shindig there and Dan found out that Pickfair, Knerr and the Vargas frail were all going to attend. They talked me into getting them, by using a few electronic dodges, onto the guest list. Dan was planning to eavesdrop on the group, using some surveillance gadgets borrowed from your collection and—”

  Rex was all at once gone from the screen. Now the face of an angry, thickset man of fifty appeared. “The conversation is over, Cardigan,” he announced.

  “Put Rex back on, Farber,” requested Jake evenly.

  “Rex is on suspension as of now,” Dick Farber told him. “It’s damned lucky I came along and discovered this before too much classified information got out.”

  “You must know that my son’s missing,” said Jake. “Rex has information that might—”

  “If your kid is really missing, Cardigan, and not just shacked up with the Fine girl, the proper authorities will be supplied with whatever the academy deems useful to them,” said Farber. “Notice that I said proper authorities. That sure as hell doesn’t include excons working as cheap gumshoes. So long, jerk.”

  The screen went blank.

  43

  THERE WAS DAN ON the wall.

  Caught for a moment by a roving robot news-cam that had attended the charity ball at the GLA Civic Plaza on behalf of Newz, Inc.

  Bascom touched a button, freezing the image on the large vidscreen. “The pretty lass tugging at his arm is Molly Fine,” he said. “We did some digging into her background after you passed on Rex/GK-30’s tip, Jake. Very intelligent, very rich. Only daughter of Gilbert Fine, the servomech billionaire.”

  “Is he linked with Tek in any way?” Jake was sitting on the edge of one of the agency chief’s office chairs.

  “Not that we can find. Pop Fine is pretty much a scoundrel, but in the traditional big business mode.”

  Gomez was hunkered deep down in a soft chair, knees up and chin low. “Who’s the lad who’s blocking their progress?”

  “We’ve tentatively identified him as Len O’Hearn, of the O’Hearn satcom family. Also very rich, though not especially intelligent.”

  Jake said, “So now we know for sure that Dan and Molly were there.”

  “And there’s ample footage of Pickfair, Knerr and the hairless China,” added Gomez.

  “We also know,” said Bascom, starting up the film again, “that Molly danced with the O’Hearn heir. You’ll note that she’s moving into the fray with him.”

  “I also note Dan giving O’Hearn a very uncordial glare before being swallowed up by the crowd.”

  “The fabled Cardigan glare.” Gomez sank further into his chair.

  “We did an earlier scan of all this material,” said Bascom, stopping it. “What you fellows have just watched is all there is of Dan and Molly—and of the Pickfair trio.”

  “What time was that last?”

  “The stuff on Dan and Molly was shot at 9:47 that evening.”

  “And what time was McCay stungunned?”

  “Approximately ten P.M.”

  “So we can’t trace Dan or the girl after that?”

  “Not as yet,” said the agency head. “We also have another problem.”

  Jake stood. “Which is?”

  “We haven’t been able to locate Roddy Pickfair, Larry Knerr or China Vargas.”

  “What does the Ampersand studio say?”

  “That Mr. Pickfair is out of town, but they don’t know where,” answered Bascom. “Obviously I’ve got people working on locating the lad.”

  “What’s the GLA Fax-Times have to say?”

  “The senior Vargas is vacationing in Mexico. His daughter is not at the newspaper offices nor at the family home in the Bel Air Sector,” continued Bascom. “Knerr is supposedly off covering a story, but they have no information on his current whereabouts.”

  “Dan and Molly must be with one of them,” said Jake, starting to pace the big office. “We’ve got to find them.”

  “What about the minions of the law?” inquired Gomez. “What are they up to?”

  “The Greater Los Angeles cops aren’t taking this very seriously as yet,” said Bascom. “It’s their opinion that Dan and Molly probably just decided to sneak away somewhere after the dance and haven’t gotten around to letting anyone know.”

  “Dan isn’t like that,” said Jake, angry. “And how the hell do they explain McCay’s getting gunned down?”

  “They suggest that’s a simple mugging—his valuables were swiped—not necessarily connected with the other business,” said Bascom. “Keep in mind, Jake, that from a jaded policeman’s point of view, it’s more likely that the kids just took off to fool around someplace. And as far as the SoCal State Police are concerned, they can’t rule this a kidnapping for two more days. Them’s the rules.”

  “Video.” Gomez was gazing at the blank wallscreen.

  Jake scowled at him. “What?”

  Gomez shifted in his chair, rolled his eyes, made a strange clucking noise with his tongue. “I was
just now visited with an odd notion as I sat slumped here.” He came slowly up out of the depths of the chair. “As I watched the dark-haired Molly, I was suddenly wafted back to that fateful day when we were all gathered ’round watching the dying message from Jean Marie Sparey.”

  “And?”

  Gomez shook his head in a perplexed way. “Something flickered across the barren landscape of my mind,” he answered finally. “I had the sudden feeling that I’d seen the young lady somewhere before. Though at the time I didn’t realize it, not consciously anyway.”

  “She’s Will Sparey’s daughter, you probably saw her when she was a kid.”

  “You and Sparey were pals, I wasn’t a chum of his,” reminded Gomez. “Besides which, that muchacha probably wasn’t the true Jean Marie anyway.”

  Jake said, “You’re probably right, yeah. But what—”

  “She was no doubt a ringer, an imposter, an ... Caramba! She was an actress.” He walked over to Bascom, held out his hand. “Can you provide me with a copy of that sentimental vidcaz, jefe?”

  “Surely, but what in the—”

  “I’m suddenly curious to find out what’s become of her since she was pulled back from the jaws of death down in Rio,” he told them. “Jake, I’d like to fool around with this for awhile. Okay?”

  “Fine, I have a few things I want to work on,” he said. “We’ll keep in touch through the office here.”

  Bascom said, “I’d feel considerably better if I knew what the hell either of you was talking about.”

  “You remember him fondly, am I right?”

  Gomez shook his head. “I remember him not at all, Wolfe.”

  Wolfe Bosco’s face puckered. “You’re spoofing me, is that it?”

  “Suppose we move on to business?” The small redhaired agent pointed again toward the tiny kitchen of his apartment on the topmost floor of the four-story Palm Oasis Apartments in the heart of the Hollywood Sector of GLA. “Why, that’s Jacko Fuller.”

  An android simulacrum was busily fixing sandwiches in the kitchen. “Maybe if I sing it’ll refresh his memory, Wolfe.”

  “Just keep working on the sandwiches, schmuck,” advised the agent. “Jacko Fuller, Gomez? This one is the best surviving public appearance andies. The rest tend to sing off key.”

  “I don’t recall his career. Now can—”

  “Three years as featured vocalist on Mudwrestling Melodies. Surely you watched that as an unfortunate child growing up in ethnic squalor in some trashy—”

  “Wolfe, I came here prepared to pay you a handsome fee for information.” He took a vidcaz from his jacket pocket.

  “The real Jacko Fuller is now a gibbering geek in a senior enclave in the San Diego Sector. I find that sad, very sad.”

  “It’s not that cheering that you have his sim doing your housework.”

  “We take turns. Him and me and Deb. You, am I right, fondly recall Deb Brophy, the Sax Queen of the Ice Rink and—”

  “No.”

  “What a bleak childhood you must’ve had. It no doubt has blighted your adult life, am I right about that?”

  “Shall I make extra sandwiches for our guest, Wolfe?”

  “No, nope.” Gomez dropped the cassette back in his pocket.

  “I can activate Deb, would you like that, Gomez?” asked the agent. “When you hear her belt out a blues on the alto, you’ll probably remember enjoying—”

  “We hocked her horn,” reminded the android from the kitchen.

  “She can still hum. What a talented performer Deb was,” said Bosco. “The real Deb fried her brains with Tek and conked off about six years back in Mentor, Ohio. But she lives on right here in my talent stable, ready to bring joy to—”

  “I’m trying to find someone.” Gomez caught him by both arms. “With your vast knowledge of show business, Wolfe, I hoped you’d be able to help me out. However, all you’ve done thus far is try to interest me in superannuated andies and—”

  “What sort of fee is involved in this transaction? The Cosmos outfit provides you, I’m fully aware, with an eyepopping expense account.”

  “I’m offering $100.”

  “Outlandish. An insult. Did you hear that, Jacko?”

  “An insult for sure, Wolfe. A slap in the face.”

  “Gomez, I’d have to have, at the very least—$500.”

  “$200 and no more.”

  “Did you happen to overhear this latest offensive suggestion, Jacko?”

  “I did. I’m astonished.”

  “Adiós, Wolfe. You, too, Jacko.”

  “I’ll lower my fee to $250.”

  “$200.”

  “That’s virtually nothing. I’ll take it, however.”

  Gomez produced the cassette again and handed it to the agent. “I think the lady seen hereon is a smalltime actress who may possibly reside in GLA somewhere,” he told Wolfe Bosco. “I have the vague impression I may even have seen her in some small role about a year or so ago. Unfortunately that notion only recently dawned on me.”

  After rubbing the cassette on the elbow of his plaid jacket, the agent walked over to the player that sat on his lamé coffee table. “If the frail has ever trod the boards, I’ll know her.”

  “He’s known far and wide,” called Jacko from the kitchen, “as the Walking Encyclopedia of Show Biz Lore.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Bosco, “entirely true.” He inserted the vidcaz.

  Nothing happened.

  “Function.” He whapped the machine with his fist.

  Up on the dirt-smeared wallscreen appeared Jean Marie Sparey. “They’re letting me make this ... I sure hope ... you can come see me ... Uncle Jake ... I’m a real mess, huh? It’s ... it’s mostly from doing Tek ... had a lot of seizures and ... I really ... truly ... futzed up my body and ... anyway, please ... I must ... talk to you.”

  Bosco turned off the machine, made a loud snuffling noise, wiped at the corner of his eye. “Touching. What a perf.”

  “Moving,” called Jacko, “judging from the audio.”

  “Do you know who she is, Wolfe?” asked Gomez.

  “Sure, that was Susan Ferrier. I didn’t know the kid had that much talent. Tears to my eyes is what she brought. I should be representing her.”

  “A terrific idea,” said Jacko. “She’d be perfect for the lead in—”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “You want an identification and a current address—all for a pitiful $200, am I right about that?”

  “That’s absolutely right, sí.”

  “Very well.” He worked his way over to his phone. “I’ll find out for you, Gomez, where the quiff is right this very moment. But there’s no denying that I’ve fallen from greatness.”

  “It’s a tragedy, a modern day tragedy,” said Jacko, finishing up the sandwiches.

  44

  AUNT ELSIE LIT HER CIGAR, took a slow puff and then chuckled out smoke. “You’re looking just great, Jake.”

  “Am I?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, no. You look like they left you out all night in the rain. You didn’t come here as a customer, did you?”

  He was sitting in a frilly armchair in Aunt Elsie’s office. The office was furnished much like a parlor of at least a century earlier. “Nope, I came to question one of your clients.”

  Aunt Elsie was a thin woman in her late forties. Her pale blonde hair was cut short and she wore a grey business suit. “Jake darling, the Past Recaptured Bordello is the most exclusive—and expensive—whorehouse in Greater Los Angeles,” she told him, sighing out smoke. “I wouldn’t think of disturbing a customer, not even for a cherished old friend like you.”

  He left his chair to approach her handcarved desk. “My son is missing, probably kidnapped,” he told her. “I think a young man named Len O’Hearn may know something about—”

  “But he’s not the one who’s here, darling. It’s his father, Rian O’Hearn, the—”

  “Len has dropped from view. I’m betting his
father can tell me where to find him.”

  She took a careful drag on the thin cigar. “This is Danny you’re talking about?”

  “Dan, yeah.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Is he? Seems like just the other day you were telling me that your wife was expecting. That was when I had my place in the Laguna Sector and you and Gomez dropped in to shut me down for awhile,” she said. “Fifteen years ago or more that must’ve been.”

  “I can wait outside until he comes out, but it would be helpful if I could see him sooner.”

  “How’d you find out Rian was at my establishment?”

  Jake smiled. “Sources.”

  “He’s an interesting customer,” said Aunt Elsie, leaning back in her desk chair. “What we’ve re-created for him is the lady who taught him English Lit in junior college thirty some years ago. Rather a plain woman, if you want my opinion, but he seems to enjoy coming here once each week to sleep with our android sim. It also pleases him to do that in a replica of the bedroom he had when he was a kid in the Hawthorne Sector of—”

  “Something terrible.” A lean black man stepped into the office through the wall panel that had just snapped open.

  “What is it, Edmond?”

  “It’s Rian O’Hearn,” he answered nervously. “The man’s suffered some sort of attack. I sent our medibot up to attend him, but I think you best have a look, ma’am.”

  “I’ll look, too,” Jake said.

  Gomez came strolling in out of the late afternoon sunshine. He smiled amiably at the slim, darkhaired young woman behind the wide ivory reception desk.

  “You got here just in time, sir,” she informed him, studying his face. “We can probably still help you. Name, please?”

  “Gomez.” Settling into the ivory chair facing her desk, he asked, “Are you Amber Alvarez?”

  “That’s my professional name, yes.”

  “You’re the very person I’m seeking.”

  “I am? Are you a producer, director, talent scout or—”

  “Not exactly, chiquita.” He leaned both elbows on her desk.

  “Are you certain you didn’t come into NuFaz, Inc., for a new face?”

  “I don’t need a new one.”