Tek Money

by William Shatner

  “I never loved any of them,” Janine told him evenly. “Not even you, dear heart. I’m only interested in seeing regimes like Garcia’s knocked down. If that means sleeping with Barragray, then it has to be done.”

  He let go of her, took two steps back. Santos hadn’t calculated on the coffee table and he tripped over it.

  He fell to the floor, sharp pains knifing through his right side.

  Janine didn’t say anything.

  After a moment Santos got to his feet. “In two days Garcia will be gone,” he said. “Then I suppose you’ll be happy.”

  “Then,” she told him, “I’ll move on to someplace else.”

  37

  THE DEAD WAGON rolled slowly along the misty midnight street that Gomez was walking along. A large open landtruck, it had the words Los Muertos scrawled on its side in white glopaint.

  Rattling, coughing, it halted a few yards ahead of the detective.

  From the passenger side of the cab a thickset man in a heavy overcoat dropped to the rutted paving. A body, that of a thin boy of about eleven, lay facedown on the wet, cracked sidewalk. The big man made the sign of the cross, then bent and grabbed up the dead boy by the back of the shirt and the seat of the trousers.

  The boy had been killed by a lazrifle blast that had cut across his middle. When the man gathered him up, part of his insides spilled out and splashed onto the street.

  Ignoring that, the man from the dead wagon carried the corpse over and tossed it into the open back of the truck. There were at least ten bodies piled there already. Climbing back into the truck cab, the man said, “Andamos.”

  The dead wagon rolled on into the night.

  Gomez shook his head and resumed walking, avoiding the place on the sidewalk where the boy had been sprawled.

  Less than ten minutes later he arrived at the old two-story schoolhouse that he’d been trying to reach since he entered Recinto #3.

  Sister Eliz was a small, thin woman in her middle fifties, wearing a dark sweater and trousers. “Where did she go?” she was asking Gomez.

  He made a vague gesture. “I don’t know—elsewhere.” He’d been telling her about the girl who’d taken him to the ruined church and helped him overcome the two Cazadores who’d come hunting them. “After the raid seemed over and we left the church, I invited her to come here to your mission with me.”

  They were standing in a hallway just outside what had once been the school cafeteria. It was a makeshift infirmary now with twenty beds, all of them occupied, and two robot nurses in attendance.

  Sister Feliz nodded. “Many people are afraid to come here.”

  “Isn’t this a sanctuary?”

  “Not completely, although the hunters and most of the gangs don’t bother us.”

  “Soon as we saw those three kids safely home, the girl took off,” continued Gomez. “She kissed me on the cheek, then went running off into the mist. I don’t even know her name.”

  “Too bad you’re not a Christian, Gomez.”

  “I’m a splendid fellow in spite of my heathen status.”

  “Sí, to be sure. If you had faith, though, you’d be able to accept everything that befell you tonight as God’s will. Something that was meant to be exactly as it was.”

  Shrugging, Gomez said, “No, I’m going to keep worrying about her.”

  The small, thin woman told him, “I’ve been able to gather some of the information you wanted.” Beckoning him to follow, she moved along the hall.

  “How does the Lord feel about your sideline profession, Sister?”

  As they moved toward the rear of the building, she answered, “He’s of the opinion that the ends justify the means.”

  A small onetime storeroom had been converted into an office and was crowded with data-gathering equipment and gadgets.

  Gomez sat on the edge of the lopsided wicker chair she motioned at. “When I checked in with my partner a little while ago,” he said, “he mentioned a gent calling himself Rafe Santos. Can you dig up anything about—”

  “I already know about him.” She settled in front of a small desk that contained several monitors and some unorthodox attachments. “Santos is a close associate of Janeiro Martinez. Second or third in command, depending on the mood Martinez is in.”

  “What kind of lad is he?”

  She made a sour face. “Muy guapo, very handsome,” she answered. “Very deft at using his charm to further the cause.”

  “Reliable?”

  “At the center, I believe, loyal only to himself. Why?”

  “Would he be capable of, say, appropriating money—a lot of money—intended for Martinez and the rebels?”

  “He would. Martinez, however, has a great deal more faith in him than I do.” She touched a keypad. “Pay attention to the right-hand monitor. You’re seeing the town of Santa Francesca.”

  “A very popular spot this time of year.”

  “Now you’re looking at the Monasterio Tek Clinic. In less heathen days it was an actual monastery.”

  Gomez leaned forward. “This is more than a scenic tour you’re giving me, I assume, Sister.”

  “The Devlin Guns are stored there.”

  “You sure?”

  She smiled at him. “Nearly certain, let us say.”

  “Does President Garcia know what you know?”

  “One or two members of his cabinet may know, but not el presidente.”

  “Was the late Secretary of State Torres one of those who knew?”

  “He knew several things that made his continued existence impossible.”

  “Who’s behind this?”

  “My sources indicate that segments of your own United States government want President Garcia gone,” she replied. “And, while I don’t have enough information on this yet, I’d say that your Office of Clandestine Operations has entered into some sort of deal with the Zabicas Tek Cartel. A deal that will supply continuing funds for some operation of theirs.”

  Gomez leaned back, his wicker chair creaked. “Did you run across anything pertaining to Janine Kanter, alias a whole mob of other women?”

  “She’s living with Santos at a villa in Santa Francesca.”

  “A versatile young lady.”

  “And sad.”

  “Oh, so?”

  “She believes in the wrong things.”

  “That can be the trouble with faith sometimes,” he said.

  38

  THE MORNING SUN above the mountain town of Santa Francesca filled the twisting uphill lane with brightness. The striped awnings of the white-faced buildings gleamed, the plasticobbles of the sidewalk glistened. Gomez interrupted his whistling to mutter, “Muy triste.” Alone, hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, he was climbing toward the Encantadora Inn to call on Natalie Dent. It was Jake’s idea that his partner contact the reporter while he concentrated on tracking down Janine Kanter. “It’s sad that a sensitive lad such as myself has to undertake such disheartening chores.”

  On the corner a child-sized silver robot was hawking faxpapers. “Read all about it,” he shouted in a chirpy voice. “President Garcia’s popularity climbs three percent.”

  “Up from what?” inquired Gomez as he passed the newsie.

  “You intending to have me print you out the morning news, señor?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then take a hike, schmucko.”

  “Exactly what I’m doing, latita.”

  The inn, narrow and made of pale grey stone, stood halfway up the next block.

  Making the kind of noise people make prior to jumping off a precipice, Gomez entered the paneled lobby. He avoided the oaken registration desk and walked up the ramp leading to the second floor.

  He tapped on the neowood door of Suite 213.

  Nothing happened.

  Gomez tapped again.

  From the far end of the hall came a low chuffing noise that sounded like some ailing appliance struggling to purée rocks.

  Trotting down there, Gomez found an
android house dick lying on his back in a vidphone alcove. Eyes staring, legs rattling.

  “Que pase?”

  Somebody had used a stungun on the security andy. Frisking him, Gomez located a passkey.

  He sprinted back to Natalie’s door and used the borrowed electrokey to open it.

  There was a stunned robot in there.

  Sidebar, the snide robot cameraman, was spread out on his back in the center of the living room thermocarpet. The coffee table was on its side next to the bot.

  “Nat?” Gomez called, drawing his stungun and crossing to the bedroom.

  He booted the door open, stood back, listening.

  The bedroom was empty. A bedside table had been knocked over in there and the contents of one of the reporter’s suitcases was scattered across the floor.

  When he returned to the living room after searching the suite, Gomez heard a sound.

  Sidebar had murmured something that sounded like “putz.” The robot managed to bring up his left hand and tap once at the lens of the builtin camera in his chest.

  “You got pictures of something?”

  Sidebar gave a positive-sounding metallic groan.

  Extracting the vidcaz from the camera, Gomez crossed and thrust the caz in the slot under the vidwall.

  “… I know I don’t have my symbols crossed, Dr. Ortega, and I’m certain I was supposed to meet you at the clinic and not the other—”

  “Signals, Señorita Dent,” corrected the large man who was facing Natalie across the living room. “The proper cliché is ‘I don’t have my signals—’”

  “Be that as it may,” said the life-size wall image of the redhaired reporter, “I’m darn sure I was supposed to call on you at eleven this morning. Here it is barely nine and you—”

  “A change of plans has been necessitated, Señorita Dent. I won’t be able to see you later and so I—”

  “And who are these guys?”

  Sidebar zoomed in on two broadshouldered men who’d appeared behind the doctor.

  “Oh, them? Sí, my dear, they’ve come along to help carry you out the back way.”

  “Carry me? If you think I intend to—”

  Dr. Ortega had pulled a stungun from his coat pocket and fired at the young woman.

  She rose up suddenly on tiptoe, her arms flapped up and her fingers spread wide. She fell out of camera range.

  “Ah, I didn’t notice you standing in the bedroom doorway.” The doctor fired his stungun directly at the camera.

  The carpet rose up to met the falling lens and then the vidwall was blank again.

  After tugging thoughtfully at his left earlobe, Gomez extracted the vidcaz and slipped it into a jacket pocket.

  As he passed the fallen robot, he said, “Be of good cheer, pobrecito, the effects should wear off in ten or twelve hours.”

  Very faintly Sidebar murmured something that sounded like “putz” as Gomez hurried out of the suite.

  Jake was crossing toward the door out of his hotel room when his palmphone buzzed in his side pocket. He stopped, pulled out the phone and said, “Yeah?”

  “Your phone is tap-proof, isn’t it?”

  Jake nodded at the image of Janine Kanter on the tiny screen in his hand. “Sure.” He rested on the arm of a fat neoleather chair. “What are you calling yourself?”

  “Janine will do.” The slender young woman had black hair and she looked much less innocent and vulnerable than when he’d met her in Greater Los Angeles and she’d pretended to be Pete Traynor’s sister. She was sitting in a highback red wicker chair in a shadowy stonewalled room.

  Jake said, “I hear you’re staying in Santa Francesca, Janine.”

  “I have to talk to you, Cardigan.”

  “Where?” he asked, watching the image on the small screen.

  “I’ve found out some facts that have upset me,” she told him. “I’m at a winery on the edge of town on the Calle Esperanza. It’s called Los Hermanos Viñeos, Ltd. I’ll be at Bodega #3, that’s one of three small warehouses.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as you can.”

  “I have a stop to make first,” he said to the image of Janine. “I can be there in about an hour.”

  “That should be all right, Cardigan, but try to make it sooner.”

  “If it’s too dangerous for you there, try to get over here to—”

  “No, I’ll be okay here for a while,” she cut in. “Oh, and be careful coming onto the grounds. They’re running wine tastings here all day and you don’t want to get tangled up in that crowd.”

  Jake grinned. “This sounds like the last time we met.”

  She frowned. “How so?”

  “That drunk in your apartment building, the one who insisted on inviting us in for a drink,” reminded Jake. “He’d been guzzling Spanish wine as I recall.”

  “Oh, him, yes. I’d forgotten,” said Janine. “Soon as you can, Cardigan.”

  “Soon as I can,” he promised.

  A very small bird was singing.

  “Stop that,” murmured Natalie.

  The bird ceased its chirping.

  Her arms and her legs were stiff and sore, the bones in her skull didn’t feel as though they fit together properly any longer, and she felt as though she was suffering from more toothaches than she had teeth.

  Inhaling slowly, which started a series of brand-new pains all across her chest and along her ribs, Natalie opened her eyes.

  The soft yellowish light of the small room jabbed into the blurry eyes. Shutting them tight, she sat up on the canvas cot she’d awakened upon. The floor was carpeted with something that felt thick and coarse under her bare feet.

  “Bare feet?”

  Slowly, carefully, she risked opening her eyes again. Someone had taken off all her clothes, down to her underwear, and dressed her in a stained and wrinkled blue hospital gown that was at least a half-dozen sizes too large.

  Besides her and the uncomfortable cot, there was nothing else in the room except a small goldplated birdcage that sat on the floor in the far corner. The canary was lying on the bottom of the cage, amid a spill of red and black feed—dead.

  Shivering, Natalie rested her forehead against the palm of her hand. “Dr. Ortega used a stungun on me, the so-and-so,” she said to herself, remembering. “Then had those two lunks carry me here—and undress me, too, probably.”

  She was most likely, she concluded, at the Monasterio Tek Clinic.

  “What does the doctor have in mind for me?” she wondered. “Are they going to kill me or simply keep me out of the way for a while? The coup against President Garcia is set to begin very soon and they may just want to keep me out of action until …”

  Very slowly, the door to her room was swinging open inward.

  “Don’t yelp with delight, chiquita, or do anything else to attract attention. I’ve fritzed the secsystem in this wing of the clinic, but that won’t last forever.” Smiling, Gomez slipped into the room and shut the door behind him. “What happened to your canary?”

  “He died, and before you criticize me for not spending more time on mourning the thing, tell me how we’re going to get out of here.” She stood up, then swayed, grabbed at the air as she fell back to the cot.

  Gomez came running to her, taking hold of her arm. “Easy at first, bonita,” he cautioned, helping her to sit upright. “They used a stungun on you.”

  “Dr. Ortega did it,” she said quietly. “Did you say this was the Tek clinic?”

  “Sí, you’re in the bowels of the Monasterio setup.” He seated himself close beside her, put a supportive arm around her. “I’m glad I found you, Nat.” He lowered his arm, then slipped his hand inside the opening at the back of the gown. “I’ve never told you this before, cara, but my flippant exterior masks a real affection for you.”

  “That’s flattering, Gomez, but oughtn’t we be getting the heck out of here?”

  “The coast won’t be clear for a few minutes.” He moved his rough hand along the
flesh over her ribs and then touched her right breast. “While we’re waiting, Nat, we can make up for lost time.”

  She caught his wrist through the thin fabric of the hospital gown, tugging at it. “Don’t think I’m not grateful over your risking life and limb to bust into this hellhole to rescue me, Gomez, and, as a matter of fact, if I were completely and totally truthful, I’d have to admit that you’re very attractive to me even though your flaws and negative aspects would use up several bytes of—”

  “Any port in a storm.” Gomez took hold of her breast.

  “Please, no, stop.”

  “This is very discouraging.”

  “Backsliding on her very first day with us.”

  “How’d she smuggle the stuff in here, Nurse 27A?”

  “I have no idea, Dr. Sinjon.”

  Opening her eyes, Natalie discovered she was lying flat out on the cot again. “Where’s Gomez?”

  A lanky black man in a white jacket was leaning over her, pulling at the Tek headset she was wearing. It became tangled in her red hair. “You’re here to cure your serious Tek addiction, Patient Dent.” Pulling harder, he got the Tek gear free of her head, along with several red hairs. “Who smuggled this in to you?”

  “She must have a confederate in the clinic,” suggested the white medibot beside him.

  Natalie glanced around the room, feeling dizzy and hollow. “Gomez wasn’t here at all, neither was the darned canary,” she said. “That was only a Tek fantasy, induced by your hooking me up to that Tek set.”

  Dr. Sinjon shook the Tek gear in her face. “You’re never going to be cured if you won’t accept responsibility for your—”

  “Listen, I’m a reporter, a highly respected one, with Newz, Inc.,” she told him, angry. “Soon as they hear you louts have abducted me, they’ll raise—”

  “Don’t you remember, Patient Dent?” asked the doctor, shaking his head sadly. “It was Newz, Inc., that had you committed here.”

  39

  GARDNER MUNSEY RESTED the tanned fingers of his right hand against the oneway plastiglass window, tilting his head very slightly to the left. “Fairly convincing,” he said, looking into the small stonewalled room at the figure in the highback red wicker chair.