Tek Kill

by William Shatner

  “Hamlet,” realized Burdon. “Too gloomy. Let’s try something else.”

  The stage emptied.

  Then a bearded old man in regal dress showed up. “I am a very foolish, fond old man,” he intoned in a quavery voice. “Fourscore and upward, not an hour more or—”

  “What’s this, King Lear? That’s your idea of cheerful?”

  The king faded away.

  A trio of gnarled witches replaced him. One cackled, “When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

  “Get them out of here,” ordered Burdon.

  He turned out also not to be in the mood for The Merchant of Venice, Twelfth Night, or Othello.

  Then a tall blond android in a spotless pale yellow suit appeared onstage.

  Burdon scowled. “Which Shakespearean play is this supposed to be?”

  “Beg pardon, sir. This is a projection of the visitor waiting downstairs in the foyer.”

  “Oh, yeah. The andy who works with Dr. Stolzer,” he realized. “Send him up. And turn off the plays.”

  The stage went dark and a moment later the blond android entered the living room. “Good evening, Mr. Burdon,” he said. “Dr. Stolzer is delayed, but he sent me in his place. My name is Deryk. That’s D-e-r-y-k.”

  “Take a seat, Deryk,” he invited. “I want to discuss the modifications to my dear sister’s brain. There are a great many things the poor woman is going to have to forget.”

  “HOW DOES THIS LOOK, DARLIN’?” Marney emerged from a storeroom wearing a fluffy brunette wig. “Would you know it was me under this rug?”

  “It’s not exactly a foolproof disguise, chiquita, but it does alter your appearance some.” He was in the process of stowing the still unconscious Avram Moyech in a large neowood crate labeled RED HOT PEPPERS.

  Their skyvan, with a landing pattern already punched out, was dropping down toward the town of Balazo, Mexico.

  Marney said, “Maybe you ought to get rid of that cute little mustache of yours.”

  “Nope, I’ll keep it.” He fitted the lid on the crate and secured it.

  Bright multicolored lights were showing below in the night. Brassy music came flying up at them.

  Returning to the pilot seat, Gomez said, “We’ve just about arrived. There’s the Cantina Mall right over there.”

  There were several dozen cantinas and saloons in the five-acre, three-level mall. Their litesigns flashed colored names—El Bufon, Café Tero, Ritmo Club, Trabajador, Mama Grande, Club Revancha, Café Granja.

  Gomez took over the controls just before their skyvan set down. He guided it to a landing on the far side of the landing area. They were only a few feet from the loading door of the El Bufon cantina.

  Dropping free of the van, Gomez trotted over to the door. He whistled with his tongue against his teeth as he tapped three times.

  “¡Por Dios!” exclaimed the slim, dark man who appeared in the doorway after the door slid open. “It’s none other than Gomez!”

  “I already phoned to alert you that I was coming, Raoul.”

  “I know, sí,” said Raoul Martinez. “But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. I’m pleased and excited—and, after all, you’re my second cousin.”

  “Third.” Gomez held up three fingers.

  “I feel closer than that. Ah … who’s the mujer?”

  Marney was walking toward them. “Is this the cousin who’s goin’ to help us?”

  “Marney, meet Raoul.”

  Martinez shook her hand enthusiastically. “You have beautiful hair, señorita.”

  “Why, thank you, Raoul. I owe it all to healthy livin’ and a sensible diet.”

  Gomez coughed and pointed at the skyvan with his thumb. “The material I want shipped to Greater LA, primo, is in the van.”

  “I’ll get a couple bots to unload it.” Raoul grinned and headed back inside the cantina.

  Clowns cavorted on the walls of the small office. The animated mural surrounded Gomez as he sat at the desk using the vidphone.

  Marney was sitting demurely, knees together, on a rattan chair across the room.

  From the phonescreen, frowning some, Bascom asked, “What kind of low bistro are you holed up in?”

  “It’s a cantina, jefe. Don’t let the clown motif distract you,” Gomez told him. “Simply attend to what I am telling you.”

  “Go ahead. But why the hell are clowns crawling all over the damned wall?”

  “My esteemed cousin’s cantina is named El Bufon. So he feels obliged to use buffoons and clowns in the decor,” explained Gomez. “I’m shipping Avram Moyech to you by way of a very reliable, capable, and sneaky smuggling service my cousin happens to be affiliated with.”

  “Moyech is alive?”

  “Ciertamente,” he answered. “I just re-stunned the pendejo and he’ll slumber in a babelike condition until he arrives at your doorstep. Where do you want him delivered?”

  Bascom said, “At the agency in Greater LA. I’ll pop down from Frisco to welcome him.”

  “He’ll be there in approximately six or seven hours, patrón,” Gomez told him. “I only questioned the guy briefly, but he is definitely the one who rigged the tapes that make you look like a murderer.”

  Bascom smiled. “I’ll see that Moyech gets turned over to Lieutenant Drexler in pristine shape—and in a talkative mood.”

  “Ahum,” remarked Marney, giving Gomez a small wave.

  “I’m in need, jefe, of a safe place to hide a friend of mine.”

  “Lady friend, is it?”

  Marney came around to stand behind Gomez. Bending, she smiled at the phone. “It’s me, Mr. Bascom honey,” she said, waving.

  “Marney, are you still a gunslinger?”

  “Well, more or less,” she said. “Though sometimes I’ve had to take off my clothes. You’d be surprised how many folks aren’t satisfied with just trick shootin’.”

  Bascom said, “I’ve got a couple of connections in that part of Mexico, Sid. I’ll contact them and get back to you in under an hour.”

  “Bueno,” he said. “What sort of progress is Jake making?”

  The chief of the Cosmos Detective Agency shook his head. “Something’s come up.”

  “Is Jake okay?”

  “He is, but Dan’s been grabbed.”

  “By who—and where is he?”

  “It ties in with my problems somehow,” he said. “Jake thinks Dan’s at the Junior Workers of America camp in McClennan, Mississippi.”

  “¡Mierda! Those places aren’t exactly spas.”

  “Jake ought to be in the neighborhood by now. I set up a meeting between him and a tricky barrister named Gregory Krishovnik.” Bascom rubbed a knuckle along the side of his nose. “He’s a gent who ought to be able to help Jake extract his son from that place.”

  “By means other than legal?”

  “That’s Krishovnik.”

  Gomez said, “I’ll stick here and see that Marney gets safely tucked away. Then I’m going to join Jake.” He stood up. “Tell him to expect me.”

  36

  THE circular room was two floors high. The smooth neowood walls were tinted a pale underwater green. The only furnishings were a pair of black metal slingchairs.

  Jake was seated in one. “Krishovnik claims you’re an expert at this sort of operation, Menken,” he was saying to the middle-sized, dark-haired man who occupied the facing chair.

  “We’ve done a couple of very successful raids on Junior Workers of America camps hither and yon,” answered Hershel Menken.

  “I want to get my son out of Camp 30. Can you—”

  “My organization—Menken’s Marauders—can get anybody out of anywhere, Cardigan,” he said, standing. “Let me show you the planning room.”

  Jake rose and followed. “How many people do you use on an operation like this?”

  “Never more than five.”

  “It’ll be six this time—since I’m going along.”

  Menken opened a
door by pressing his hand to the ID plate. “You’re qualified,” he said, crossing the threshold. “I researched you.”

  The large oval room was two floors high and filled with an assortment of electronics gear, including scanners, compscreens, holostages, and simulation tables.

  Jake asked, “Can you tap the files of the camp? I want to be absolutely sure this Henry Weiner is actually my son Dan.”

  “Already did that—soon as Krishovnik contacted me.” Menken pointed at the wall. “Screen 6 on your left.”

  Dan’s image appeared on one of the many compscreens built into the wall.

  Jake crossed to the eye-level screen. “Yeah, that’s Dan. ‘Weiner, Henry. Age—16.3 Home: Bristol, RI. Crime: grand theft, skycar. Sentence: five years.’”

  “That’s much too long to spend at Camp 30.”

  “We’re going to have an extra problem rescuing him,” said Jake, moving away from the image of his son. “It’s pretty certain he’s been mindwiped. So he’s not going to recognize me when I show up to take him away.”

  “But we’ll recognize him, Cardigan. We make our move, grab him, and depart.” He walked to one of the simtables. “Let me show you what Camp 30 looks like.”

  Menken touched the controls and a miniature holographic image of the Junior Workers of America Camp 30 buildings, roads, and grounds materialized. Initially it was a bit fuzzy. After Menken whapped the side of the table with the heel of his hand the image became sharper and clearer.

  “Twelve dorms,” observed Jake. “Then three administration buildings. One main road and a few side roads.”

  “Over here at the edge of the woodlands,” said Menken, pointing, “you’ll notice three landvan garages. They’re going to be important to our plan.”

  “More important than the guard towers at each corner of the setup?”

  “The boys who are serving time at the camp spend their days doing manual labor,” explained the leader of Menken’s Marauders. “Road work, construction, farming, and similar occupations. All stuff that bots can do faster and more efficiently. But the camps look upon hard work as the chief punishment they have to administer.”

  “So every day the kids are taken out of 30 and delivered to the work sites?”

  “Exactly, Cardigan.” Menken turned off the table. “I’ll gather my crew and we’ll work out the details of a specific plan to extract your son from the Junior Workers.”

  “How long?”

  Menken said, “I’d estimate we’ll be ready to go no later than the day after tomorrow.”

  WHEN KACEY BASCOM stepped off the tennis court, after winning a match with the San Peligro Country Club probot, a large green robot was waiting for her on the simulated mosaic passway.

  “Afternoon, mum.” The mechanical man touched a green finger to his green forehead.

  Halting, Kacey said, “Yes?”

  “You’d be the associate of this Jake Cardigan bloke, wouldn’t you?”

  “Whom do you represent?”

  “The gov wants to have a bit of a chat with you,” explained the bot. “He was intending to share—make that sell—some tidbits of info to Cardigan. But, Lord, Cardigan ain’t to be found on the whole blooming island.”

  “You must work for Monte Folkestone.”

  “That’s dead right, mum,” answered the robot. “If you was to stroll down to the beach and stop at the first immense, fat chap you see—that’d be the gov.”

  MONTE FOLKESTONE, wearing an ample flowered beach robe and a wide-brimmed sinstraw hat, was relaxing in a large and sturdy slingchair. He was sipping a chilled plazflask of Upper Kola and gazing through dark-tinted glasses out at the hazy afternoon sea. “Miss Bascom, so good to see you, my dear,” he said as she approached him across the hot sand. “I take it your esteemed father is in good spirits in spite of his sorry plight?”

  “You have something to sell?” She crouched beside his chair.

  “Ah, right to business, is it? Admirable.”

  “Jake Cardigan is away—so you can deal directly with me.”

  “Such was my assumption, dear lady.” The fat man chuckled. “If I’m not mistaken, you and the stalwart Mr. Cardigan are interested in the goings-on at yon NewTown plant.”

  “We are, yes.”

  Folkestone took another sip. “I’ve picked up some interesting items about Rebecca Burdon—her present situation and her probable future. Six hundred dollars.”

  “Cosmos will pay your fee. Tell me.”

  “Miss Burdon is presently the unwilling guest of her brother,” said the fat man. “She’s being detained in a separate wing of the facility.” From a pocket of his flowery robe he took a folded sheet of fax paper and handed it to her. “This, dear child, will show you the exact location of her place of incarceration.”

  Taking it, Kacey said, “Why is Rowland Burdon doing this?”

  “The unfortunate Rebecca has lately developed a conscience, it seems,” he said, sighing. “That does tend to happen to some of us as we grow older. As I understand it, she threatened to expose her brother’s evil deeds—which include manufacturing illegal Tek, murdering assorted enemies, being in cahoots with a Tek cartel, and participating in the framing of your dear papa.”

  “And Rebecca Burdon was planning to tell everything to the law?”

  “She was, but, of course, that won’t happen now.”

  “Why? Rowland can’t keep her locked away in that place forever.”

  “By the end of the week it won’t matter,” explained Folkestone. “Rowland has brought in a nefarious sawbones named Dr. Stolzer. He’s going to work on Rebecca’s mind, cleansing it of all memories of Rowland’s crimes, instilling a more positive outlook and pretty much turning her into a docile vegetable who’ll make no further trouble for anyone.”

  “I’ll have to get her out of there before they do that.” Kacey stood up.

  “If you need help in slipping into the NewTown—”

  “No, thanks. I can take care of that myself.” She left the fat man sitting there in the hot sun.

  37

  WHEN Jake came in through the back door of the boarded-up restaurant, Menken eased up out of the seat at the swayback counter and said, “Welcome to the Vegetable Bin, Cardigan.”

  There were two other people in the defunct dining room. A small, thin red-haired woman dressed in a gray slaxsuit and jacket was leaning against the wall that held dozens of rows of food-serving windows. Over by a lineup of vegetable juice machines, a lean, bearded man in his forties was tinkering with a juicer shaped like a huge carrot.

  Jake inquired, “Why this place for a meeting?”

  “Friend of mine still owns it and it makes a nice, quiet location for occasional meetings,” answered the leader of Menken’s Marauders. “With an organization like ours, I don’t like to have all our get-togethers at the same place—and this dump has, as you noticed coming in, a very effective security system still in place.”

  “Looks like they left you out in the sun too long, Jake,” commented the thin woman. “You can’t possibly be as old as all those wrinkles make you look. Of course, being just thirty myself, older people tend to appear—”

  “Forty,” said the tinkerer.

  “Thirty-seven actually,” she corrected, scowling.

  Menken nodded Jake toward a seat in one of the booths and then slid in opposite him. “The young lady is Shawna Beck, driver/pilot and in charge of our transportation fleet. The fellow with the compulsion to repair things is Jess Kipling.”

  Kipling glanced up for a few seconds. “Howdy, Jake.”

  “He’s our gadget man,” explained Menken. “Looks after all our weapons, electronic equipment—and he cooks up anything special we need for our operations and raids.”

  Jake rested an elbow on the tabletop. “You’re intending to try to rescue my son tomorrow morning?”

  “We’re going to rescue him,” Menken informed him. “Dan, alias Henry Weiner, and seven other inmates of the JWA camp will leave the
ir dorm at 8:03 A.M. tomorrow and be transported to a work site seven miles from 30.”

  “What is it?”

  “They’re building a side road on the outskirts of town. See, these kid camps believe that rough physical labor is a sure cure for antisocial behavior,” said Menken.

  Nodding, Jake asked, “You’ve got a map of their route tomorrow morning?”

  “We’ll have it as soon as Van Horn, our topography expert, arrives. Then we’ll go over everybody’s part in the operation.”

  “You sure you’re up to a strenuous job like this, Jake?” Shawna had moved over to lean against the wall beside their booth.

  “Menken’s Marauders,” he reminded her, “are noted for their easygoing camaraderie and admirable team spirit. Quit nagging Cardigan, sweet.”

  “A simple tactical question, Hersh,” responded the thin woman. “Usually our easygoing team doesn’t include strangers.”

  Jake grinned. “We’re expecting another stranger shortly—so brace yourself, Shawna.”

  “Jesus! Not another old fogey?”

  “Sid Gomez is a mere youth compared to me,” he assured her. “He’s my partner at the Cosmos Detective Agency out in—”

  “Cosmos Half-assed Bureaucracy,” was her opinion. “Big bunch of bumbling, arrogant gumshoes charging ridiculous fees for simple little piddly investigating chores.”

  Jake nodded. “That’s our motto, yeah.”

  Menken made an impatient shooing gesture with his right hand. “Wander off and meditate for a while, Shawna,” he advised. “It’s a policy of the house not to insult the paying customers.”

  She gave a lopsided shrug and headed for another part of the restaurant. “Maybe the bylaws ought to be amended.”

  From the room that had once been the pantry of the Vegetable Bin came the sound of people arriving.

  Menken’s hand moved closer to his shoulder holster.

  Jake turned to look toward that doorway. Then he relaxed and grinned. “I was just discussing your many merits, Sid,” he said.

  Gomez, looking somewhat weary and worn, was being escorted by a large, pudgy black man. “Buenas noches,” he said, his voice sounding a little worn.

  “Holy Christ,” commented Shawna, “this one’s in even worse shape than Jake.”