TekLab

by William Shatner

  And another ten for the chrome-plated robot to lead Jake along dim-lit corridors and up gently curving ramps to the dining area high up in the Grand Illusion.

  “Your friend Monsieur Rolfe is in Dining Room #13.” Marcel stopped, bowed, pointed toward a wide pink door. “A discreet tap before entering is usually in order.”

  Jake was raising his hand to knock when a young woman screamed on the other side of the door.

  10

  THE REDHEAD SMILED AT Gomez as he hooked himself into the passenger seat next to hers in the rapidly climbing Newz, Inc, skyvan. “I truly hope, Gomez, that you won’t think I’m being overly critical of you, especially at a time such as this, when you’ve screwed up to such an extent that you very nearly got your backside in a sling and must therefore be feeling hugely disappointed in yourself and depressed by your manifest inadequacies, and it’s all right with me, incidently, that you haven’t so much as bothered to give us even a teensy thank you for pulling your walnuts out of the fire or—”

  “Chestnuts, Nat.”

  “Hum?”

  “It’s chestnuts that zealous folks are forever pulling out of the fire for other ungrateful folks.” He slouched more deeply into the seat, watching the night rain hit at the window beside him.

  “Be that as it may, and ignoring your grouchy reaction to what I myself judge to have been a really impressive hairbreadth rescue—”

  “Didn’t I tell you the fellow was a putz, princess?” A highly polished chrome-plated robot was piloting the sky van. He had the words newz, inc staff spelled out across his wide chest in diamond studs.

  “Concentrate on your flying, Sidebar,” cautioned Natalie Dent.

  “I’m a cameraman, princess. I’m only handling this crate because the regular—”

  “Don’t get the idea, Sidebar dear, that I don’t admire and respect you, even though I’m dead certain that the robotics firm that constructed you erred somewhere in the installing of your ego, but I do wish you’d refrain from interrupting me while I’m having a conversation with my old friend Gomez.”

  “A putz,” reiterated the cameraman robot, returning his full attention to guiding the van through the rainswept Paris night.

  Natalie patted Gomez on the arm. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked. “That spill you took would’ve jiggled a man half your age.” She smiled sweetly.

  “A man half my age would still be cooped up in a playpen,” said Gomez. “What the hell brings you to Paris, Nat—and into such close proximity with me?”

  “Well, as one of the ace investigative reporters in the profession and as a star newsperson for Newz, Inc, the top round-the-clock news service on video, I get a lot of plum assignments, and this alleged Unknown Soldier killing fits into the category of important stories,” she replied. “It really strikes me as an incredible twist of fate that you and I are continually bumping into each other in these odd corners of the globe.”

  “Paris isn’t an odd corner, Nat. Millions of people flock here daily.”

  “True, but I was just mentioning to Sidebar, right after we noticed you making your clumsy exit from Eddie Anguille’s hotel room, ‘It’s funny how Gomez and I, while professing to have nothing in common, are continually showing up at the exact same spot.’ ”

  Gomez straightened up in his seat. “You were en route to talk to Anguille?”

  “Yes. Because I had a tip that he had a document that would bolster my theory about this particular killing,” said Natalie.

  “A document, you say, Nat?” Gomez assumed a guileless look.

  “I’m referring to the letter sent by the Unknown Soldier.”

  “A letter, eh? Fancy that.”

  Sidebar snorted. “The letter you have in your pocket, putz.”

  “Sidebar, keep in mind that Gomez, even though he’s being surly and is ungrateful about our saving him from surely meeting the same fate as poor Mr. Anguille and being splattered all over the side of that seedy hotel and on a goodly stretch of pedramp as well, is our guest and I won’t have my pilot insulting—”

  “I’m your cameraman, princess,” corrected the robot. “Cameramen are notorious for their ready wit and backtalk.”

  “We’ve worked together admirably in the past,” said Natalie, taking hold of Gomez’s arm. “And, actually, it’s as a person and not as a detective that I think you come up short. So there’s no earthly reason why we can’t work together again. It will save us both a lot of—”

  “Lord knows, Nat, just seeing you again has inspired me with a whole new spirit of cooperation,” he informed her sincerely. “The thing is ... Princess—is it that they call you these days?”

  “I dislike that nickname. Which Sidebar well knows, and that’s, by the way, another indication that a major tune-up and overhaul wouldn’t hurt him a darn bit. You can continue to call me Nat, which isn’t all that attractive a diminutive, but since you can’t bring yourself to use ‘Natalie,’ I’m willing to settle.”

  “Okay, Nat. The gratitude I’m feeling because of your timely rescue of me inspires me to share everything I know with you,” said Gomez. “Alas, however, those goons killed poor Eddie Anguille before he had a chance to tell me a damn thing, let alone pass me this alleged letter you seem so het up about.”

  Sidebar turned his head, stared at Gomez. His plaseyes glowed briefly—an intense green. “It’s addressed to the Paris Police Bureau,” he said as his eyes faded back to their usual silvery gray. “It says, and I quote, ‘Bouchon was not one of mine. (Signed) The Unknown Soldier.’ ”

  “Wonderful. Yes, that confirms my—”

  “How’d he do that?” Scowling, Gomez touched the pocket where he’d stowed the copy of the letter.

  “X-ray vision, schmuck,” answered Sidebar. “It’s built into all the best cameramen at Newz, Inc. And as you can see I’m one of the best.”

  “Bouchon was killed for some other reason, by someone else,” said Natalie, hugging herself and smiling with satisfaction. “Yes, that’s exactly what I figured.”

  “Bouchon?” said Gomez, frowning. “Oh, sí, I heard about his being knocked off.”

  “Don’t think, please, that I don’t enjoy these simple little games you’re so fond of trying to play with me, Gomez, because if I’m in the right mood, they can be mildly amusing,” said Natalie. “But, honestly, you better level with me from now on so that we can work side by side.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Nat, and excuse me for not being completely open with you. I should’ve known I couldn’t match wits with an astute reporter like you,” he said apologetically. “If you could drop me near my hotel, which is the Louvre, I’ll sit right down and start putting my notes in order. We’ll meet for lunch mañana and share all.”

  The redhead watched his face for several silent seconds. “That would be nice, although I still don’t feel you’re being completely honest,” she said. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

  “I most certainly am not, chiquita,” he lied.

  The door of the dining room snapped open. A lovely blonde android, clad in just about nothing, came stumbling out. There was blood splashed across her face and breasts. She bumped into Jake, caught hold of his arm, crying out, “They killed him! They murdered poor Zacky!”

  Shoving the mechanical woman aside, Jake carefully crossed the threshold.

  The large dining room’s interior offered a simulated moonlit terrace with a long formal dining table set up on the mosaic tiles. A large rectangle had been seared out of the far wall with a disintegrator cannon and the real night showed. A chill wind was blowing into the room, carrying rain with it.

  Another nearly naked female android was still seated at the table. Most of her left side had been sliced away with a lazgun and her inner works were spilled out and dangling.

  A third android, this one in the image of a naked young boy of fourteen, was leaning slackly against the stone railing of the terrace. The night rain was hitting at him and, very slowly now, he started
to slide down to the tiles. When he finally landed, with a gentle thunk, his blond head separated from his torso to go rolling across the damp terrace tiles. It came to a stop against the bare leg of the female android and the bright blue eyes started blinking rapidly.

  Jake had drawn his stungun from his shoulder holster. After scanning the room and determining that whoever’d broken in was long gone, he walked over to the table.

  On the far side lay a slim man with wavy blond hair. They’d sliced off both his hands with a lazgun and he’d been bleeding to death. The rain was mixing with the spilled blood, thinning it and spreading it across the intricate patterns of the tiling.

  Knowing it was too late to help the dying man, Jake knelt beside him. “Who did this, Rolfe?”

  The IDCA agent noticed him after a few seconds. “Cardigan,” he whispered.

  “Who was it?”

  Rolfe’s bloody right arm started to rise, as though he intended to take hold of Jake’s sleeve with the hand he no longer had. “Watch out ... watch out,” he said in a voice that was running down, “... for Excalibur.”

  A few choking sounds followed the last word. Then Rolfe died.

  11

  JAKE RETURNED TO THE hotel suite first. Leaving most of the lights off, he went over and stood by the window. The rain had turned to mist and everything was soft and hazy out in the night.

  “Maybe I’ve been at this business too long,” he told himself. He felt tired and he had the suspicion he’d feel the same way come morning.

  In the alcove the vidphone buzzed.

  Jake crossed over to answer. “Yeah?”

  “Hello, dear.” Beth appeared on the screen, smiling.

  “You called at a good time,” he told her. “I was just about to start brooding.”

  “What I have to tell you, Jake, may not cheer you up,” she said. “Perhaps you already know, but since it’s being kept off the news media, perhaps you don’t. I thought I’d better call you.”

  “What’s wrong? Is your father—”

  “No, it’s Bennett Sands,” she told him. “I just found out from Agent Griggs. Sands has disappeared from the prison near Barsetshire. They discovered he was gone roughly three hours ago.”

  “Damn,” said Jake quietly. “How’d he escape?”

  She shook her head. “No one is certain. Obviously, though, the electronic surveillance system in his room in the hospital wing had to be fooled somehow. When they made their last in-person check on Sands, he simply wasn’t there. Nor anywhere else in the place.”

  Jake said, “That’s why he was shipped over to England.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah. Somebody in England has a use for Sands. And enough influence to get him transferred from NorCal,” Jake said. “Plus enough connections to get him quietly sprung from a maxsec setup.”

  “I’m trying to find out more details,” Beth said. “But ... I don’t know, Jake. I keep feeling that my father knew that this was going to happen.”

  “Maybe he did, Beth. And I’m damn near certain Kate was expecting the escape, too.”

  Smiling a bit sadly, Beth said, “We don’t seem to be having much luck with our relatives lately.”

  “Sands’ daughter has dropped out of sight, too,” Jake told her. “You know that Dan’s had a sort of crush on her for a long time. I’m worried he’ll go hunting for her and get himself tangled up with Sands and the people who sprung him.”

  “Dan’s inherited your smartness. He won’t do anything dumb,” she assured him. “By the way, on an entirely different topic—I miss you.”

  “I have similar feelings about you.”

  “Any idea how soon you’ll be home?”

  “Not yet, and after we finish up here in Paris I want to go over to England to see Dan.”

  “And Kate?”

  “Not Kate, no.” They watched each other for a moment on the vidphone.

  “Well, when you get to London, I have a couple of people you might want to look up. In case you happen to need assistance in certain areas,” Beth said. “There’s Marj Lofton, an old friend of mine. She used to be a very successful Associate Professor of Robotics at SoCal Tech. Three years ago, though, Marj decided she wanted to help people more directly and she went home to England to get involved in social work. She knows a lot about London lowlife.”

  “Yeah, I may need her.”

  “And my other friend, Denis Gilford, is now a reporter for The London FaxTimes. He always has access to all sorts of information nobody is supposed to have.”

  “Another one of your former suitors?”

  “Denis is a friend, that’s all.”

  “Okay, I’ll add him to my list of things to see in London.” He smiled.

  “I think you’ll enjoy him. Well, I have to go now. Remember, I love you, Jake.”

  Jake said, “And I love you.”

  The screen went blank.

  He was alive again.

  Sitting there, breathing in and out regularly, none of the other passengers paying him any mind.

  Just a sad-looking young man, far as they could tell, bundled up in a large black overcoat with a knit cap pulled down low on his head. Sitting there, breathing in and out regularly. Nobody, not one of the damn idiots sharing this car in the London Underground Tubetrain, was aware of who he was.

  He was death.

  Not for them, not tonight anyway. But you never could tell. Maybe some night, maybe one of them would have to die.

  He never knew. He’d simply be alive again, breathing in and out regularly, and a name would be given to him. Tonight was an easy one, without a lot of travel involved.

  Tonight he just had to kill someone close to home.

  Not that he minded traveling. Not that he liked traveling either. The part he didn’t much care for, although he hadn’t complained yet, was memorizing all the details about the person he had to kill.

  That meant studying, which was too much like school. After all, he’d been out of college for ... Well, he didn’t have a complete memory about that. It had been a while ago anyway.

  The voxbox in the ceiling of the car announced, “Coming into Paddington Station.”

  The young man waited until a few other passengers had gotten up to move toward the doors. Then he stood.

  The underground train silently halted, the doors silently drifted open.

  As he went out the door onto the platform, the right-hand pocket of his black overcoat banged against the frame and produced a metallic crack. But nobody noticed.

  The young man walked toward an exit, not hurrying, breathing in and out regularly. The weapons detector in the gate didn’t make a sound as he passed through. It was a simple-minded mechanism, incapable of getting around the antidetection gadget he carried in his pocket along with his stungun and his lazgun.

  He got on a motoramp and let it carry him up to the street. He made his way over to Level One of Praed Street, not bothered by the thick, chill fog that choked the late night thoroughfare.

  Thoroughfare. That was a nice word. It showed that he had a large and useful vocabulary. He sometimes, however, wished that his memory matched his vocabulary.

  On his left the words tourist pub floated, glowing a prickly red, in the fog. The young man continued on until he reached Level One of the Edgware Road. He halted for a moment, listening, glancing casually around him.

  Nobody was following him, no one was paying him undue attention. It was safe to go ahead with tonight’s killing.

  Nodding, he climbed the ramp to Level 2 of Edgware. He patted the other pocket of his overcoat. It contained, neatly folded, the note he had to leave on the corpse after he cut it into four.

  12

  AS SOON AS THE room service robot took its leave, Gomez carried his bottle of ale over to a soft armchair. “What do you figure we have, Jake?” he asked as he sat down. “A lot of pieces of one big jigsaw puzzle or a few pieces for several little puzzles?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” J
ake was leaning against the wall near the window, arms folded, looking out at the night city. “My bet right now is that most of this does tie together.”

  “Which means the Teklords are behind it all.” He drank directly from the chilled bottle.

  “They didn’t, I don’t think, break Sands out of prison just because they like him or because they owe the guy a favor. My feeling is there’s some big plan in the works and they need him for that.”

  Gomez studied the ceiling. “It’s possible, amigo, that Bouchon found out something about that same plan and was bumped off to hush him up.”

  Jake crossed over to pick up the copy of the Unknown Soldier letter from atop the coffee table. “If this is real, it definitely establishes that he wasn’t killed by our serial killer.” He absently folded the note. “Zack Rolfe knew something, too. My guess is he helped set up Bouchon.”

  “You say Madame Nana, AKA our old chum Lulu Blueberry, claims to know absolutely nada?”

  “We had a lively chat after I left the private dining room and while we were waiting for the Paris cops to get there. She claims she wasn’t stalling me, didn’t tip anyone that I’d come looking for Rolfe, didn’t know anyone was planning to drop in at her establishment to kill the guy. Furthermore, the word Excalibur means nothing at all to Lulu.”

  “I’ll get somebody digging deep into her recent activities and associations,” promised his partner. “As to Excalibur ...

  “Yeah?”

  “A very dim chime went off deep in my cabeza when first you mentioned it.” Gomez shook his head. “Nope, I am still unable to dredge anything up.”

  Tossing the folded note back on the table, Jake wandered again to the window. “Sands knows quite a lot about Professor Kittridge’s anti-Tek system,” he said. “He might also know how to sabotage it.”

  “Could be that hombre also can tell certain selected Tek potentates how to render themselves immune to the upcoming anti-Tek passover that Kittridge and the IDCA are planning,” speculated Gomez. “If a few dealers retained a supply of usable Tek chips, after most of the chips have been turned flooey, then they’d have a very lucrative monopoly.”