TekLab

by William Shatner

  “Once a putz always a putz,” observed Sidebar. The robot cameraman was sitting in a fat chair at the rear of the big, chill room.

  “What I’ve showed you thus far, which you ought to have comprehended, Gomez, is all important background material for what I’m about to reveal,” said the red-haired reporter. “Is it perhaps that you’re mooning over Mrs. Bouchon, who’s not totally unattractive for a woman of her advanced years and—”

  “Madeleine hasn’t advanced anywhere near as far as I have, chiquita.”

  “I couldn’t help noticing, and you don’t have to be a topflight investigative reporter such as I am to have spotted it, that she was quite profusely demonstrative and affectionate when you left her at that safe house your detective agency arranged for her.”

  “To a fiery Latin such as myself, Nat, a chaste peck on the forehead isn’t considered the height of physical passion. Can we get to what you know about Michel Chasseriau?”

  “What we’re leading up to, Gomez, is exactly—”

  “What did the guy want to impart to Madeleine Bouchon?”

  “Really, Gomez. You’re as grumpy as a bear with a sore nose.”

  “Paw.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Sore paws are what, traditionally, make bears grumpy.”

  Natalie sighed. “Look at Screen 5,” she suggested. “That’s some footage of Bram Wexler, a Britisher who heads up the Paris office of the International Drug Control Agency.” The smiling man on the monitor screen was in his early forties, conservatively dressed, strolling down a bright springtime Parisian boulevard completely unaware that he was being photographed. “Wexler was Bouchon’s boss, and in the course of investigating all aspects of this story, I came across a tip that he may have some connection with Bouchon’s murder.”

  “Where does Chasseriau come in?”

  “He’s been avoiding the office since the killing, uncertain as to what to do about the knowledge he has,” answered the reporter. “Another informant told me that Chasseriau might be willing to talk about what he knew. That’s Chasseriau on Screen 7.”

  On the monitor screen a frail young man in his middle twenties had appeared. He was nervously pacing the small living room of his apartment.

  “Notice the quality of this footage,” said Sidebar. “I shot it this morning, using nothing but natural light.”

  Gomez poked Natalie in the side with his thumb. “You folks called on him—and talked with him?”

  “Bright and early,” she replied.

  “Can you tell me some of what he told you?”

  “Bouchon had confided in him, just a few days before he was slaughtered, that he suspected Bram Wexler was conspiring with two or three of the major Teklords.”

  “That’s a pretty serious charge. Did Bouchon have proof?”

  “No, he wasn’t even certain what exactly was going on, but he knew Wexler was involved in something shady and that it had to do with Tek,” answered the redheaded reporter. “Originally, Bouchon had been sharing his suspicions with Zack Rolfe, calling on him at his place after office hours.”

  “Bueno. That means Bouchon wasn’t fooling around and that Rolfe was lying.”

  “That seemed to me obvious from the start, Gomez, and I’m really astounded that none of the IDCA people, nor any of the policemen on this case, realized that,” she said. “Gradually Bouchon began to wonder if he could trust Zack Rolfe. He apparently didn’t much like Chasseriau, but he was certain he was honest. So he came to him to discuss what was worrying him.”

  Gomez shook his head. “It was too late by then. They’d already decided to kill Bouchon to keep him from nosing around further.”

  “Now take a look at Screen 3.” She touched another button on the arm of the control chair.

  A bland chinless man, wearing rich, regal robes and a glittering, gem-encrusted golden crown, was addressing a crowded auditorium.

  “I’m keeping the sound off on all these images because it interferes with my narration,” explained Natalie, “but you can take my word that his powers of—”

  “Caramba,” said Gomez, “that’s none other than King Arthur II.”

  “Bram Wexler, a hypocrite who outwardly pretends to be loyal to the President of Great Britain, is associated with an organization known as the Excalibur Movement,” said Natalie. “Their prime objective is to see that England once again becomes a monarchy. I haven’t been able to find out yet if they’d resort to murder to gain their ends, but, by whatever means, they want to see this simp ruling their country.”

  “This explains Zack Rolfe’s last words.”

  “He said something to Jake as he was dying? It would’ve been nice, Gomez, and in keeping with your alleged newfound spirit of cooperation, had you found it in your peanut-sized heart to share those words.”

  “Chiquita, what Rolfe did was warn Jake to watch out for Excalibur—or words to that effect.”

  The pretty reporter tapped the palms of her hands on her knees, then rubbed her hands together and smiled at him. “I can really sense this, we’re on top of a very big story here.”

  “And a very big conspiracy most likely, involving Teklords, monarchists, and lord knows who else.”

  “It would make sense, especially since your partner is over in England just now, for you and I to work closely together on this from here on out, Gomez.”

  “Sí, absolutely,” he said. “That’s a dandy notion, Nat.”

  “Wonderful.” Leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek.

  “Mush,” said Sidebar.

  20

  THERE HAD BEEN TWO of them, both carrying highly polished electroknives. When Dan had tried to explain to them what he was doing in the ruins, one of them slapped him hard across the face.

  “We don’t want any bleeding backtalk, puffer,” he warned in his whispery voice. “You just keep it buttoned and come along with us, hear.”

  “But I’m—”

  “What did I tell you about talking back?” The lanky blond young man slapped Dan again.

  This blow hit him across the mouth, splitting his lip and drawing blood. Spitting, Dan started at the young man.

  The other boy, who was thin and at least a year younger than Dan, stepped between them. “He doesn’t mean any harm, Ludd,” he said, catching hold of Dan’s arm and shoving him back.

  “Let him try to come at me, Angel. I’d like a chance to slice his heart out.”

  “No, we have to take him back to camp. That’s the rules.”

  “Rules, my arse.” Ludd swung his knife up in front of his face, flicking the switch that started the sawtooth blade whirring. “What’s to stop us from slitting him open here and now, taking his dabs, and—”

  “That’s against the rules,” warned Angel. “Strangers have to be taken to camp. After that, if Jamaica decides, we can kill him.”

  “Whole blooming country’s going to hell because of bloody rules.” He slashed angrily at the air with his knife, shut it off, and jammed it into his thigh holster. “All right, all right, we’ll act like raving twits and take him back with us.”

  Angel knuckled Dan’s upper arm. “It isn’t a far walk,” he told him quietly. “Don’t try to break loose, don’t say a bleeding word—otherwise Ludd may decide to do for you.”

  After a few seconds, Dan nodded curtly.

  After leaving the detective agency offices, Jake walked along Berkeley Street. As the day waned, it grew grayer and colder and a harsh wind filled the crowded walkways. The skytrams flying slowly overhead were brightly decorated for the holiday season; each one playing a different Xmas tune from the speakers planted in its red and green underside.

  Stationed on the corner was a chrome-plated newsbot, hawking the Daily Skan. Jake paused, seemingly to listen to the mechanical man recite the menu of scandalous news to be found in this afternoon’s edition.

  “Is the VP a puff?” asked the bot in his deep tinny voice: “Who caught Senator Yates-Drake with his trousers down? Are
there Martians living in Manchester? Whose knickers were found in the War Sec’s skyvan?”

  A plump black man brushed by Jake. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, poking his Banx card into the appropriate slot in the robot’s side.

  “Here’s a bloke what knows what’s news.” Whirring and rattling, the robot swiftly produced an eight-page faxcopy of the Skan out of the wide slot across his chest. “Here you are, guv, hot off the blooming presses.”

  As the customer accepted his newspaper, Jake moved on. He was certain now, as he’d suspected since leaving Bairnhouse’s, that he was being tailed. Crossing the street, he went through one of the arched entryways to the Berkeley Square Multimall.

  It was exceedingly warm on the ground level of the vast mall, and the air smelled of pine boughs and hot toddy. Jake hopped onto a servoramp and let it start him on a slow circuit of the place. He rode by a string of selfserve boutiques—Stylz, Fitz, Ragz—and then past a great, sprawling food market called Farmer Dell’s Hydroponic Farmstand, Branch #225 of My Man Chumley’s Fish & Chips and Branch #316 of Pubz, Inc. He stepped off the moving ramp in front of the St. George & The Dragon Inn. The neowood sign dangling over the wide doorway of the simulated country inn offered a crude depiction of the armored saint slaying a fierce, fire-breathing creature. The paint was convincingly aged to make it seem centuries old.

  Jake ignored the main entrance, slipping instead into the imitation courtyard next to the imitation inn. The yard was paved with authentic-looking cobblestones, and a wagon loaded with real straw was parked near the simulated stables.

  Running, Jake stationed himself behind the wagon. He couldn’t be seen from here, but he had a good view of the entrance of the courtyard.

  Within the shadowy stables robot horses snorted and shifted on their hooves. Even the smell of a real stable, suitably subdued, came drifting out of the shadows.

  A moment passed before a figure slipped, cautiously, into the courtyard.

  It was a slim young woman, auburn-haired, in her late twenties. She was the one Jake had noticed following him. She might be with Scotland Yard, yet he doubted that.

  When she was a few feet from the stable door, he eased out from behind the wagon and poked the barrel of his stungun into her back.

  Dan had seen what was left of the vast Westminster Abbey rising up out of the fog. The remains of the Gothic structure lay dead ahead across a wide, weedy field that was pocked with craters and dotted with scrubby brush and a few stunted trees. Most of its nearest tower was gone and there were great gaps in the stone walls.

  Dozens of sooty pigeons were circling the abbey in a restless way.

  Ludd held up his hand and halted. “Bollocks,” he muttered, moving behind a gnarled tree midway across the field.

  Angel stopped, too, yanking Dan over beside him. “Something’s bloody wrong.” He was squinting up at the pigeons as they circled in the foggy sky.

  Whipping out his knife, Ludd said, “Something’s gone and got them bleeding birds all excited.” Uneasiness sounded in his voice.

  “I’ll slip closer,” offered Angel, letting go of Dan, “to see what’s going on.”

  Ludd shook his head. “No, you stay here with the ponce,” he ordered. “I’ll do the bloody reconnoitering.”

  “Hell, I’m smaller and quicker.”

  “Stick here.” Ducking low, Ludd started a zigzag course across the field.

  Dan asked Angel, “What do you think’s wrong?”

  He was watching his buddy move closer to the ruined abbey. “Could be most anything,” he answered as the fog swallowed up Ludd. “But those pigeons being agitated like that, it definitely means something must be going on wrong at our camp.”

  “Westminster is your camp?”

  “I just said that, didn’t I now?”

  “But I’m looking for the Westminster Gang.”

  “That’s not too smart, since we don’t take kindly to visitors,” said Angel. “Or tourists.”

  “Is there a girl named Silverhand Sally with you?”

  “How’d you know that name?”

  “Somebody told me to ask for her. Is she here?”

  “Sal might be or she might not.” He turned to scrutinize Dan. “Why do you want our Sal?”

  “Because I’m hoping she can help me find a friend of mine—girl named Nancy Sands.”

  “Ar, I see.”

  “Do you know Nancy? Is she at the abbey?”

  Before Angel could answer, there was a shout from up ahead in the fog. “Been a damned raid!” yelled Ludd through cupped hands. “Get your arse over here, Angel. There’s a lot of people dead.”

  21

  “NOW HERE’S WHAT YOU do,” suggested Jake. “Very slowly and carefully, turn around. Then explain why the hell you’ve been tailing me.”

  The pretty, auburn-haired young woman was smiling when she faced him. “I underestimated you,” she said, rubbing the toe of her boot across the imitation flagstones of the inn courtyard. “You’ll have to forgive me. I guess taking care of myself over in the gangzones has made me a trifle too confident.”

  “You’re not with the police?”

  “No, the Welfare Squad,” she explained. “I’m Marj Lofton.”

  “Oh, so?”

  “Beth Kittridge suggested that I look you up.”

  “Really?”

  “Didn’t she tell you about me? Beth implied that she had. We’re old friends from SoCal Tech days.”

  In the stable one of the robot horses whinnied.

  Jake took a careful step backwards, keeping his stungun aimed at her. “Show me your ID packet.”

  “Sure.” She slid her hand into a jacket pocket. “I was going to introduce myself to you in a minute. Honest.”

  He accepted the proffered IDs, glanced through them. “Why trail me at all?”

  “Showing off. I was anxious to impress you.”

  After handing the packet back, Jake slipped his gun away. “Why?”

  Marj said, “Beth told me, when she called a couple hours ago, that she thought I might be able to help you. But she also warned me that you’re very independent, a true loner.”

  Jake grinned. “Nope, I’m actually a team player from way back,” he assured the young woman. “Thing is, I have to be captain of the team and pick all my crew.”

  “Fair enough,” Marj said. “Do you know for certain that your son’s over in gang territory?”

  “There’s a very strong possibility,” he answered. “He’s trying to find his missing girlfriend and she’s supposed to be holed up with the Westminsters.”

  Frowning, Marj shook her head. “A very rough bunch,” she observed. “Why’d the girl pick them?”

  “A friend of hers apparently runs with the gang. Kid they call Silverhand Sally.”

  “Yes, I know Sal. For a while I even thought she might be salvable.”

  “You don’t think that anymore?”

  “Oh, it’s still possible maybe, but the odds are getting longer.”

  Jake said, “I’d like to go over there soon as I can.”

  “Could you use a guide?”

  “I could use a good one,” Jake told her. “But I don’t want anybody who’s trying too hard to impress me. Somebody who’s more interested in showboating than in getting the job done.”

  “I’m sorry I stalked you,” she said. “Most days I’m not like that.”

  “When can we leave?”

  “I have to gather up some stuff for the trip,” Marj said. “Suppose I meet you at your hotel in two hours?”

  “Okay, fine.” He held out his hand.

  Shaking it, she said, “I really am pretty good.”

  “I’m counting on that,” he said.

  The Parisian night was crisp and clear. Hands in the pockets of the stylish thermocoat he’d purchased earlier in the day, Gomez was strolling along beside the dark Seine. He’d found over the years that solitary walks sometimes helped him think.

  “Muy frio,” he remarked t
o himself. “Being a crackerjack international investigator has its disadvantages. One of which is frigid climes.”

  On the night river a music barge was slowly sailing by. A band of brightly uniformed robot musicians was playing a solemn Xmas carol. The golden glitter of their uniform trim sparkled and flashed in the illumination from the boat’s multicolor tube-lights.

  Gomez continued along parallel to the boat for a few minutes. Then, turning his back to it, he walked away from the river and headed in the direction of his hotel.

  “I have a hunch that various events, including some of what’s afoot in England with Jake’s offspring, ought to tie together,” he reflected. “But, madre, I still don’t see quite how.”

  He chose a different route than the one he’d traveled on his way to the Seine and just off the Place du Châtelet he spotted someone who looked vaguely familiar. The man was walking hurriedly along, coming toward Gomez on the opposite side of the street.

  “Who the hell is that hombre?” the detective asked himself, feigning indifference.

  Then, snapping his fingers without taking his hand out of his pocket, he realized who it was.

  The man hurrying now up the stone steps of a narrow apartment building across the way was Bram Wexler, the head of the Paris office of the International Drug Control Agency and the guy Natalie Dent had just been showing him pictures of. He was the one their client’s late husband had suspicions about.

  Gomez glanced, quickly and casually, around. He spotted a recessed doorway that was very sparsely lit. He entered it, striving to look innocent, and took up a watchful position.

  The night grew colder.

  Gomez turned up the controls on his coat, but then the garment started giving off a burning plaz smell. He turned the controls down again.

  Fifteen chill minutes later, the IDCA man came out of the building. He was accompanied by a plump woman of forty-some years. The two of them walked to the end of the block and got into a parked landcar.

  “Chihuahua,” commented Gomez. “I know that lady. In fact I once enjoyed a broken leg because of her. What the devil is she doing in Paris? And why’s she hobnobbing with this lad?”

  Gomez was hunched in the vidphone alcove, a glass of ale in his left hand, talking to a robot. He was in the living room of the suite at the Louvre Hotel and the bot was in the Data Center of the Cosmos Detective Agency in Greater Los Angeles.