Tek Secret

by William Shatner

  The neowood front door swung open before his foot even hit the first red plaztile step.

  “Good afternoon, Master Roger,” came a metallic voice from within the shadowy foyer.

  Climbing the seven red steps and crossing the threshold, Roger said, “You need a tuneup, Lofting. Anyone over thirty isn’t Master anymore.”

  “You’ll always be a lad to me, sir.” The butler was an early Mechanix model, nearly twenty five years old, silverplated and dressed in a crisp black suit. “If I may say so, Master Roger, we don’t see you at all often enough these days.”

  “I wouldn’t even be here now, except that Dad apparently left the office early today. Is he allright?”

  The old robot tapped his metal chest. “Bit of a cold, sir.”

  “I have to talk to him.”

  “You’ll find him in his den. I was unable to persuade him to go to bed.”

  Patting the robot on the shoulder, Roger moved along the hallway to the second door on his left. He halted, knocking.

  “Yes, come on in, Rog.”

  His father didn’t look especially well. His thin face had an odd bluish tinge to it and the shadows beneath the eyes seemed deeper than usual. He was sitting behind his desk, stiffly upright in the metal chair.

  To the left of the desk was a small bank of monitor screens, one of which offered a view of the front steps.

  “You look rotten,” observed Roger as he sat in a chair facing the desk.

  “Thanks, son.”

  “Okay, I need to talk to you.” He nodded at the bank of small screens. “Turn all that stuff off so—”

  “What exactly is bothering you?”

  “I’d like privacy before I go on, Dad.” From a coat pocket he took the small bug-detector. “If you don’t mind, I’ll—”

  “Well, certainly I mind, Roger.” Bernard flicked off the monitors and the screens died. “This room isn’t otherwise bugged. Trust me.”

  Roger hesitated, then allowed the gadget to drop back away into a pocket. “I’d hoped to have a chance to catch you at work,” he said. “But maybe this is better.”

  “Is it Barry? Is your brother—”

  “He’s fine—fine considering all that’s happened to me. But in a way this does have to do with him.”

  Bernard leaned back in his chair. “I’m actually,” he confided, “not feeling all that well.”

  “Sorry to hear that, but there are some important questions that I absolutely have to ask.”

  “If this is another quarrel between you and poor Barry concerning Alicia, then perhaps—”

  “Actually, Dad, it’s about the Alicia android,” his son cut in. “See, I’ve been doing some checking in the Mechanix files and it turns out you’re the one who authorized Rob Stinson to activate the Alicia Bower simulacrum that’s kept stored at—”

  “You don’t have access to any of those files.”

  “Sure, I do.” Roger smiled thinly. “Give me credit for knowing a few tricks, huh?”

  “But you’re absolutely not supposed to go poking into—”

  “Let’s stick to the point, Dad. Just why did you order this guy to activate that andy? Was it used in some kind of scheme to—”

  “Are you saying that your father is involved in—”

  “I’m saying that I want to know, have to know, what the hell has been going on,” he told him. “Alicia, I realize now, is in some sort of serious trouble. Trouble that has spilled over and already hurt Barry.” He rose up out of his chair, jabbed a finger in his father’s direction. “Me, I’m aware, you’ve never much given a shit about. But, hey, I thought you liked Barry. How could you let those bastards work him over?”

  “Ah, that’s what’s really annoying you, isn’t it, Roger? Your half-assed notion that I favor him over—”

  “Forget that—just tell me about Rob Stinson.”

  Bernard shut his eyes for a few seconds. “Allright, this is the truth,” he said, opening them. “Stinson, who has, I might add, now taken off for lord knows where, forged all those authorizations, every damn one of them. He must have had some kind of crooked scheme in mind, possibly to take advantage of Alicia’s disappearance, but I have absolutely—”

  “Bullshit. You phoned the guy at least a half dozen times.”

  “Yes, but that was after I suspected that he was up to something.”

  Roger backed away from the desk, eyes on his father. “You’re in on this, aren’t you?” he said in a low, rasping voice. “Jesus, I’m not even sure what the hell is in the works, but you know the whole fucking deal.”

  “I’m not in on a damn thing,” insisted Bernard. “You have no right to come here and accuse me, curse me and—”

  “Sorry, Dad, but I just don’t trust you.” He made his way to the door. “But—listen, I’m warning you. I mean to find out what is going on and just what you have to do with it.” He turned, left the room and slammed the door.

  Bernard shook his head sadly, then nodded up at a spot on the righthand wall. “Did you hear all that?” he asked.

  25

  SAM TRINITY STEPPED THROUGH the bright blue wall. As the panel slid quietly shut behind him, he smoothed the jacket of his creamcolored suit with the fingers of the gunmetal hand he was wearing. The realeather case he was carrying in his other hand rattled slightly as he set it down on the white chair next to the bright orange cot.

  Sharon Harker gave a gasping moan, sitting up on the cot. Turning slowly away from the wall, she saw the redhaired OCO agent standing before her. “I’m not,” she said in a weak, worn-down voice, “going to tell you anything else.”

  “Sure you are, sweet.” Reaching out with his metal fingers, he brushed a curl of blonde hair back from her pale forehead. “Sure you are, so there’s no use acting like you aren’t.”

  She tucked her bare legs up under her, pressing her slim back to the bright blue wall. She was wearing only a wrinkled medical gown, bright yellow in color, and it had several stains spread across the front.

  Trinity held up his gunmetal hand toward her. “I didn’t use this one on you before, hon,” he pointed out to her. “This is a brand-new one, far as you’re concerned. How are you feeling this afternoon?”

  Sharon didn’t answer.

  Trinity said, “You’re an intelligent woman, Dr. Harker. I don’t especially like intelligent women myself, even pretty ones like you. But it’s my conclusion, based on a hell of a lot of experience, that intelligent women are capable, much more capable than the dumb broads I usually socialize with, of learning from their experiences.” Leaning, he spread out the dark fingers of his metallic hand about six inches from her bare knee. “When I ask you a direct question, sweet, I require an answer. Do you remember my telling you that this morning? About how when I asked you something, I expected an answer each time?”

  Not looking up at him, she said, “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir, what?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Trinity.”

  “See? That’s not too difficult.” He lifted his hand from the cot and reached for the realeather case. “I brought you something to look at.”

  “More hands?”

  Trinity smiled. “You also seem to have forgotten that I don’t like smartass replies. Did you forget that, Dr. Harker? Did you forget that I don’t like smartass replies?”

  “I must have.”

  “Must have, what?”

  “Mr. Trinity, sir.”

  The case gave a harsh, rattling snap as he popped it open. “I brought you a nice picture to look at,” said the government agent. “Here, take it.”

  Very slowly she held out her left hand.

  “I didn’t know you were lefthanded, Dr. Harker. Are you lefthanded?”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “I’m not lefthanded, Mr. Trinity.”

  “Then why not use your right hand?”

  “It’s hurt.”

 
“Oh, yeah, I remember now.” He gave her the photo.

  After she’d looked at it for a half a minute or so, Sharon let it drop to the bright orange fabric of the cot. “You son of a bitch.”

  “I know, hon, I also warned you about calling me names,” he said quietly. “But, hell, we’ll let that pass for now. Let it pass because you seem to be upset for some reason.”

  “What ... what’s wrong with Sean?”

  “Is that your son’s name? Is his name Sean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Trinity, my son’s name is Sean. What have you done to him?”

  “I haven’t done a damn thing to the little darling.” He scooped up the picture with his metal fingers.

  “He’s unconscious in that photo.”

  “You sure? I think he’s maybe only sleeping. Taking, you know, a nap. Kids, little kids, are always snoozing, all the time taking naps.” Trinity returned the picture to his case and flipped the lid shut. “I’ll tell you where he is, though. Would you like to know where Sean is?”

  “Yes, sir, I would.”

  “He’s right here in this very same building. Yeah, little Sean is right here in the Mentor Psych Centre. He’s right inside the place you’ve been so damn curious about, Dr. Harker.” Trinity smiled at her. “He’s up in the Surgical Wing.”

  “Surgical? What—”

  “They’re going to operate on the little guy,” he explained. “They’re going to try some of what they call exploratory surgery. First on his stomach, then on his chest. Then maybe—”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing at all.” Leaning closer, he laughed. “Did you happen to notice that I’m wearing a light suit for this visit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I saw that you have on a light-colored suit. What does that—”

  “If you thought about that for a minute, you’d figure it out,” he suggested to her. “You’d probably conclude that I don’t do much direct inquiring when I’m dressed like this. The reason for that being that I don’t want to get my suit dirty. So I have no intention of doing you any physical harm, sweet.”

  “It’s Sean. You’re going to—”

  “No, I’m not. But some of Dr. Spearman’s people are eager to get to work on little Sean. They want to take a look at some of your kid’s insides, see how various new surgical gear will work out. One of these sawbones, not a guy I much care for, has been after me to let him do a side study on how kids can stand pain. I told him I probably wouldn’t let him go that far.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I can okay anything I want, Dr. Harker. Do you understand the situation you’re in?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I just have some questions, a few more questions.”

  Her breath exhaled out in a low, sad sigh. “Ask them.”

  Trinity lifted the case off the chair and sat down. “You told me about Cardigan this morning, about how you intended to meet him,” he said. “Now I have to know who your source of information inside Mentor is.”

  She looked directly at the government agent. “And you won’t hurt Sean?”

  Trinity’s smiled widened. “I’ll be much less likely to,” he said.

  26

  A ROBOT FELL OVER OUT in the hall. It made a loud rattling, thunking sound and the wall of Chatman’s parlor gave a sympathetic shudder.

  Jake jumped to his feet, snapping his stungun out of its holster.

  The door clicked several times, then came flapping open.

  “Surrender your weapon, please, Mr. Cardigan.” The lean black man in the doorway wore a conservative grey suit. In his left hand he held a lazgun, in his right he clutched a sheaf of official-looking papers. “I’m Quincy McCanyon of the Federal Oversight Bureau.”

  Jake eyed him for a few seconds, then let his stungun fall to the floor. “Why the hell are you busting in on a—”

  “If you’ll just scan these various forms, Mr. Cardigan, you’ll find that I have complete authorization for all my actions.”

  “McCanyon,” mused Chatman from his wheelchair. “Yeah, I heard of this guy. Putz was the term came up most often.”

  The FOB agent glanced, very briefly, at the newsman. “I’ve heard a good deal about you, too, Mr. Chatman,” he informed him. “Dangerous radical is the phrase most often used to describe you.”

  Jake had been looking over the assortment of forms. “You intend to take me into custody, McCanyon?”

  “There’s simply been a request from Washington to question you, Mr. Cardigan,” explained the agent, reclaiming the handful of papers. “This, as Order 203/X clearly states, is most certainly not an arrest. We’re only escorting you to—”

  “Trinity,” muttered Chatman, rolling himself over to the doorway to take a look out into the hall. “I’ll bet you that redheaded motherhumper is behind this.”

  “You’d be absolutely wrong there, Mr. Chatman.”

  “Shit, one of my guardbots is all bunged up, lying there on his tin ass.”

  “Perhaps you ought to instruct them to respond more quickly to an official entry order,” suggested the government agent. “Now then, Mr. Cardigan, if you’ll prepare yourself to accompany me.”

  Chatman shut the door. “You don’t have to go with him,” he told Jake. “We’ll get Georgia Petway over here to throw a spanner in this putz’s plans and—”

  “My orders can’t be set aside,” said McCanyon impatiently as he tucked the papers away inside his grey jacket. “Now, Mr. Cardigan, if you’d be good enough to come away with me. Our regional office is—”

  All at once his elbows snapped against his sides and his fingers spread wide, his lazgun flipped free and plummeted to the floor.

  A beam had come sizzling from the stungun built into the right arm of Chatman’s chair and hit the government agent square in the midsection.

  As the unconscious McCanyon dropped to the floor, Jake dived and grabbed up the lazgun. “That, Joe, is an extremely efficient chair,” he observed, retrieving his stungun and tucking it away.

  “Friend of mine helped me modify it some.” He touched a spot on the left arm of the chair and a panel in the far wall slid quietly open. “You best get your butt on out of here, Jake. Go down that staircase yonder and you’ll come out at street level about a half block from here. Then you—”

  “What about him?” He nudged the collapsed FOB agent in the side with his boot toe.

  “I got a friend who’ll help me get this putz transported elsewhere and kept out of action for awhile,” Chatman assured him. “You got Georgia’s address, don’t you? Get over there and see can she help you to run down Dr. Mel Winter.”

  “I want to talk to him, yeah. But are you sure you—”

  “Age has really slowed you down. Used to be you did more moving and less talking.”

  While crossing to the opening in the parlor wall, Jake paused to set the lazgun carefully in his friend’s lap. “Thanks, Joe. I really—”

  “Get going, get going,” urged Chatman. “Before more assholes come here looking for you.”

  27

  THE SMALL MAGLEV TRUCK floated smoothly and swiftly through the dimlit tunnel. Natalie and Gomez were sharing the cab with a copperplated robot driver. The bot wore a coverall with Hedley’s Youth Rejuvenator Beam stenciled across the chest; the redhaired reporter held her vidcam across her knees.

  “Explain to me again, since I still fail to comprehend your motives,” she was saying.

  The detective, who was jammed between her and the bulky truckdriver, replied, “I am merely tagging along to keep you company, chiquita.”

  “The way you rushed through dinner, I got the impression you couldn’t bear to spend much—”

  “That’s just it. I realized I’d given you a false impression, simply because I was anxious that you be the first show-business reporter to interview the illustrious Carlos Taffy,” h
e explained. “Therefore, to prove my continuing interest in you, I decided to accompany you. And it’ll be educational to watch a crackerjack investigative journalist go after a—”

  “Oh, hogwash. Interviewing this vapid adolescent ninny is important to me solely because it’ll impress my thickheaded bosses, but it’s certainly no great intellectual or reportorial feat.”

  “The way you quickly arranged to get us into the bowels of this satellite, then rigged a ride in this delivery vehicle bound for the very heart of Madame Sonja’s—that impressed me, Nat.”

  The big coppery robot observed, “I think this doof is handing you a line, sister.”

  “Concentrate on your driving,” advised Gomez.

  “The truck takes care of that, bud. I’m mostly along for show.”

  “It’s starting to dawn on me,” said Natalie. “What a dolt I am, Gomez, for not seeing to the core of your feeble little ruse before this.”

  “Eh?”

  “Certainly, you have to get inside the spa on the sly and you, knowing that I can be manipulated for your selfish ends, concocted a yarn that would—”

  “Momentito, Nat,” he broke in. “Carlos Taffy is residing at the lodge under an assumed name. You established that before you used your connections to arrange our sneaky entry. Therefore, you can’t accuse—”

  “Oh, yes, that simp is here and I’ll do my interview. But you, cunning scoundrel that you are, you have an altogether different motive for accompanying me here.”

  “Want I should put the slug on him for you, lady?”

  “No, it makes me queasy whenever somebody gives him a beating he usually richly deserves.”

  Gomez assumed a contrite expression. “Well, okay, Natalie,” he said in an apologetic tone, “I’ll admit that I do have another small reason for wanting to slip inside Madame Sonja’s establishment unnoticed.”

  “Exactly as I suspected. It has, I’ve no doubt, to do with the case that brought you up here to New Hollywood in the first place. The case that you’ve been thus far so secretive about.”