Tek Power (14 page)

“I notice you're using the past tense in alluding to my informant.”

“Exactly,
amigo
. Poor Charley was found—most of him anyway—up in Spanish Harlem a half hour ago. A couple of lazrifles turned him into a pretty messy jigsaw puzzle.”

“
Dios
.”

“I'd attempt to tread very lightly from this point,” advised his police friend. “In fact, you'd be smart to stay the hell away from Central America altogether.”

“Nope, Roberto, I can't let a little thing like a brutal assassination scare me off,” Gomez told him. “My reputation as a fearless op would suffer, not to … Oops! I have to sign off now.
Adiós
.”

Gomez had become aware of footfalls out in the living room of their suite.

He swung off the bed, grabbed up his trousers from where he'd tossed them and hopped into them.

Picking up his stungun, he opened the bedroom door and peered out.

Jake was standing by one of the windows, watching the night fading away toward dawn.

“Is all well,
amigo?
” He set his gun on the coffee table.

“Sure, yeah.”

“You sound glum.”

Jake turned away from the window. “You got the message I asked the agency to send along?”

“That you'd rescued Alicia Bower from some goons and were escorting her to a place of refuge,
sí
.” He settled into an armchair. “I assumed you'd be spending the rest of the night with her.”

“So did Alicia.”

“How come you didn't?”

Jake shrugged. “I must still be in mourning.”

“Ah, would that I had the opportunity to turn down romantic propositions from heiresses.” Gomez sighed.

“Best offer I got from
my
heiress, the glamorous Karla Maxfield, was for gainful employment.”

“Doing what?”

“Come to think of it,
amigo
, I'm not sure if she wants me to be a crackerjack newshound or a stalwart bodyguard. I, in my usual charming manner, rejected the offer.”

Turning his back to the window, Jake asked, “Find out anything from her?”

“Well, you can add Karla to the list of folks who didn't especially care for Eve Bascom,” answered his partner. “Of more interest is the fact that her late
hermano
was keeping company with none other than Dr. Izabel Morgana.”

“You mean now—at the same time he was fooling around with Eve?”

“
Sí
, apparently whilst Eve was cheating on her hubby, Junior was cheating on her with a formidable lady who's chummy with the Red Angels death squads.”

“That makes for an interesting triangle.”

Gomez nodded in agreement. “Karla is of the opinion that a gent named Dominic Hersh, who seemingly holds a midlevel position with our esteemed embassy in Managua, is more than likely an OCO agent.”

“How's he tie in with her brother?”

“Arnie and Hersh did some socializing during his sojourn down there.”

“We'll look into the guy. Anything else?”

“Karla seems to have no notion as to who knocked off her brother, but she's certain his death was not an accidental one.”

“Any reason for her believing that?”

“None that she's confiding. My impression is that it's a gut feeling sort of thing,” said Gomez with a shrug. “Finally, alas, she knows absolutely
nada
about Surrogate 13.”

“That's okay, I found out what Surrogate 13 is.”

Gomez sat up. “Alicia told you?”

“That's what she wanted to talk to me about, yeah.”

“Did she journey here from the West just to rendezvous with you?”

“No, she's in DC on Mechanix International business. But when she found out I was here, she called.”

“So Surrogate 13 must be something they made on the sly at her late
padre
's robot and android works.
Verdad?
”

Jake moved to the sofa and sat down. “It was, yeah, a secret project that her father and some of his OCO friends initiated,” he said, leaning back. He looked weary, there were faint shadows beneath his eyes. “That was a few months before Owen Bower died. Alicia, with the help of her attorney, found information about Surrogate 13 in the Mechanix archives. That was a couple days ago, stuff the crooks at the top hadn't had a chance to erase before the roof fell in on them.”

“So what the blazes is Surrogate 13?”

“An android simulacrum, a much more sophisticated one than anything they've turned out to date.”

“Sim of what?”

“The president of the United States—Warren Brookmeyer.”

“Ah, that president.” Gomez scratched at his moustache. “And who ordered this dupe of the prez?”

“Nothing about that was left in the records,” answered Jake. “Alicia knows it was completed and shipped somewhere about a week before her father died. But not where.”

“Those
cabróns
at Mechanix, the bunch we tangled with during our other case—they were in cahoots with all sorts of shabby folks in and out of the government.”

“Which is why we don't know as yet if this android dupe of Brookmeyer went into the White House or somewhere else altogether,” said Jake. “Nor do we have any idea who got the project rolling in the first place.”

“Why'd Alicia think you'd be interested in what she'd unearthed about Surrogate 13?”

Jake said, “That's an interesting question.”

“And does it,
amigo
, have an interesting answer?”

“Her attorney, Kay Norwood, suggested to her that I ought to be filled in on the Surrogate 13 business. Norwood told her it might tie in with the case you and I are working on.”

“How'd the lawyer know that?”

“She didn't pass along any details to Alicia, so I was eager to ask her directly, Sid,” replied Jake. “She's not, however, at her home or office out in the Topanga Sector and nobody seems to have any idea of what's become of her.”

Gomez narrowed his left eye. “Could the fair Alicia be holding anything back?”

“Nope, she's not,” Jake assured him. “She's about the only person involved in this mess that I think I can trust.”

“Speaking of the prexy of this great land of ours,” said Gomez, swallowing a yawn, “here's another small coincidence. Karla Maxfield is going to be covering Brookmeyer's Cracker Barrel extravaganza for her gossip rag.”

“So is a multitude of media types.”

“The lass implied that she was onto some scandal involving the president, though, Jake,” said his partner. “Maybe Brookmeyer had an andy replica of himself made up for some scandalous reason.”

“And maybe all she's interested in is some shady spacetech deal his brother pulled off ten years ago,” Jake said. “Right now, though, the place to look for answers is down in Nicaragua.”

“I was about to suggest that very course of action,” said Gomez and told Jake what Sergeant Ramirez had passed along to him.

“We'll head down there tomorrow.”

“
Mañana
it is.” Gomez stretched up out of his chair. “But let's make every effort not to have an accident.”

D
OMINIC
H
ERSH WAS
small for his age. Barely, if he really stretched and stood tall, four foot eleven. His mother assured him he needn't worry. He'd shoot up, probably long before his fourteenth birthday next year, and be as tall as his brothers. They were both over six feet.

That didn't help any now, though.

He shivered, though he struggled not to, as he walked along the high grey main corridor of the Administration Building of the Willingham Military Academy. His uniform itched and it was too big by at least a full size. When he complained about it, they told him he'd grow into it.

The afternoon outside was bleak, with snow falling steadily and a strong bitter wind blowing down across the sloping fields that surrounded the isolated academy buildings.

“Double-time it, mister,” ordered the huge uniformed robot who popped now out of the doorway of the Detention Centre to glower at him with his plastiglass eyes. “You were due here at 16:00 hours on the dot. What time is it, mister?”

Swallowing, Hersh halted and, as smartly as he could, saluted. “I don't know, sir.”

“You don't know, Cadet Hersh? Why don't you know?”

“Somebody swiped my watch, sir.”

“What's that? Speak up, mister, I can't hear you when you whisper like a baby.”

“Oh, screw you, you son of a bitch!” shouted the boy.

“What's that?” The stunned military robot took a shocked step backward. “Do you know whom you're … awk!”

Hersh, his small hand shaking, had whipped out the lazgun he'd been carrying concealed under his tunic. He fired it, sending a crackling beam of intense light right into the big robot's broad chest.

The spear of light slashed the torso nearly in half, from left to right.

Gears and wires, bulbs, circuit boards—all came erupting out of the smoking gap in the chest.

“How do you like
that
, mister?” Hersh laughed, dodging out of the way as the uniformed robot toppled to the floor.

Before the fallen robot had ceased rattling, the boy knelt beside him. He put the lazgun close to the mechanism's left eye and fired again.

The entire metal head exploded, vomiting shards of glittering metal and a multitude of gears and gadgets, sending all that technical crap sliding and skidding across the highly polished floor of the Detention Centre office.

“You rotten little bastard! What have you done now?”

Colonel Gaines, the head of the whole damned academy, was standing there. A large black man, whose uniform fit him perfectly.

Smiling, Hersh held up the lazgun he was clutching. “You know, I never liked the idea of one of you people running this place, sir,” he told him. “What say we fix that, okay?”

He fired into the colonel's face.

The head vanished and bright morning sunlight filled the halls of the Ad Building.

Hersh gave a contented sigh.

He opened his eyes and was puzzled. He couldn't quite remember where he was supposed to be.

Jesus, that was happening too often lately. But wait a minute. It wasn't all that serious. Who'd told him that?

Dr. Hedley. That's right, Dr. Hedley had assured him that his degree of habituation wasn't especially dangerous. And reliving, but revising, the bad times in his youth actually had a therapeutic value.

“Not dangerous at all.” Hersh sat up in the big comfortable chair at the center of his large den. Very carefully he removed the Tek headset, placing it and the Brainbox on the realwood table beside him.

“Nicaragua,” he said aloud. “Yes, I'm in Managua, Nicaragua.” He frowned, concentrating harder. “I'm sitting in my den. This is my house and I live on … What's the street? I'll get it.” The frown deepened, lines formed around his mouth. “Of course, on the Avenida La Emboscada.”

Hersh laughed, pleased with himself. The Tek sessions weren't going to do him any permanent harm. No matter what they said, you could use Tek safely if you were careful and disciplined about it.

Rising, he gently gathered up the Tek gear and the small opaque box of Tek chips. He hid that all away in the usual hiding place. He smoothed his thinning hair and glanced at the gilt-framed mirror behind his desk. He was five foot eight. Certainly not tall, but not short either.

The vidphone sounded.

“Who is it?” he asked, moving around behind his wide metal desk and sitting in the comfortable chair.

“Frank Dockert,” the phone told him.

“That asshole,” Hersh muttered. “Okay, connect him.”

The heavyset black man appeared on the screen. “Are you ill, Dominic?”

“Not in the least, but it's very thoughtful of you to call all the way from DC to find out, Frank.”

Dockert said, “It's possible that you've fried your brains beyond repair with all that Tek you do. I have to tell you that I'm getting damned tired of the snotty way you—”

“Do you have anything else to tell me?”

“Jake Cardigan and Sid Gomez are enroute to Managua. They left the Manhattan Skyport roughly an hour ago.”

“Persistent bastards, aren't they?”

“I don't consider these two very serious threats to anything,” said Dockert. “But others do, so I'm alerting you.”

“I'll take care of them, Frank.”

“Try to do it a little more subtly than your usual job.”

“Goodbye, Frank.” He ended the call and stood up. “Seems like they're everywhere these days.” His right hand tightened around the trigger of an imaginary lazgun.

22

T
HE SOFTLIT GREY
corridor was full of loud mournful organ music and it reeked of flowers. Taking two careful steps forward, the chromeplated robot in the black suit and grey gloves held out his hand. “Allow me to express our sympathy at your loss, Mr. Bascom,” he said in a polite whisper.

“What?” Richard frowned at the mechanical man. “I can't hear you with that damned music booming.”

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry.” He slid his lefthand glove partially off his sparkling metal wrist, pressed at the small control panel embedded there. “Perhaps the hymns are a bit loud.”

The music diminished in intensity.

“Which room is the funeral service in?” asked Richard, taking out a plyochief and rubbing at his nose.

“Go ahead and sob freely, sir. We find it—”

“I'm not sobbing. The smell of flowers makes me—”

“I'm terribly sorry, sir.” He tapped his wrist again and fresh air replaced the thick flowery scent. “Allow me, as I was saying, to welcome you to the Riverside Crematorium & Columbarium. In your hour of need, we feel we can serve you in—”

“Which room is my wife in?”