Tek Money (15 page)

Tongue poked in cheek, he sat on the sofa and gazed upward. Getting out of here was going to be tricky.

The door of the cell suddenly whispered open.

Almita, dropping an electrokey into her trouser pocket, slipped into the parlor.

The door shut behind her.

“I thought you were forbidden to drop in,” he said.

“They don't know I'm here, asshole.”

“Sure they do.” He pointed a thumb at the concealed overhead cam.

She smiled, coming closer. She jabbed her right hand into her jacket pocket. “I jammed the secsystem for this whole section.”

“Won't take them long to find that out.”

“I only need a couple minutes to take care of you.” Her hand came out clutching one of her lazguns. “There's no reason to keep you alive, Cardigan.”

“I can think of several.”

“So can these OCO
mariposas.
” The gunhand came up.

“You don't want to make the OCO unhappy. They—”

All at once Jake was no longer on the sofa. He had dived to the left of Almita, hitting the floor about five feet from her.

“
Cabrón!
”

As she swung around to get a shot at him, he dived.

He tackled her waist high, at the same time smacking her wrist with the side of his hand.

She cried out, fingers splaying, dropping the gun.

It hit the holographic endtable and fell right through it to the floor.

Almita struggled to get her second gun out.

The two of them fell back toward the bookcases. Almita hit first and seemed to blend into the rows of bright-covered books.

Jake broke free of her, then caught hold of the front of her jacket.

He pulled her toward him with his left hand and dealt three hard jabs to her approaching chin.

Her teeth made a grinding sound. She groaned, lost consciousness. Almita fell back against the holographic bookcase again, slid down through the images of books.

Jake knelt on one knee, grabbing the lazgun from her pocket and thrusting it in his belt. Then he took the electrokey she'd used to get into his cell.

After collecting the second lazgun and slipping that in his belt beside the other one, Jake sprinted to the door.

There wasn't going to be much time left before they got the secsystem working again.

He used the key. The door whirred and slid open.

Standing in the grey corridor with his lazgun aimed directly at Jake was Agent Helton. “I was coming to rescue you from Almita, Cardigan,” he said, smiling. “Apparently that won't be necessary.”

27

T
HE SECOND ROBOT
guard came tumbling down. His gunmetal body slammed into the ground with a rattling thud.

“It also works pretty well on humanoid robots,” mentioned Silveira, holstering the sonblaster.

“So I noticed.” Gomez was standing beside the first of the fallen bot guards. “These lads look as dormant as the hounds that were on my tail.”

A warm wind was drifting through the jungle. Up in the dark tree branches overhead some unseen birds began to cry mournfully.

“We've got about ten minutes or less to get in and out.” He nodded at the immense plastiglass dome that rose up a dozen yards away, covering the sprawling plantation.

From his side pocket Gomez slid the palmtop monitor the Pax agent had loaned him. “According to this spyscreen of yours, Jose, there's still somebody in detention cell 6 on Level C,” he said after scanning the small rectangular screen. “I'm betting it's Jake.”

Silveira had two small darkmetal discs in his hand. “Wear this,
amigo.
” He fixed a disc to the front of Gomez's jacket, the other to his. “A little gadget that'll confuse the secmonitors down in the tunnels.”

“What'll they think they're viewing as we wend our way to Jake?”

“Robot guards.”

“Something else you confiscated?”

“No, this one we came up with ourselves.” He took hold of Gomez's arm. “The entry to the underground passways is over here. We'll pass under the domewall and come out two levels under the plantation buildings.” He moved quietly through the brush. “It'll take us at least five minutes to get to where they seem to be keeping your partner.”

“Which means we'll have less than five more to spring Jake and get the heck out of there.”

“
Sim
.” Halting and letting go of Gomez, Silveira crouched beside a large flowering bush. “While we're in the corridors, don't say anything. Even with these gadgets, the monitors will detect an unfamiliar voice.”

“
Caramba
, I don't know if I can go that long without uttering a single pithy remark.”

“Try.” He touched a large metal panel embedded in the damp ground.

The panel slid silently aside, revealing a dimlit metal stairway quirking down into the corridors below.

Gomez, very carefully, coughed into his hand.

Walking single file, he and Silveira stepped through the doorway to the section of Level C where the detention cells were located.

They'd been in the underground passway exactly six minutes now. Thus far they hadn't encountered anyone, robot or human.

The Pax agent was walking, rapidly, two paces ahead of the detective. He slowed, inclining his head very slightly to the left.

The number etched on the coppery metal door was 2.

Gomez wrinkled his nose. The aircirc system down here on Level C didn't seem to be working exactly right. There was a very strong odor of ripe bananas everywhere.

Or maybe, reflected Gomez, that was what they intended. This was, after all, supposed to be a banana plantation and nothing else.

They passed a door numbered
4
.

Silveira halted at the next door. This one was designated
6
.

He took out a master electrokey.

Gomez, casually, eased his right hand into the jacket pocket that held his borrowed stungun.

The door slid open.

There was a bright cozy parlor across the threshold, furnished in black and white. There was a comfortable sofa, an armchair and wallhigh bookcases.

But there was no sign of Jake, or anyone else, in the cell.

28

B
ASCOM WAS LOOKING
rumpled again. He was sitting on the edge of his desk, legs dangling, and noodling out a chorus of a twentieth-century bop tune, “Un Poco Loco,” on his saxophone.

The desk vidphone buzzed.

The Chief of the Cosmos Detective Agency set the sax aside. “What?” he asked, turning toward the phonescreen.

The image of the metal head of the switchboard bot was wiped off, replaced by Rex/GK-30. “Excuse my barging in on you, Bascom,” the robot said. “But these two tykes are getting anxious for news.”

Behind the large bot Bascom saw Dan and Molly standing. “Nothing new since last time we talked, kids,” he said, shaking his head sadly.

“Are they alive?” asked Dan.

“There's no report of a crash, Dan,” replied Bascom. “I've been urging a few of my contacts back in DC to find out what the OCO knows about this.”

“You're sure it is the OCO?”

“At least a contingent of that esteemed organization, yes.”

“Aren't you doing anything else?”

“Dan, I've got five of my best operatives on this. And I've put out the word to our informant network. Sooner or—”

“But right now, you aren't even sure if my dad and Sid are still alive?”

“I'm betting that—”

“The Teklords are also involved in this frumus, kiddo,” cut in Rex. “Here, take a gander at this gink.”

A vidclip of a dark, thickset man filled the screen. The man was walking, head down, across the lobby of a hotel.

“This is Roberto Martinez,” explained the robot. “I glommed this from a secsyst cam in the lobby of Hotel Borderland.”

“And?”

“Martinez is the bozo who came in, interrupted Molly's ne'er-do-well uncle while he was chinning with her and waltzed the guy out and possibly into oblivion.”

“He's connected with one of the Mexican Tek cartels?”

“Yep, the Navarro Cartel, biggest one in Borderland.”

Frowning, Bascom tapped the bell of his saxophone. “Usually they hire outside help for these simple chores,” he said thoughtfully. “They must've been in a rush to stop—”

“Important holocall coming in,” blurted out one of the holograph stages.

“I'll get back to you, Dan. Don't worry.”

Bascom crossed to the platform and activated it.

The life-size projection of a man in a yellow suit materialized. He was pudgy and he had no head. There was just a blurred ball of pale blue light resting on his shoulders. “I understand you're interested in the present whereabouts of Jake Cardigan and Sid Gomez, Bascom. True?”

Making a slow half circuit of the stage, Bascom said, “You don't usually deal in this sort of information, Wordsworth.”

“I came across this gem of intelligence by chance,” said the headless informant. “Being dedicated to the cause of justice, I decided to risk my anonymity by contacting you in person in this manner.”

“How much?”

“Naturally my first concern is the safety of your operatives and—”

“Your price?”

A coughing noise came out of the blur. “Five thousand dollars.”

“Three thousand tops.”

“I know where your ops are languishing, Bascom. “Forty-five hundred.”

“Thirty-five hundred.”

“Four thousand dollars or I depart.”

“Deal. Now tell me where—”

“Jesus! Got to go. Stand by until later, Bascom.” There was a faint popping sound and Wordsworth was gone.

“Shit,” observed Bascom.

Agent Helton's office was small, crowded with too many metal chairs, databoxes, neowood packing crates and bundles of old faxmemos. His desk was wedged in a corner and there were two dozen small vidscreens in the walls to the left and right of it. “You're not paying attention, Cardigan,” he complained from the metal chair that was jammed behind the narrow gunmetal desk.

“I'm still admiring the decor.” Jake was straddling a chair, facing the OCO man.

“This is a temp setup, purely functional.” He gestured at a bank of viewscreens to his left. “What do you see there?”

“Assorted views of what I assume is the jungle outside, shot with nitecams.”

Nodding slowly, Helton said, “What you don't see, however, is as much as a trace of your damned missing partner.”

“True,” agreed Jake.

“Notice Screen Seventeen.”

This showed a white metal lab table, brightlit from overhead, upon which sprawled a large robot dog.

“Defunct dog,” said Jake.

“That's one of the two highly efficient robot tracking dogs that were sent to locate Gomez, incapacitate him and then signal our people,” continued Helton. “They never fail.”

“Until tonight.”

“Both of these dogs were rendered inoperative by a highly sophisticated sonic weapon.” He put both elbows on the desk, leaning forward, eyeing Jake. “Where'd Gomez get such a weapon?”

“The gift shop at the skyport?”

Helton's frown deepened. “Do you bastards have allies on this island?”

“Sure. We sent a whole troop of them here on the off chance we'd someday be hijacked.” He grinned. “C'mon, Helton, be rational. I have no idea what Gomez used on your mechanized mutts.”

“I want him here.” He tapped the desktop with a blunt forefinger. “He has to be brought in—now.”

“So keep looking for him.”

The agent said, “No, you're going to help me round him up, Cardigan.”

“No, I'm not, nope.”

“My instructions are not to harm you, not seriously,” he told Jake. “Still, we have some gadgets here that—”

“How about a Devlin Gun?” asked Jake. “That might scare me into cooperating.”

After exhaling slowly, then inhaling, Helton advised him, “You don't want to know anything about the Devlin Guns.”

Jake said, “Almita's working for Carlos Zabicas. He's got the guns and—”

“Zabicas hasn't got them.”

“Oh, so? Then who did you guys arrange to—”

“Right now all you have to worry about is helping me get Gomez herded in here.” Helton stood. “We're going out into the jungle, you and I, Cardigan, and—”

“And I'm what—bait?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Jake shook his head. “I decline.”

“Then I'll have to persuade you.”

Jake asked, “How high up in the OCO does this go? Who told you to waylay us but not knock us off?”

Smiling, Helton answered, “Maybe nobody ordered me to spare your lives,” he suggested. “Perhaps I'm simply conning you, Cardigan. It might be that your only real chance of surviving depends on your helping me locate Gomez. Otherwise—”

“No need to come hunting for me,
cabrón
.” Gomez came striding into the office, stungun in hand. “You okay, Jake?”

“Fit as a fiddle.”

“Then we'll—No,
hombre.
” Gomez had noticed Helton reaching toward a shoulder holster. He fired the stungun.

Helton took a jerking step back, bumped into the wall. Both his elbows went snapping back, one nudging into a viewscreen and shattering it. He gave a brief gargling cry, then pitched over onto his desk, scattering faxmemos and datadiscs.

“This would be a dandy time to depart,
amigo.
” Gomez headed for the door. “If you've no objections.”

“None.” Jake followed his partner.

29

S
lLVEIRA POINTED UP
the dark hillside. “There's a little town called Castel' Branco about another three miles from here,” he told them. “If we can get there, I'll be able to set you up with a skyvan.”

“
If?
” inquired Gomez as they started double-timing up a twisting roadway that was cut through rocky ground. “Can't you be a bit more optimistic,
amigo?
”