Free Tek Net by William Shatner Page A

trio said, “That’s our Moon Cops show, Mr. Marriner.”
    Marriner’s lips puckered as though he were tasting something extremely sour. “Kill it.”
    The thin blond man said, “But we guaranteed Selkirk at least a year of—”
    â€œIt’s dead.”
    â€œI agree with you on that one,” said the pink-cheeked andy. “ Moon Cops is a dismal show, sir.”
    â€œSure you agree with me, putz,” the black man said. “That’s how you were constructed.”
    â€œNo, I assure you, this is an honest opinion of my own.”
    Marriner gave a quick whisper of a chuckle. “Screen 27,” he said.
    The thin blond man said, “That’s Underwater Fiesta . This episode was filmed off the coast of—”
    â€œReshoot the damn thing.”
    The heavyset bearded man suggested, “It would be much more economical if we had the people in Enhancement punch up the existing—”
    â€œReshoot it.”
    â€œYes, sir,” said the thin blond man.
    â€œExactly what I was about to suggest,” said the android.
    The room’s door whirred quietly open. Thelma Glanzman appeared. “He’s here.”
    â€œKeep him out there for a while, Thel,” instructed Marriner. “Screen 19.”
    The secondary ballroom was not quite as large as the main one. There were only thirty vidscreens in the walls and they displayed not Marriner Media shows but variable views of what was going on inside the major Marriner offices and facilities around the world.
    Marriner had a small realwood desk in the center of this ballroom and he was sitting behind it, hunched forward. Spread out atop the desk was the front page of the top-selling e-newspaper in America. “What do you think of the headline, Ernie?”
    Shiboo ran his tongue over his lips. “Very colorful, sir.” The Japanese was standing to the right of the desk. There were no other chairs in the big room.
    â€œNot the typography, putz, the content.”
    Shiboo cleared his throat, craned his head. “‘Thousands Die in Tunnel Tragedy.’ Very catchy, sir.”
    â€œNo, hell, it’s nowhere near specific enough,” countered the media tycoon. “Thousands of what—people, kangaroos, nasturtiums? If it’s human beings—what kind? Where?”
    â€œPutting it that way, Mr. Marriner, the line is a bit lacking in detail, yes.”
    Marriner picked up a palmphone. “Bockman, we want a new head for the Times-Post . Specifics on that tunnel thing.”
    Shiboo coughed into his hand.
    Marriner glanced up at him. “How many maid andies did you deliver for my upcoming bash, Ernie?”
    â€œTwenty-one, sir.”
    â€œI understand one of them has blue spots on her ass.”
    â€œNo, that’s been taken care of.… How did you know that?”
    â€œErnie, there isn’t one damn thing about you that I don’t know or can’t find out,” Marriner informed him. “I even know what goes on in the hay between you and that mechanized lummox of yours. Herky. Jesus.”
    â€œMy relationship with him is perfectly—”
    â€œTell me about Jill Bernardino.”
    â€œWho?”
    A whispery chuckle. “Ernie, you’re not following this discussion at all as closely as you ought to be,” Marriner said, pushing back a few inches in his chair. “I had hoped I’d impressed you by this time with the fact that bullshit will get you nowhere when talking to me. How much did you tell her?”
    Shiboo shook his head negatively, getting the shaking all tangled up with the uncontrolled shivering that had begun. “Not a thing, Mr. Marriner,” he insisted. “I mean, yes, as you seem to know, I have been providing her with information for a vidwall film she’s scripting. It’s about Sonny Hokori. I’m not sure if you knew him, but—”
    â€œI knew Sonny quite