Xenotech Rising: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 1)

by Dave Schroeder

  “Hi,” I said.

  We smiled broad smiles.

  “I made us a reservation,” she said, putting her box on the hostess stand.

  “So did I.”

  We both laughed. Her laugh was unrestrained and from her diaphragm.

  “What’s that?” she asked, looking at Terrhi’s box. I was holding it out in both hands, feeling awkward. I didn’t know what was in the box myself but held it there and hoped. She touched my hand with one of hers, ostensibly to steady the box, and used the other to open it.

  “They’re beautiful,” she said, her eyes bright.

  I looked down to see her holding a living necklace of Orishen orchids. Thank you, Terrhi! The flowers are sensitive to their wearers’ moods and ensembles and adapt their colors to fit both. My date leaned down. I put my box down on the hostess stand and gently placed the living necklace around her neck. My fingers were tingling with pleasure where they’d brushed her skin. The orchids had already changed from white to a shade of red that matched her hair and set off her green eyes and dress delightfully.

  “You’re beautiful,” I said. Did I say that out loud?

  “You’re pretty good looking yourself, handsome,” she said, smiling.

  I just stood there, tongue-tied, shifting my balance from one foot to the other.

  “This is for you,” she said, reaching for the small white box she’d brought. She opened it and pulled out a boutonnière and pinned it to my lapel. It was a rosebud the exact same shade of pink as a rabbot.

  It was my turn to laugh as deeply as she had.

  “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

  “I’m Poly,” she said, “with one ‘l’.”

  “Jack.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.

  “Likewise,” she said, reaching out and shaking my hand. Her hand felt so nice I didn’t want to let go, but I did.

  We smiled at each other then I looked at the empty hostess stand This was the most exclusive restaurant in town. I felt like a bumpkin but made a joke to hide my nerves.

  “What does it take to get a table around this joint?”

  I was lucky she had a sense of humor.

  The Teleport Inn was bustling despite the presence of the marching, shouting protesters out front. A GaFTA-wide franchise, there were Teleport Inns in every major city across the galaxy. They were always elegant and high priced, featuring exotic dishes and drinks teleported in from their worlds of origin at great expense. Individual restaurants varied greatly, but all shared the same logo—two interlocking gold circles—and all were patronized by the wealthy or beings with generous expense accounts.

  The general shape of the Atlanta franchise was a wedge with rooms for large species like the Tōdons and Dauushans at the tall end and rooms for small species like the Musa, the J’Vel and the Murms—if any significant number of Chit’s species ever made it to Earth—at the short, pointy end. The restaurant was built on a thin peninsula nestled in a bend of the Chattahoochee River so that both ends had scenic river views. The center section was appropriately sized for humanoids. The Terran tables near the tip of the peninsula with views of the river and the woods beyond were considered the most romantic in town. I’d read about them last year, wistfully, in an article about romantic places to take your special someone on Valentine’s Day.

  I heard the sound of high heeled shoes on hardwood and turned to see a dark-haired young woman wearing what looked like an expensive black sheath dress walk up to the hostess stand. Her skin was the same shade of brown as her eyes.

  “Hi Poly,” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. I had to seat another party.”

  “No problem, Kijanna,” said my date. “But where is Pierre? Doesn’t he usually insist on meeting each guest when they arrive?”

  “Pierre?” I whispered.

  “The maître d’.”

  “He was pulled away to deal with the Earth First Christian protesters,” said Kijanna. “They’ve been trying to get inside to disrupt the Methobapterian bishops’ and Nicósn Supreme Prelate’s meal.”

  “I have called ze mayor and ze foolish protesters have been dealt with, or will be soon if he ever wants a table here again,” said a rich, mellow voice with a French accent from the level of my waist. I looked down to see a four foot tall three-sided Pyr wearing a tuxedo. The being looked like an over-sized penguin, if the penguin was shaped like a pyramid and had an eye at the apex of each of its triangular sides. I think the fact that the Pyr had three sides means that he’s male but I wasn’t about to ask. All I knew is that the thousands of cilia on his base that he used for locomotion were very quiet, which is why I hadn’t heard him arrive.

  “Pierre!” said Poly, bending down to give the tuxedoed Pyr a hug.

  Pierre extruded a couple of tentacles and hugged her back, saying “Mon petit chou!”

  I was feeling like a big cabbage, or perhaps a mushroom, kept in the dark.

  “Is zhis your young man?” said Pierre, turning one eye on me.

  “Where are my manners?” said Poly, avoiding an answer I would have liked to hear.

  “Kijanna, Pierre, please meet Jack…”

  “Buckston,” I said smoothly, covering over the fact that we didn’t even know each other’s last names yet.

  “Pierre Auguste Escoffier, maître d’hôtel, at your service,” said the Pyr, managing to convey both a bow and clicking heels with an anatomy incapable of either.

  I bowed deeply. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  Kijanna shook my hand. “Hi Jack. Nice to meet you. Any friend of Poly’s, et cetera.”

  “Likewise,” I said.

  Pierre pulled a thin tablet from a pocket in his tux and consulted it.

  “We have a reservation for a party of two in the name of Buckston for eight o’clock,” he said. “Would that be you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I expect so.”

  Pierre seemed impressed and I had a sense impressing him wasn’t easy.

  “You made a reservation?” said Poly. “But I invited you.”

  “The whole ‘who invited whom’ question wasn’t all that clear,” I said, remembering the post rabbot rescue confusion.

  “I’ll grant you that and you get points for landing a last minute reservation,” said Poly. “I’m impressed. How did you manage it?”

  “Long story,” I said, “I’ll tell you over dinner.”

  “I look forward to it.” Poly had a twinkle in her eye.

  “Please escort these two fine young people to Table 14,” said Pierre to Kijanna.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The corner of her mouth turned up and she winked at Pierre as if the two were sharing a secret. Kijanna collected menus and wine lists and led us off through the restaurant. I stayed back a few steps and followed behind the two women.

  “Is this the guy?” I heard Kijanna say to Poly sotto voce.

  I started to say “What do you mean, ‘Is this the guy?’” but stopped myself. I wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing to be “the guy” and hoped the date would continue to go well so I’d find out. I was more than a bit intimidated. Poly knew Kijanna well and was treated like a niece or a daughter by Pierre the maître d’. I wondered how often she ate here. I could afford to eat here tonight, but not every night, and she knew everyone at the restaurant on a first name basis. Maybe she was an oligarch’s daughter?

  We had quite a long way to walk—the entire length of the restaurant. I admit that I was gawking like a tourist. The artwork on the walls was expensive enough to launch several startups if put up for auction. Everything from furniture to linens, glassware and silverware was opulent, but understated, not flashy. To my right in the tall part of the wedge I saw a party of five massive eight-legged tortoise-like Tōdons, a lot larger than adult Dauushans, dining on greenery arrayed in a giant shared bowl. I remembered that the Mohawk ridge of fur on the backs of their shells was a symbiotic organism, not somethi
ng they grew themselves. Above them in the rafters I spotted a pair of raptor-like Quirinx dismembering a large capybara. A transparent membrane protected the vegetarian Tōdons’ meal from any inadvertent and inappropriate additions. Farther down on the ceiling a quartet of Fthtipth floaters, looking like a collection of colorful Mylar party balloons, were sampling jets of hydrogen and helium flavored with various other trace gasses, or at least I think so. I read a lot.

  The center section was almost completely full. I spotted Nicósns, Tigrammaths, Pâkk, Pyrs, Orishens and a dozen more GaFTA species along with humans dining in various combinations. As we approached the back wall and the intimate tables with river and forest views I noticed a table for four that did not have any other tables close by. Three earnest looking humans in business suits—the United Methobapterian triumvirate of bishops, I assumed—were dining with a Nicósn with the longest “beard” tentacles I’d ever seen. He must be the Supreme Prelate. I hoped their sacramental negotiations would go smoothly and returned my focus to Poly and Kijanna.

  “Here’s your table,” Kijanna said. “It’s the best in the house.” She had directed us to an intimate table for two topped with a white linen tablecloth and crystal goblets that sparkled with reflected light from a candle in a cut-glass holder. I pulled out Poly’s chair and helped her get seated. Kijanna pulled out mine and did the same for me then headed off with a wave for me and a wink for Poly. We were next to a floor to ceiling window and could see the Chattahoochee gliding serenely along below us. I noticed the ecclesiastical discussion table was to my left behind Poly and just past an unobtrusive walnut waiters’ station with water pitchers, tall wooden pepper grinders and the like. These items only registered on the periphery of my attention, however. I only had eyes for one person in the room.

  Poly’s eyes were green with flecks of gold. The candle light made them dance and the smile she gave me made my heart dance along with them. Careful, I thought. Don’t blow it.

  “Jack Buckston,” I said. “Thanks so much for agreeing to have dinner with me.”

  She extended her hand across the table and I took it.

  “Poly Jones,” she said. “Thanks for having dinner with me.”

  “Is Poly short for Mary?”

  “Not Polyanna? That’s what people usually guess.”

  “You don’t strike me as a Polyanna.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Most people don’t know Polly comes from Mary by way of Molly.”

  “I guess I’m not most people. I enjoy onomastics.”

  “You can probably be arrested for that in Georgia.” Poly flashed a broad smile. “I like name origins, too.”

  “You’re probably right. Can you give me a hint about your name?”

  “Just one. My father is a Classics professor.”

  I started to grin. “Now that’s a-muse-ing. Did he name you for Polyhymnia, the Muse of Sacred Poetry?”

  “And of eloquence and geometry,” she said. “Ouch, by the way.”

  “There’s no need to verbally acknowledge a bad pun. A pained expression will suffice.”

  I looked down and noticed I was still holding her hand. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry to withdraw it.

  “I expect we’ll both have to work on our pained expressions, Jack. I like to give as good as I get.”

  I made a face that was the opposite of pained.

  “Is your name really John, or did your parents name you Jack for some reason?” Poly asked.

  “Neither. I picked Jack myself.”

  “That must mean your real name is a gem like Willard or Homer or something like that.”

  “You’re close. It’s a name your father would know well, I’m sure.”

  “Something from The Iliad? Agamemnon, Odysseus, Achilles, Hector…”

  “I’m stronger than dirt.”

  “Ajax! I love it!”

  “Eh hem,” said a diffident voice with a slight French accent. “Excuse me, but what would you like to drink, Ms. Jones, honored sir?”

  I wonder how long our waiter had been standing there. He was a middle-aged, middle-height human with gray at his temples and a pencil thin dark mustache.

  Poly pulled her hand away and sat up straight. I reluctantly did the same.

  “I’ll have still water with lots of ice, Françoise,” she said, focusing on our waiter.

  “The same for me, please.”

  “Excellent,” said Françoise.

  Poly looked back at me. “Do you like sushi?”

  “I love it.”

  “Great. Please bring us an order of Dauushan caviar as an appetizer while we look at the menu, Françoise.”

  “Very good, Ms. Jones,” said our waiter, who was back in seconds with a cut glass water pitcher. He filled our glasses with ice and water then was off to order our appetizer.

  “Talking with you is fun but we should probably look at our menus,” she said.

  I gave her a goofy look to let her know I was kidding and said “What’s good here?”

  She reached out and playfully smacked the back of my hand. I grabbed her fingers before the reproach could land. When I tried to release my hold Poly didn’t pull back. We held hands and reviewed our menus one-handed. To my consternation, my menu didn’t have any prices. This was always one of the trickiest parts of any date—navigating the mine field of ordering dinner. I didn’t know if Poly was a vegan or a vegetarian or only ate ethical proteins or organic grains or what. Wait, she’d ordered Daaushan caviar, so she ate seafood, if Daaushan caviar was seafood. Time for dinner ordering dodge #1.

  “What looks good to you,” I said.

  “It all looks great.”

  Dodge #1 fail. Trying dodge #2.

  “Are you going to have a salad?”

  “Depends on my main course.”

  Dodge #2 fail. Please, Poly, give me something to work with.

  I had just about decided on the Nicósn version of a Niçoise salad that uses one of their planet’s near-equivalents of tuna when Poly made things easy.

  “I think I’ll have a Neuva Pâkkjuk ubercow steak with an L5 hydroponic Idaho baked potato and a wedge of Tōdonese paralettuce with ranch dressing,” she said.

  Neuva Pâkkjuk was a Short Pâkk planet with a native non-sentient species, dubbed the ubercow by Terrans, that was 60 feet long, heavier than three adult Dauushans, and omnivorous. Adolescent Short Pâkk on Neuva Pâkkjuk have to prove their right be part of adult society and become full citizens by taking down an ubercow on their own. That wasn’t a simple or safe proposition. Ubercows were mean opponents, but their meat was supposed to be incredibly tender and tasty.

  “I’ll have the same.” I hoped I wasn’t sweating from the earlier challenge of figuring out what to order.

  Françoise chose that moment to arrive with a basket of warm starches from four star systems. Poly and I gave him our dinner orders and he headed off to place them.

  “Please tell me how you managed to get a last minute reservation,” said Poly.

  “I will if you’ll tell me how everyone here seems to know you already,” I said, hoping it wasn’t something like her being the restored Princess of Australia.

  “Everybody knows me at the Teleport Inn because I’m in here every day to translate their menus. I’m doing lots of part-time jobs to pay for grad school. I’m temping as a receptionist, translating menus here, correcting machine translations of GaFTA tech manuals, and doing some teaching.”

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. She wasn’t an oligarch’s daughter. I had a chance of being in her league.

  “You must be really good if the Inn uses you for translating their menus. It’s got to be a challenge to get all the snooty nuances right.”

  “You have no idea,” she said, buttering a quadrotriticale roll. “Pierre likes the knack I seem to have to make the menu descriptions justify his outrageous prices in a dozen languages.”

  “Did you write the descriptions on the wine list, too?�
�� I said. “I mean, do you do fiction as well as non-fiction?”

  She laughed. “Yes, I write those, too. Which reminds me—I don’t drink but if you want some wine with dinner we can order a bottle.”

  “I don’t drink, either. More money for books that way.”

  We both smiled.

  “Now you know that I suggested dinner here because I have an “in” with the management. They’re comping me this meal as a personal favor,” said Poly. “But how did you wangle a reservation?”

  Françoise delivered our Dauushan caviar appetizer before I could start in on the story of Terrhi and Spike. Dauushan caviar isn’t fish eggs—it’s fish egg. One giant pink egg the size of a cantaloupe was resting on a mound of pink leaves piled up in the middle of a round silver platter.

  “What’s it taste like?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Poly, “I just thought it sounded interesting.”

  I raised my left arm and waved in Françoise’s direction. He appeared by my side in a picosecond.

  “How may I be of service, monsieur?” he said.

  “Call me Jack,” I said.

  “Oui, monsieur Jacques,” said Françoise.

  I decided to quit while I could still pretend I was ahead.

  “How should we eat this thing?” I pointed at the large pink ovoid.

  “Comme ça, monsieur,” said Françoise. He removed a knife and folk from a neighboring unoccupied table and demonstrated the proper technique for delicately removing a generous slice from one side of the egg. He put it on Poly’s plate then repeated the process to do the same for me and stood waiting for our feedback.

  “Merci,” I said to Françoise.

  “Delicious,” said Poly. “It’s like lox Jell-O.”

  I cut off a forkful and tasted it.

  “Mmmmm… I wish I had a bagel.”

  Françoise returned moments later with a wire holder supporting a small paper cone filled with bagel chips. Poly and I thanked him and started digging into the pink egg with the chips. I didn’t want to know how much Dauushan caviar cost because I didn’t want to risk becoming addicted to it, but it was good enough that I considered asking. Poly and I were having fun being undignified and feeding each other bits of caviar when I looked over and saw Françoise and guests at a few nearby tables smiling indulgently at us. I guess our behavior qualified as inappropriate, but cute. I wasn’t apologizing for any of it.