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

by Dave Schroeder

  “I really appreciated the flowers and so did Poly,” I said.

  “I like her,” said Terrhi, “a lot.”

  “Maybe you’ll have a chance to meet her soon,” I said, hoping that would be the case. I thought they’d like each other.

  “Now that you’ve exchanged presents,” said Tomáso, “it’s late and it’s bedtime.”

  “Awwww,” said Terrhi, “can Uncle Jack tell me a story first?” She added just a hint of a Terran child’s whine. I expected that she watched a lot of television and knew how to push human buttons. Her pleading tone seemed to work on her father, too.

  “It’s Uncle Jack, now?” said Tomáso. “How does Jack feel about being an honorary uncle?”

  “Honored,” I said, smiling. “I think I can fit in one bedtime story.”

  I left the incisors on a table by the front door then gave the canvas bag to Tomáso and encouraged him to examine its contents while I put my new “niece” to bed. Terrhi, with Spike trailing behind, led me to her bedroom, a space the size of a three-car garage. Her bed was a soft nest built from hundreds of multi-colored grapefruit-sized foam balls. Spike found what looked like his favorite spot on top of the bed’s wide headboard and I balanced on the side rail while I told Terrhi and her attentive cat the story of four mischievous rabbots, Flopzi, Mopzi, Fuchsia-tail and Pehterr. Beatrix Potter wouldn’t have recognized her classic tale by the time I’d finished adapting it to fit the world of a Dauushan girl growing up on Earth. When I’d started the story Terrhi had six of her trunks wrapped around my arm but when I’d finished the last trunk had fallen away and she was asleep. Spike was also sleeping but opened one of his three eyes and winked at me as I got up and left the bedroom.

  I found Tomáso in his study, a room the size of half a basketball court. He had a raised platform against one wall with steps leading up to a chair and associated table that would put a human and a Dauushan at the same relative height for comfortable conversation. There was a small refrigerator behind the table and Tomáso encouraged me to get a bottle of water or a can of Starbuzz or whatever other beverage I preferred. I opted for water, since I’d never be able to get to sleep if I had a Starbuzz after midnight. The disconnected halves of the rabbot and its fur covering were laid out on an extended part of the platform to my right.

  “Did you see what I saw?” I said, nodding toward the rabbot.

  “Yes,” said Tomáso, “whatever this batch of rabbots ingests will go through a congruent gateway.”

  “What could anyone possibly want with bits of carpet and fabric from cubicle walls?”

  “That’s not what they were after,” said Tomáso.

  “They?”

  “The Prime Factors,” said Tomáso.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “They’re a cabal of less than scrupulous merchants from more than a dozen worlds, including Dauush,” he said, “and they’ll sell anything to anybody to make a buck, no questions asked. Ethics are decidedly optional.”

  “What were they after?” I sipped my water and considered the implications of what I was hearing.

  “Terrestrial vegetation,” said Tomáso, “particularly fescue, Bermuda, carpetgrass, zoysia and Kentucky bluegrass. The clippings go off-planet where they’re turned into a green powder called grajja that’s highly addictive for adult Dauushans.”

  “Rabbots are grass smugglers?”

  “No, not grass,” said Tomáso. “Grajja isn’t like marijuana. For us it’s more like methamphetamine.”

  The thought of a sentient the size of an African bull elephant hopped up on speed was not one I wanted to contemplate.

  “What about kudzu?” I hoped I wouldn’t have to reprogram a hundred thousand rabbots for my friend’s company.

  “Not a problem. It doesn’t have the same composition as the grasses they’re interested in,” said Tomáso, “though it tastes pretty good.”

  That’s right, I thought, Dauushans are omnivores.

  “So these Prime Factors are using rabbots to do the Dauushan equivalent of harvesting opium?”

  “No,” said Tomáso, “they never do that sort of thing directly. They work through intermediaries. There’s some third party doing the dirty work.”

  “Does that mean Jean-Jacques at WT&F is in on it?”

  “I doubt it,” said Tomáso. “He’s likely a dupe and didn’t question why his supplier was willing to sell him fabrication plans and raw materials on such attractive terms.”

  “That sounds more like Jean-Jacques.”

  Much as I would have liked to see Jean-Jacques suffer pain for the problems his tendency to cut corners and squeeze pennies had caused, he was still a client and I was glad he wouldn’t end up in jail over this.

  “That means Mike probably didn’t have the exponent-lock key down after all.”

  “Mike?” said Tomáso.

  “The operator at WT&F who fabbed the rabbots. Nice guy.”

  “Likely so,” said Tomáso. “The size of the run was probably a setting built into the plans by the intermediary used by the Prime Factors.”

  Mike’s stock as a prospective employee of Xenotech Support Corporation went up another notch.

  “Am I right in thinking your responsibilities go beyond just being a local Dauushan diplomat?” I said, putting our current conversation together with hints about Tomáso’s extended role on-planet from our earlier discussions on consular security.

  “You could consider me the head the Dauushan Drug Enforcement Agency for this sector,” said Tomáso, “but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that information to yourself.”

  “Of course,” I said, “I’m Terrhi’s honorary uncle after all. You can trust me.”

  “I’m counting on that, honorary brother,” said Tomáso. “You’re family, now.”

  “What’s next?”

  “I need your help to identify the company who sold Jean-Jacques the rabbot plans and supplies,” said Tomáso. “I can use my sources to trace things back to see if I can pin this on one of the Prime Factors.”

  “That makes sense. I’ll get the details tomorrow—or rather later this morning.”

  “I’ll send a miniature Galactic Positioning System transmitter through this rabbot’s gateway,” said Tomáso. “My colleagues on Dauush will use it to look for their processing center.”

  “What if the processing center is on Terra?”

  Tomáso removed his phone—about the size of a cookie sheet—from a pouch on his leg with a few trunks and touched it to my phone. I accepted the tracking app that would follow the signal in case the grajja would be processed here on Earth. They’d need to find another source of supply since the rabbots they’d tricked WT&F into fabbing hadn’t been put to use tending lawns. I’d keep my ears open in case I came across the transmitter in my daily travels. I set the app to alert me audibly if it sensed the transmitter and started to climb down from the platform.

  “One more thing,” said Tomáso. I stopped halfway to the bottom.

  “What’s that?”

  “If you’re going to watch the First Contact Day Parade on Saturday you’re welcome to do it from the Dauushan consulate’s ground level box,” he said. “I’ll be in the parade so I’m sure Terrhi would appreciate the company. You’re welcome to bring a friend, too, if you’d like.”

  “Thanks. That’s very generous. I’ll check with Poly and we’ll let you know tomorrow.” Tomáso definitely knew more about my personal life than he should. It was time to sweep my apartment for bugs—unless he was using the Ad Astra complex’s security system as a monitoring device. Two can play that game, brother, I thought.

  I reached the bottom of the platform, shook one of Tomáso’s trunks and turned to leave.

  “Catch,” said Tomáso. Something small and furry hit the back of my head—a rabbot’s foot.

  “What’s that for?” I said, picking it up.

  “You’re going to need all the luck you can get.”

  Tomáso was probably right. I le
ft, remembering to take Terrhi’s generous gift of Spike’s incisors on my way out.

  It was time to get some rest. Tomorrow would be a busy day.

  Chapter 13

  “If girls dressed for boys, they’d just walk around naked at all times.” — Betsey Johnson

  When I got back to my apartment I checked the machine on top of the dining room table. Its needles were rattling along and my surprise for Poly was making good progress. There’d be plenty of time to make a matching one for me as well. I put Spike’s formidable baby teeth in the middle of the table and considered some designs for hilts and sheaths that would complement them. I’d let my subconscious think on that overnight. I left the rabbot’s foot on the kitchen counter and asked my phone to organize a scan of my apartment for bugs while I slept. I’d have to check out the Ad Astra security system in the morning—a degree of human subtlety was required if Tomáso really was using it to listen in on my conversations. It wouldn’t be smart to be caught listening in on an official representative of the Dauushan government.

  I yawned. I wouldn’t be able to do anything in the morning unless I got some sleep. I went to my bedroom, put everything in my various pockets on my nightstand and hung up my suit. In a few minutes I was horizontal and falling into the arms of Morpheus while visions of Poly, not sugarplums, danced in my head.

  “Jack,” said Poly’s voice, “It’s time to get up, Jack.” I woke up with a start.

  “Wha…?” Poly was nowhere to be seen. My phone had a sick sense of humor.

  “Sorry,” said my phone.

  “You’d better be.”

  “You slept through all of Edvard Grieg’s Morning and I thought this option was better than switching to the finale of the 1812 Overture.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said, rubbing my eyes and sitting up on the edge of the bed. “What time is it?”

  “Six thirty.” I was young and healthy. I could survive on five hours of sleep.

  “Chinese Gunpowder,” I said to my shower, “with a Red Zinger finish.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  I could already smell the coffee my phone had started brewing in the kitchen. After seeing to my various necessary personal ablutions and letting my nuance-limited shower do its best to return me to the land of the living, I dressed in my corporate uniform of boots, khakis and a Xenotech Support polo shirt and transferred the contents of the nightstand to my pockets. By the time I’d finished my first cup of coffee I’d restarted my brain. First, I’d catch Poly. I didn’t know her schedule and wanted to reach her before her day got too busy. Wait. I didn’t have her number. Crap. At this point in our relationship I didn’t think she’d see a bit of Galnet research as stalking. I know my stuff, so after three minutes of searching I had her phone number and sent her a text.

  “Got time for a quick call?” I typed, and pressed SEND.

  She replied in seconds. “Who is this?” Duh, gee, Jack. How dumb can you be?

  “It’s Jack,” I typed and sent.

  “Yes,” came her reply. I called her.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” said Poly.

  “I hope I didn’t call too early.”

  “No, I’ve been up for an hour.”

  “Last night was a lot of fun.”

  “I liked it a lot, too,” said Poly. “Life is certainly exciting when you’re around.”

  “Uh, thanks,” I said. “I need your help.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Can you find out who WT&F bought the Model-43 fabber and the rabbot fabrication plans from? I’ve heard that the company that sold the fabber and plans was less than one hundred percent ethical.”

  “Sure,” said Poly. “I have class this morning but I’m working at WT&F this afternoon. Once I’m there I should be able to pull the records.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I got a message from Pierre and Françoise late last night,” she said. “They saved the dinners we’d ordered in to-go boxes. If you’re interested, I could bring yours by for you tonight.” I heard a hopeful tone in her voice.

  “Why don’t you bring them and your lovely self over to my place and we can try having a meal that won’t be interrupted by a crisis.”

  “That would be wonderful,” she said.

  “I think so, too,” I said. “Seven-thirty?”

  “Works for me. They’ve got what’s left of the Dauushan caviar egg wrapped up for us, too.”

  “Great,” I said. “That reminds me, I need to shop for tomorrow’s breakfast. What’s your favorite kind of bagel?”

  “Cinnamon raisin,” she said, “but they don’t go well with lox Jell-O. How about sesame?”

  “Done,” I said. “Cream cheese?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “See you tonight!”

  “Looking forward to it,” said Poly.

  Then the call ended but not the warm feeling I had when I talked to Poly. Tonight would be delightful if I could keep my eyelids propped up that long. At least I now had plenty of incentive to stay awake. The only thing I had to do today was meet with the CEO of a prospective client, a virtual immersive gaming company called VIGorish Labs, at their offices down near Hartsfield Port this afternoon. That meant I had time to pull on a few threads and see what unraveled.

  I took a frozen Nicósn tortilla fish out of my freezer and zapped it. They’re round, very flat, high in protein and great for a quick breakfast. In between my first and second bites my phone rang.

  “Who is it?” I asked my phone.

  “Ellie from Morphicouture,” said my phone. “It’s a support call.”

  Morphicouture, Inc. was one of my favorite clients. They made chameleon cloth clothing using Orishen looms and adaptive thread. Their specialty was very expensive high fashion dresses that changed color to adapt to their wearer’s mood, like Poly’s flowers. The dresses would even change their hems and necklines in response to their wearers’ explicit or subliminal mental commands. Morphicouture made bespoke men’s suits as well and Mademoiselle Ellie—Eleanor Schwartzfield from Park Slope, Brooklyn—was not just a client but a friend.

  “Hi Ellie,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Jack,” Ellie said, “Help!”

  “I can be there in twenty-five minutes.” I looked at my phone’s screen. It was showing real-time traffic details between my apartment and Ellie’s production facility, two miles away. “What’s the problem?”

  “I can’t see it,” she said.

  “You can’t see what the problem is?”

  “No, I can’t see the chameleon cloth coming off of my looms,” Ellie said. “It’s all transparent.”

  “The problem is clear?” I asked.

  “Exactly,” she said, with a smile in her voice despite her worry. “Now stop making bad puns and get over here.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Determining if Tomáso was spying on me would have to wait.

  * * * * *

  Since Morphicouture’s offices were nearby so I hoped I’d get there a few minutes early despite Atlanta’s challenging traffic. Congestion remains a major issue in the city and the futurists’ promise of flying cars was still unfulfilled even with Galactic technology. Anti-gravity remained science fiction for now, though unlimited power with very little weight thanks to congruency-delivered energy made a new style of hovercar popular. Powered by three or four rotating helicopter-style blades, like scaled-up surveillance drones, they were restricted from operating over the city of Atlanta without a permit, so I was stuck on the ground making my way as best I could.

  I beat my phone’s estimate and pulled into the lot at Morphicouture’s offices and production facilities twenty minutes later. They were located in a restored 1904 cotton gin factory building southwest of Buckhead. The structure was Georgia clay-colored brick turned dark by more than a hundred years of urban smog. It was three stories tall and as long as a football field.

  The exterior of the place was the only thing
that looked old, though. Inside it was GaFTA Modern with lots of open space and multi-dimensional art from Pyr, Nicós, Tigrammon, the Pâkk planets and more. Lengths of Morphicouture’s shimmering, signature color-changing fabric arced across the lobby’s exposed brick walls. A giant mobile made of wires, counterbalanced arms and colorful buckets dominated the three story lobby and hung from a well over a century-old steel truss in the ceiling. It was as good as Alexander Calder’s best and a gold plaque on a pillar below said the mobile was a work by a noted artist on the avian Quirinx’ home world.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell Ellie that it was an off-the-shelf public perching structure from a Quirinx industrial supply company and should have been filled with their equivalent of birdseed. Maybe she already knew. No matter the provenance of the hanging mobile, the lobby did a great job supporting the company’s reputation for elegance, opulence and high prices. Ellie was waiting for me three steps inside the entrance.

  “Jack!” she said, stepping close and giving me air kisses on both cheeks. Ellie was a petite brunette in her fifties and not much taller than a Pyr. She had a classic Audrey Hepburn haircut, a slender figure, and enough drive for three people. She was wearing one of her own creations, a knee-length sheath dress that slowly shifted from deep maroon to red to pink in waves from hem to neck. A strand of Nicósn pearls around her neck glowed and pulsed with an inner light in time to her heartbeat.

  “Ellie!” I said. “The cavalry’s here.” She took my hand and pulled me along. We crossed the lobby and went down the long brick corridor lined with framed high fashion photographs that led to the factory floor.

  “We’re on a tight deadline, darling. I’ve got dozens of custom orders that have to go out the door and I can’t sew what I can’t see.”

  “Your looms are producing transparent cloth?”

  “That’s right. We can feel it but it’s clear—we can’t do anything with it.”

  “When did the problem start?” I said as we walked.

  “Just this morning,” said Ellie. “When my production team came in they started up the looms and couldn’t see what they turned out.” We were nearing the end of corridor.