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

by Dave Schroeder

  “Can you pick up what they’re saying?” I asked my van. I heard a click then voices came in over the van’s speakers.

  “Will your teams be ready?” said a deep male voice. I could see who was talking—a tall Hispanic-looking man the others were deferring to.

  “We’re on target for launch in two weeks,” said a strong alto. It must be one of the women whose back was to me.

  “Understood,” said the leader. “What’s the status of the aerosol delivery system?”

  “Everything is on the green,” said a black man with a circle and vertical bar power on symbol tattooed on the back of his neck. “Aerosol delivery system units are fully tested and prepped for deployment.”

  “Great,” said the leader. “Ground and ground effect transport?” he said, nodding toward a tall northern Chinese woman. I could see her stand straighter.

  “All units are ready,” she said. “New paint jobs are finished. Delivery systems are mounted. Bug-out and contingency vehicles will be in place per schedule.”

  “Excellent,” said the leader. “Uplift?”

  He gestured to one of the remaining men, a freckled redhead with a flattop Mohawk.

  “Sorry, sir,” said the redhead, “I’m not going to meet the deadline without more help.”

  “That’s been taken care of,” said the leader.

  “Thanks,” said the redhead.

  “You have your orders,” said the leader. He made a fist with his index finger still out and brought his hand to his chest. The five others repeated his action, slapping their fists on their chests. Then the group broke up and entered the hotel.

  “What was that all about?” I said. My phone made squeaky R2D2 noises. It had no idea either.

  I found one of the centimeter-sized surveillance drones I kept as samples in my backpack and programmed it to keep an eye on what happened at the hotel. It only took a few seconds to pilot it to attach to one of the pillars supporting the hotel’s covered entrance. Then it was clearly time to get out of Dodge. I told my van to head for home, but when we started to leave the parking lot our departure was blocked by the return of the VIGorish Labs’ buses. They were pulling into the hotel with another full load of passengers in pink camouflage body suits.

  That explained why the hotel parking lot was mostly empty—the individuals in this increasingly large private army must occupy every room in the place and they didn’t have their own cars.

  “What’s the capacity of the hotel?” I asked.

  “With two to a room, about 2,500 people,” said my phone.

  “That’s a lot,” I said.

  “VIGorish Labs has booked the entire hotel,” said my phone, “and three others about the same size not far from here.”

  This wasn’t the nucleus of a private army. This was a private army.

  “Inconceivable,” said my van.

  I smiled.

  VIGorish Labs had a ten thousand strong private army. Or was training a private army that strong for an oligarch. Or a nation-state. Or a multi-national or multi-system corporation. The James Bond theme music that had been playing softly in the back of my brain all this time got louder. What was Zwilniki up to?

  And who could I tell?

  Chapter 19

  “A discerning eye needs only a hint, and understatement leaves the imagination free to build its own elaborations.” — Russell Page

  It was 3:30 by the time I finally got out of the parking lot and my van slotted itself into a spot on I-85 heading north. It was going to be a long ride back home through some of the worst traffic congestion in the city and I was glad my van was doing the driving. I tilted my captain’s chair seat back, took a deep breath, and released the parking brake on the hamster wheel in my head that allowed my thoughts to spin freely.

  What if it wasn’t a private army? What if VIGorish Labs was hosting a mid-sized gaming convention—for SEAL teams, Army Rangers, Marine Force Recon specialists and their international equivalents? What if the conversations I’d overheard outside the hotel had a perfectly innocent explanation instead of sounding like Goldfinger’s plan to break into Fort Knox?

  What if I contacted someone in law enforcement and told them what I’d seen? Lieutenant Lee was with Georgia’s Capitol Police—I could call him. Then I thought about how that conversation would go.

  “Hello, Lieutenant Lee? This is Jack Buckston, the guy from the network room in the sub-sub-basement of the Capitol yesterday,” I’d say. “I’d like to report ten thousand soldiers in pink camouflage body suits at VIGorish Labs’ headquarters building.”

  “I see,” Lieutenant Lee would say. “Why don’t you come down to my office at the Capitol annex and we can talk about it?”

  Unfortunately, the lieutenant would probably be thinking something like “Let’s meet face to face so that I can see if you’re off your meds.”

  I needed another solution.

  “Search for references to ‘pink body suit’ and ‘Atlanta’ in the last month,” I said to my phone.

  “Searching. Excluding references from Bronies’ conventions, ballet productions and theater companies?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “There are several dozen mentions of pink body suits on individuals’ SpaceBook status entries and NYTimes-Twitter tweets,” said my phone. “Mostly from people who work in the four hotels where the people in the suits are staying.”

  “Are there any explanations—speculative or otherwise—noted?”

  “Someone posted a link to a short article in the Atlanta Business Chronicle a few weeks back about VIGorish Labs holding their worldwide sales force training program this month,” said my phone. “The article referenced ten thousand attendees who would be coming to Atlanta to get hands on experience with V-Labs’ newest simulation products.”

  The existence of the article did not put me at ease. The people in pink camo seemed more likely to use energy weapons than consultative selling techniques to close a deal. My depressing reverie was interrupted by a familiar electronic chirp.

  “You’ve got a call, Jack,” said my phone. “It’s Poly.”

  “Put her through,” I said, my mood reflexively brightening.

  “Jack” said Poly.

  “Hi Poly!”

  “I found out who Jean-Jacques bought the Model-43 fabber and the rabbot fabrication plans from.”

  “Do tell?”

  “It’s a small company registered in the Cayman Islands called Factor-E-Flor,” she said. “The owner’s name is listed as Duke Vanderbilt.”

  “Another pseudonym,” I said, “like Columbia Brown.”

  “Who?”

  “The person behind the Orishen pupa we found at Zesto’s last night,” I said. “I’ll give you the details tonight.”

  “Great,” said Poly. She paused and I could hear the connections clicking in her head. “I get it. Another pair of well-known universities.”

  “Just like Cornell, Penn, Princeton, Columbia and Brown are Ivy League schools.”

  Poly laughed. “We’ll have to look for Berkeley Stanford next.”

  “Let’s hope not,” I said. “Did you have any luck tracing the ownership of Factor-E-Flor up a few levels?”

  “I thought you’d want that information.” I was sure the corners of her mouth were twitching up as she said it. “It wasn’t easy but the great-grandparent company of the majority owner of Factor-E-Flor is something called the James K. Polk Group. Have you heard of them?”

  “I have,” I said, “and 87% of their funding comes from the EUA Corporation.”

  “The Wall Street darling?”

  “And the company that recently bought VIGorish Labs,” I said. “I’ve just met their CEO and I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  “I look forward to hearing about it at dinner.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “How is Jean-Jacques holding up?”

  “I’m just a part-time receptionist so I don’t see much of him, but he’s acting a bit off.”

  “W
hat do you mean?”

  “He’s smiling when he walks through the lobby.”

  “That is strange,” I said. “How are the rabbots?”

  “They’re gone,” said Poly. “They were picked up this morning. I think the size of the check Jean-Jacques got from your friend may have had something to do with his atypical mood.”

  “That would explain it,” I said. “How’s Mike doing?”

  “He’s keeping his head down and staying out of J-J’s way.”

  “Smart,” I said. “I like him. I may hire him.”

  “You’re expanding?”

  “I have to,” I said. “I’ve got more business than I can handle.”

  “That’s great. How many people are you planning to add.”

  “One or two full-timers, or maybe a full-timer and a part-timer. It depends on whether or not I can find some really good people.”

  “Mike’s sharp,” said Poly. “He’d be great for basic tech support but he’s too green. He doesn’t have the in-depth Galactic language skills or business acumen you need.”

  “True enough, but he could take a lot of the routine stuff off my plate.”

  “You really need someone with multiple Galactic languages, lots of experience in applied galtech and great business skills who can help you build the company.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, stroking my chin and trying to think of potential candidates. People like that were as rare as vegetarian Pâkk.

  “We should talk,” said Poly.

  “What are we doing now?” Sometimes I’m not very quick on the uptake.

  “It can wait.” She sounded different, more distant. Where did her smile-voice go?

  “If you want to talk, we can talk.”

  “Later,” said Poly in a tone of voice that suggested I was being particularly dimwitted.

  “See you tonight?”

  Why did I turn that into a question?

  “See you,” said Poly. She hung up. I felt like a dog that had just been smacked by a rolled up newspaper.

  “Ouch.”

  “Is something wrong?” said my phone. “Should I connect you to a health app?”

  “I may need my head examined.”

  “Should I schedule you for a cranial X-ray, EEG, CAT scan or psychiatric evaluation?”

  “No,” I said. My phone went mute. I don’t think it liked my tone of voice.

  Poly and I were having a great conversation. She’d done a lot of excellent research and I’d been appropriately appreciative. We were laughing together. Then I mentioned hiring Mike and things got all weird. Was it something about Mike? That didn’t make sense. I’d talked about expanding and she said she wanted to talk. I replayed our conversation, then rewound my brain and did it again. Was it possible? Could it be? Could she really be interested in being part of Xenotech Support Corporation? Oh, frabjous day!

  Dinner was going to be interesting.

  * * * * *

  Unfortunately, Poly wouldn’t be arriving for dinner for another three and a half hours. I still had at least an hour of slogging through traffic—more like two hours—to get home to Buckhead. Once I got home I needed to check on the Orishen knitting machine to see how my projects were progressing. I also needed some time with my 3D printer to craft belts and scabbards and hilts for Terrhi’s gift of Spike’s baby teeth. It would be a good idea to clean things up around my apartment and make it more presentable for a romantic dinner sharing leftovers with Poly—though were they really leftovers if we hadn’t had a chance to eat them? Suffice it to say, I had a lot to do before dinner.

  Connecting with Tomáso was also essential. I needed to make sure he knew what Chit and I had found at VIGorish Labs and wanted his take on the grajja factory—and Tony Zed’s private army. I was surprised I hadn’t heard from Tomáso already. My earlier message on his phone should have lit him up like a heavy-lift star freighter taking off from Hartsfield Port.

  Something niggled at the back of my head. I was forgetting something. Oh, yeah, bagels for breakfast. At least that would be easy.

  “Please order half a dozen sesame and half a dozen cinnamon raisin bagels and a package of light cream cheese for drone delivery at 7:00am tomorrow,” I said.

  “Processing,” said my phone. “May I suggest some fresh fruit as well?”

  “Great idea. Maybe a couple of Orishen oranges? And see if they have any fresh galberries.”

  “Ordered. And perhaps some capers?”

  “Great idea, thanks. Make it so.”

  “Done,” said my cell.

  “Are you sure you left a message about the grajja factory on Tomáso’s phone?”

  “Message receipt was confirmed.”

  “Please call him again.”

  “Calling.”

  The connection was made and Tomáso’s deep Dauushan voice said “You have reached Tomáso Kauuson’s phone. I’m not available right now, but please leave your name, number and a detailed message and I will call you back as soon as possible.” That wasn’t promising. I had one more option to reach him.

  “Please see if there’s a number for Terrhi Kauuson.”

  “Searching,” said my phone. “Retrieved.”

  “Great,” I said. “Give her a ring.”

  “Calling.”

  When the connection was made I heard Terrhi’s piping voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Terrhi,” I said. “This is Jack.”

  “Hi, Uncle Jack! How’s Poly? Will you be watching the parade with me? Will you tell me a bedtime story tonight? Spike misses you!” Her words were tumbling over each other like a litter of puppies at play.

  When she took a breath I spoke up. “I’m trying to reach your father. He’s not answering his phone.”

  “You won’t hear back from him until late tonight. He’s in First Contact Day parade meetings from breakfast through dinnertime. He’s meeting with the heads of all the Galactic delegations in Atlanta.”

  “That’s a long day.”

  “Uh huh,” said Terrhi. “Daddy says a big part of his job is public relations and the parade is important for relating to the public.”

  “I can appreciate that,” I said. “The parade is always impressive.”

  “Daddy is also rehearsing his routine. He and all the adults in the Dauushan consulate are going to be in the parade,” said Terrhi. “Wait until you see them! They’ll be marching right in front of the Tōdons.”

  “Saving the biggest for last?”

  “Daddy says the Tōdons may be bigger but the Dauushans are heavier,” said Terrhi.

  That didn’t make a lot of sense to me. Tōdons were shaped like black turtles three times the size of an adult Dauushan. Maybe they had hollow bones. I’d have to look it up.

  “Please tell your dad I called and ask him to call me back as soon as he comes home,” I said. “It’s important.”

  “I will, Uncle Jack. Will you be coming over tonight?”

  “I’m having dinner with Poly tonight.”

  “She can come, too.”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “I really want another bedtime story.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Maybe Poly can tell me a bedtime story? I really want to meet her.”

  “I’ve got to go, Terrhi. Be good now and remember to tell your father.”

  “I will, Uncle Jack. Bye. Spike says ‘bye’ too.”

  “Bye, Terrhi,” I said. “Bye, Spike.” My phone mercifully ended the call.

  Terrhi was a great kid and I was glad to be her honorary uncle, but talking to her could be exhausting. I made a mental note to do something nice for Spike. I’m sure I would have enjoyed Terrhi’s preadolescent enthusiasms more if I was less worried about the grajja factory and the army of VIGorish Labs sales reps—and dinner.

  Now where was I? I focused on my surroundings, looked out my van’s windshield and saw that we were making excellent time. The Varsity was coming up on my right and Georgia Tech’s recently
remodeled Bobby Dodd football stadium was on my left. It was only a few more miles until my exit to Buckhead and my apartment.

  I decided to spend the next few minutes reviewing hilt and scabbard designs for daggers and asked my phone for recommendations. My phone talked to my van and images of various types and styles of handles and sheathes appeared in split screen mode on the inside of the windshield. There were dozens of intricate and beautiful designs from history and fantasy but I opted for simplicity and went with hilts that looked like they were carved from the intense pink wood of the Dauushan banyan tree. For sheathes I went with an Elvish design, adapted so it looked like they were crafted from the broad deep magenta leaves of the same tree. I asked my phone to send the design to my 3D printer so it could get started while my van drove the last mile to Ad Astra. That would be one less thing to worry about—and given Poly’s reaction to my osmium-level density earlier I had plenty of things to worry about already.

  “Drop off or park?” asked my phone. I’d been lost in my own thoughts and hadn’t noticed that my van’s windshield had switched back to transparent mode. We were half a block from my apartment.

  “Drop off,” I said. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

  Chapter 20

  “Serve the dinner backward, do anything—but for goodness sake, do something weird.” ― Elsa Maxwell

  My van dropped me off on Peachtree Street close to my apartment. The courtyard’s security gate recognized me and opened so I didn’t have to slow down as I ran the two hundred yards to my front door. I kicked into high gear and sprinted, not just to save time, but also to burn off some nervous energy. It helped, a little.