Xenotech What Happens: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 3)
Page 17
A more vigorous nod.
My phone had been watching our discussion perched on the edge of the sink and hopped down to the side of the tub. After its recent experience with the pitcher of margaritas it was wary about getting that close to a large tub of liquid with pseudopods extended, but Poly sat up a few inches and grabbed it, carefully keeping it out of the water.
“Styluz preez.”
“She wants a stylus,” I said.
My phone extruded a short stick of mutacase material, attached to itself with a thin thread. Poly took the stylus in her right hand and with my phone in her left, wrote down the story. I read it over her shoulder, appreciating my new perspective on what was under the bubbles almost as much as her tale.
“Took Fly Roller Air Tours dirigible to Boulder City. Autocab to Big Dam Lodge.”
I nodded, without any interesting ripples.
“Old hotel. No lobby.”
I knew the sort of place it must have been. In the old days, when private cars were ubiquitous, their advantage was that you could walk only a few steps from your car to your room. The Vegas area had hundreds of aging motels like that.
“Bad luck. Walked past Cornell’s room to scout just as he came out. Frownie-face emoji.”
I frowned with her in sympathy.
“Surprised. Shot in gut at close range.”
“Good thing he had a sweetener, not a conventional gun.”
Poly’s head bobbed up and down and she used the hand with the stylus to mime wiping her brow with relief. My phone had to extrude more thread in a hurry to avoid landing in the tub.
“I was chilled. Cornell pushed me behind bushes under room windows.”
“Undignified,” I said.
“Scratchy,” wrote Poly.
“What about Chit?”
“Hopped on back of C.’s suit jacket.”
“Great. Has she learned anything?”
“Cornell likes poker.”
“That’s all?” I said.
“He’s good at it. Up 50,000 galcreds.”
I reminded myself not to try to bluff Cornell.
Poly started rubbing her lips with the hand holding the stylus. She held the phone up and put her mouth into the water, making motorboat sounds.
“Vrrrrroooom… put-put-put! Vrrrrroooom!”
“Are you okay?”
“I think my lips are working again,” Poly said tentatively. “The last thing I heard from Chit is that Cornell’s asleep on a cot in a room above the private club near Hoover Dam where he was playing cards.”
“At ten-thirty in the morning?”
“The game ended just after sun-up.”
“Okay,” I said. Given when I woke up I wasn’t one to talk. “Maybe Chit will be able to give us an update at lunch.”
“We can hope,” said Poly. “If she can get back in time. Now it’s time to get dressed.”
“There’s not time enough for love?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“Ask me tomorrow,” she said, “Or maybe tonight.”
My face lit up—I’d do that.
“Unlike last night, this time I’m going to need your help putting my clothes on.”
I bowed and kissed her hand.
“It will be my pleasure,” I said.
“Not as much as taking them off,” Poly quipped.
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, acknowledging the accuracy of her observation.
“Tell me about your meeting with RSVP,” said Poly. “It couldn’t have gone well if you ended up on the wrong end of a sweetener.”
I took a deep breath and told her.
“RSVP is Rosalind.”
Poly’s body went tense and the sudden movement caused her a lot of pain where she’d been caught by the chill field.
“Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry. And I made a joke about her when I came to bed.”
“You did?” I said. There was no need to cause Poly more pain, no matter what the reason.
“When did you know?”
“About Rosalind?”
“No, about the ghost of Elvis. Of course, about Rosalind,” said Poly.
“When A.J. showed me the Red Team photos last night.”
“When were you going to tell me she was back in your life?”
“She’s not back in my life. She’s back to being a pain in my…”
“Assuming she got the better of you,” said Poly, “what was she up to? Stealing GalCon Systems’ intellectual property.”
“Nailed it in one,” I said.
“I hope you didn’t try confronting her on your own.”
“Martin was with me.”
“Thank goodness. She psyched out Martin, too?”
“She had help.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Poly, standing up and getting out of the tub. I handed her a towel.
“Thanks, Jack. Now tell me everything.”
“I can’t tell you everything,” I said. “I promised.”
“Promised Rosalind?”
“What? No! Of course not.”
“Oh,” she said. “Promised Martin. That’s okay, then. Tell me everything else—and help me choose what to wear for lunch. What’s the dress code at Waffle House?”
Chapter 21
“In the Court of Public Opinion
there are no rules of evidence…”
— Dahlia Lithwick
We both figured out appropriate ensembles for fine dining at Waffle House. There was a chance we might have to return to the show floor at GALTEX for additional reconnaissance, so business casual rather than Walmart casual made the most sense. I was wearing khakis and a fuchsia polo shirt without any corporate logo except for a pink and blue striped tri-sabertooth cat the size of the IZOD alligator embroidered on the left breast. It had been a gift from Terrhi. I also took a few items that I thought might come in handy from my backpack tool bag. It was the first time I’d reached into my backpack since we’d arrived.
Poly decided to wear a white, somewhat dressy top and gray slacks—a combo that would work for both business and casual settings. Her top was a wrap-around, which was easier for her to deal with given her sore abdominal muscles. I amused my hindbrain with pleasant thoughts of unwrapping Poly, then had to pay attention with my forebrain.
“I’ve never been to a Waffle House,” said Poly as we got on our penthouse suite’s private elevator, “but I thought they were all stand-alone units, not inside malls or hotels?”
“You’ve never been to a Waffle House? And you’ve lived in Atlanta how many years?”
“Three.”
“It’s high time we remedy this glaring omission in your culinary education.”
“If you say so. I’ve been to Intergalactic House of Pancakes.”
“It’s not the same.”
The elevator had reached ground level and we stepped out into the bustle of the casino as soon as the doors opened.
“In answer to your earlier question,” I said, “You’re right. All Waffle House locations are supposed to be stand-alone. I did some work for them on integrating with Pâkk payment networks before they opened their first restaurant on Nueva Pâkkjuk and read up on their business practices. Maybe Roger Joe-Bob’s cut a special franchising deal with the company.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” said Poly. “Where’s this one supposed to be?”
“Central Commons,” said my phone.
We spotted signs with that label and followed them away from the almost painfully loud noise of the clanging slot machines and into a relatively peaceful broad open space in the middle of the Grand Pyridian complex. To our surprise we saw more than a dozen rows of freestanding fast food franchises stretching off into the di
stance. I saw golden arches, crowns, red-headed girls, a major sub sandwich chain, and places for tacos, fried chicken, Chinese, and Sushi-on-a-Stick. One row seemed to be devoted solely to pizza restaurants and another was dedicated to places purveying hot caffeinated drinks. Donut, ice cream and frozen yogurt shops must have been too far away to be readily visible. Poly and I stood motionless, trying to take it all in.
We must have looked lost, because a pair of hotel employees in uniforms that reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West’s guards stepped behind us. They were carrying stage prop polearms and must have been Tigrammaths under their helmets, armor and makeup, because both were over seven feet tall.
“Indecision is not permitted,” said one of the guards, brusquely.
“Come with us. Now,” said the other.
“What the…” I sputtered.
“Play along,” said Poly. “I think this is some sort of shtick. I have a vague memory about it from flipping through a proof copy of Keen’s Nicósn Guide to Las Vegas a couple of years ago.”
We allowed the guards to frog march us through the rows of restaurants until we got to what must have been the center of the complex. We stopped in front of an elderly male Pyr in black robes sitting behind a high mahogany desk. He was wearing an absurd-looking white wig of the sort you might see on an episode of the BBC’s Bobbies and Barristers. Behind him was a three dimensional facade of faux marble pillars representing some sort of Greek temple. A statue of a blindfolded human woman holding a scale with a hamburger on one side and a burrito on the other stood to the left on a truncated Doric column. There was a wooden bench ten feet in front of the older wig-wearing Pyr and the guards indicated we should sit on it. We did, though I wasn’t gracious about it.
Seconds later, another tall guard in a similar uniform appeared next to the Pyr’s high desk and shouted “All rise!” Our guards used their polearms to poke us and get us to stand. If the blades of their weapons had been made from steel instead of foam rubber I wouldn’t have been so accommodating, but for now I just let events unfold. Poly and I stood up.
“Be seated!” intoned the guard by the desk.
We sat.
“Rise and state your names.”
We did.
“Be seated.”
We did that, too.
Up. Down. Up. Down. I hoped all this motion wasn’t making Poly’s previously chilled stomach hurt.
“The prisoners are charged with failure to decide promptly,” said the guard by the desk.
“Prisoners?” I said. What the heck was going on? I didn’t like the sound of this.
The elderly Pyr cleared its throats, leaned forward and stared down at us judiciously.
“How do you plead?” he said, using two of his three mouths to add more timbre to his words.
“Guilty!” said one of the guards standing behind us.
I turned and stared at him.
“Hey!” I said. “I can make my own plea and it wouldn’t be…”
“Shush, Jack,” whispered Poly. “Wait for it.”
“We’ve been warned about you two,” said the Pyr, sternly. “I sentence you both to Waffle House. Take them away, bailiffs!”
The Pyr affirmed his judgment by smacking a gavel made from a ketchup bottle tied to a thick length of pepperoni down on his desk.
Our guards used their polearms to herd us up two rows and over one, until we were standing in front of a Waffle House restaurant that looked identical to the unit Roger Joe-Bob Bacon owned near the Atlanta airport, only larger. Once we were delivered, they executed a precise about face and left.
Poly was grinning, but I just felt confused. Then she saw my face and her grin turned into chuckles, then laughter.
“Will you please tell me what just happened?”
My phone decided to take pity on me—or it decided it was time to prove that I was an idiot.
“Food court,” it said.
I covered my eyes with my palms and tried not to crack up, but couldn’t contain myself and started laughing, too. With all the tension I’d accumulated over the past twenty-four hours, the catharsis was wonderful.
After half a minute I regained control and offered my arm to Poly.
“Breakfast, m’ dear?” I said in an affected upper crust accent.
“Why yes, good sir,” she said. “That sounds MAHvelous. Let’s.”
We entered the Waffle House arm in arm, ready to face whatever came next.
Chapter 22
“I want to think.” “Good Heavens!” said Pippin.“At breakfast?”
— J. R. R. Tolkien
Nettie, Lizzie and A.J. were sitting at two tables that had been pushed together to accommodate our party near the back of the restaurant, which had three times the footprint of a typical Waffle House. Given how many bodies were stuffed into the place at noon on a Tuesday, I could see why they needed the extra space. Nettie waved to Poly and we threaded our way through the narrow gaps between rows of diners, sharing the aisles with waiters and waitresses carrying trays of eggs, grits, waffles and country ham. It smelled delicious, though the noise level was somewhere between sitting in the first row at a heavy metal concert and standing next to an old-style jet engine revving for takeoff.
Poly and I sat next to Nettie. I was pleased that she’d set up another Cone of Silence field around our table so that I could hear the rocks in my head bang together. I don’t think I was really awake yet.
“Hi!” said Poly to the siblings, smiling and grimacing a bit simultaneously.
“Hi!” said Nettie. “Something wrong?”
“Let’s just say I don’t want any chilled orange juice this morning,” said Poly.
When we sat down, I put one arm around Poly’s shoulders and smiled at the sisters and brother.
“We both had rough nights. Nothing chilled for me either.”
“Where’d you get hit?” asked A.J.
“Knees.”
“Solar plexus.”
“Ouch,” said Nettie.
“Double ouch,” said Lizzie. “Are you still fully functional, Jack?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That must mean you…”
“He doesn’t want to talk about it, Lizard,” said A.J. in male solidarity.
“Okay, okay,” said Lizzie. “I can take a hint.”
“As well as the next partially socialized geek girl,” said her brother.
“Who died and made you Tony Stark, playboy of the western world?” asked Lizzie.
A.J. leaned back in his chair and rubbed his knuckles against his upper chest in a too-cool-for-school gesture.
“When you’ve got it,” he said, but never finished. His leaning motion took him back into the aisle where he bumped into a harried waitress carrying a tray full of glasses of water. The glasses nearly slid off the tray and most of their contents sloshed out onto A.J.’s head. He sputtered and sat up quickly, searching for napkins to dry himself off.
The rest of us were laughing too hard to help. Another waitress—demonstrating a poor sense of timing—chose that moment to arrive to take our drink orders.
“Hot tea for me, please,” said Poly. “Do you want a Diet Starbuzz, Jack?”
I nodded, passing napkins to A.J. and trying to keep a straight face. Nettie and Lizzie ordered coffee and A.J. asked for Glenlivet, but settled for water. When we finished making our selections and our waitress departed, Martin arrived at the restaurant’s entrance with Terrhi. I glanced outside and saw one of the large pieces of plate glass near the rear of the Waffle House was almost completely blocked by something that looked like a pink leather wall. I didn’t know if it was Lohrri or Naddéo, but it was comforting to have one of Terrhi’s bodyguards close at hand. Spike’s nose was pressed against
the outside of the window near the floor. I’d have to remember to save a piece of ham for him.
Martin was walking slowly and carefully—so much so that I could tell Terrhi was eager to get to the table. Being a well-mannered girl, she didn’t try to nudge Martin to hurry him along. Alternatively, she could have tried that and ended up on the receiving end of one of Martin’s cop stares that convinced her to stay a step or two behind. Martin cautiously sat in the chair next to me and Terrhi stood at the far end of the table against the wall where she wouldn’t interfere with servers delivering our orders.
“How are you feeling?” I asked Martin, quietly.
“Better than I was,” he said, “but no horseback riding for me this trip.”
“I didn’t know you rode.”
“I don’t. And you can be sure I’m not going to start now.”
We both laughed at low volume. Terrhi made up for our soft speech with a boisterous greeting.
“Hi Uncle Jack! Hi Aunt Poly! Hi First Family of Terra!”
“Huh?” I said.
Poly and the Obi-Yu siblings had the courtesy to just look puzzled. Terrhi read the confusion on my face.
“The person who initially discovers congruent technology on a planet is the First Mother of that world,” said Terrhi. “Except, you know, when it’s a First Father.”
I nodded my head tentatively, as if I’d understood. Did that mean Terrhi’s umpty-ump grandmother had discovered congruent tech on Dauush? Something for another day.
“Nettie, Lizzie and A.J. are Doctor Janet Yu’s children, so that makes them the First Family of Terra. Or should it be the First Family of Earth? I can’t keep your names for your planet straight all the time.”
“Both work,” said Poly, “though Terra is probably better. The First Mother of Earth could be a title for a goddess in some religions and the first human woman in others.”
“Like Mother Eve?” asked Terrhi. “I read about her in a book about off-planet creation stories. Do you really have talking snakes?”