Xenotech What Happens: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 3)

by Dave Schroeder

  The club’s name wasn’t A Stairway to Heaven.

  It was Astaire-Way to Heaven.

  Sally worked at a ballroom dance club.

  Now I understood why I needed a tuxedo.

  Chapter 25

  “…backwards and in high heels.”

  — Bob Thaves

  The club’s exterior was impressive. It was a large building and the front side, facing Tropicana Avenue, was done up in geometric patterns and vivid colors from the nineteen-thirties. The place’s creative name was spelled out in three-dimensional Art Deco letters and highlighted with chrome accents like the top of the Chrysler Building. Mirrored plate glass under a deep overhang along the front was etched with scenes of men and women in fancy duds dancing to unheard music. As I walked closer, the etched dancers appeared to move from side to side and even spin. Everything I saw exuded class—and money. I took a deep breath, opened the front door, and entered.

  The interior was every bit as stunning as the exterior. First, it was huge—bigger than a regulation NHL hockey rink—but instead of ice, a dark, highly polished wood floor stretched off into the distance. Second, the walls were all programmable screens, currently showing amber oak paneling that could have been borrowed from Downton Abbey or Buckingham Palace. I wondered what other looks were available? It had an expectant feel, like a stage set waiting for the curtain to rise, and I imagined it filled with couples dancing.

  To the left of the entrance was an office, separated from the foyer by a half door. A tall woman who resembled Dulce Jiménez from the employment agency stood behind it. She was wearing an ultramarine blue ball gown that left one shoulder bare and a silver and lapis lazuli choker necklace. Like the club, she radiated class—and wealth.

  “Can I help you?” asked the woman in a cultured voice as smooth as her complexion.

  “I’m looking for Sally,” I said, trying not to feel intimidated—and failing.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but we bumped into each other yesterday and I wanted to look her up.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Tell her it’s Jack,” I said.

  “Please give me a moment,” she said, nodding her head slightly. She turned and sailed to a solid wood door at the far end of the office.

  “Thanks for not explaining what kind of a club this was,” I told my phone.

  “Didn’t you enjoy the surprise?”

  I thought about it for a moment.

  “Yes. I did. But don’t do it again.”

  My phone made one of its rude R2-D2 bleeps. I ignored it and stepped farther into the building. To the left, against what must have been the wall to the office and dressing rooms, stretched rows of shelves from floor to ceiling. They were groaning under the weight of awards that ranged from the size of a Oscar statuette to gigantic five foot monstrosities with dozens of pillars, punch bowls, and dancing figures half the size of Lord Nelson in Trafalgar Square on top. The club had clearly produced its share of champions.

  Ballroom dancing had never completely gone out of style on Earth, though it had even fewer active participants than the Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barber Shop Quartet Singing Across Terra. Several alien species loved it and I’m sure pangalactic broadcasts of dance competitions helped fund clubs like this one.

  It was odd that the species least able to duplicate the dancers’ graceful movements—Tōdons, Dauushans, Pyrs, and the balloon-shaped floating Fthtipth—found the practice most intriguing. Tigrammaths had their own formalized ritual dances, but they were based more on stylized hunting moves and often led directly to mating behavior. From what I knew of humans and the intimacy between partners when ballroom dancing, the same was true for our species—though we usually waited until we were off the dance floor.

  I heard footsteps and returned to the half door where I saw that the tall woman in the blue dress had come back.

  “Sally will be out shortly and says she can give you an hour.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “That will be three hundred galcreds for the lesson plus a fifty galcred dance floor rental fee.”

  Half a dozen responses danced—if you’ll pardon the word—on the tip of my tongue.

  Lesson? Fee? Three hundred and fifty galcreds! That’s outrageous. I just want to talk to Sally for a few minutes.

  I bit them off. Given what I’d just spent on my tuxedo it was a small price to pay for sixty minutes with Sally in close proximity. I needed her close so I could pump her for information about Rosalind.

  “Fine,” I said.

  The tall woman set up my transaction and I instructed my phone to pay it.

  While I waited for Sally to appear I returned to my review of the trophies in the awards case. Several of the more prominent awards were for performances by Sally Ryde and Conall McBryde. I moved further along the trophy wall and discovered a wall covered with framed photographs.

  I scanned the pictures, looking for Sally and spotted someone who might have been her out of the corner of my eye five frames down. When I got close enough to confirm it was Sally in the photo I did a double-take. Her dance partner was Cornell, looking far better in a tuxedo than he ever had in a suit.

  I stood in front of the photograph—seeing it, but not seeing it—while the cogs and gears in my brain turned, slipped, and made unpleasant grinding sounds. I was trying to puzzle out what connected Sally, Cornell and Rosalind and coming up with three lemons, not a jackpot. I was jarred from my cogitations by an unmistakable sexy voice.

  “It is you,” said Sally.

  She was standing a few feet behind me and not looking pleased about my presence. A slinky and sparkly red ball gown hugged her modest curves. With her long white gloves, low neckline and diamond earrings, she looked like Jessica Rabbit’s younger sister.

  I turned and didn’t say anything, keeping a neutral expression on my face. For a few seconds, she didn’t say anything either. I felt like asking my phone to sing “Shave and a haircut” just so I could hear Sally chime in with “two bits.” After another three beats I gave in.

  “Three hundred is more than twenty,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Galcreds. Three hundred galcreds is more than twenty.”

  Sally’s eyebrows scrunched as she tried to remember.

  “Oh,” she said. “My misdirection.”

  It was my turn to look puzzled.

  “I was trying to make you think I was a pro to put you off the scent.”

  “It worked for a while, but I figured it out eventually.”

  “Through the temp agency?” asked Sally.

  “Uh huh. Dulce and Jorge were very helpful.”

  “Last time I’m taking a gig with them if they can’t keep their mouths shut.”

  “Why did you take that gig?” I asked, hoping to see if she’d drop any crumbs about Rosalind.

  “A favor for a friend,” said Sally.

  Bingo! I thought. Though was the friend Rosalind, or Cornell, or both?

  She was looking directly at me—almost staring—as if she was trying to take in all the details of my appearance and run a comparison against some giant database in her head. It was disconcerting, but somehow more genuine than if she hadn’t been able to meet my gaze.

  “Where can I find Rosalind?” I asked.

  I was never very good at being subtle.

  “She’ll find you if she wants to be found.”

  I sighed, but on the inside, not the outside. Maybe if we danced together I could pick up more cues from her body language. It’s hard to hide physical or emotional reactions from someone whose hand is in the middle of your back—especially now that I’d noticed Sally’s slinky gown was backless.

  “Be that way,
” I said. “Let’s get this lesson started.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “I’m always serious,” I said, with an exaggerated somber tone.

  “That’s not what Roz says,” replied Sally.

  More new data. Sally and Rosalind are very close—and they talk about me. That didn’t make much sense after all these years.

  “At least you’re dressed for dancing,” she said, with an approving nod for my tux. “Do you know your right foot from your left?”

  I held up my fingers on my right hand and crossed my thumb over my little finger.

  “Believe it or not, I have a merit badge for ballroom dancing.”

  “Roz always said you were a Boy Scout,” said Sally, shaking her head. “At least I won’t have to start from the very beginning.”

  I didn’t have any fingers on my left hand crossed. I really did have a merit badge for ballroom dancing. When I was thirteen, my step-dad had thought earning the badge would be a good way to help me feel more relaxed around girls my own age. Girls stayed mysterious creatures, so it didn’t achieve that aim, but I did learn how to waltz and foxtrot and do the cha-cha from the adult instructors.

  “I haven’t been on a dance floor in more than a decade,” I said, “so be gentle with me. I’ll be rusty.”

  “We’ll knock that rust off,” said Sally.

  She tilted her head back and spoke in a clear, commanding voice. “Ginger. Practice mode.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said a synthesized voice with an old-fashioned Midwestern accent.

  The wall screens promptly changed from stately Wayne Manor wood panels to mirrors that would help me see what I was doing.

  “Ginger. Slow waltz, your choice,” said Sally with the same crisp tone.

  Ginger the A.I. didn’t reply but the strains of a waltz that was hauntingly familiar but difficult to identify began to play over hidden speakers. Sally stepped in front of me, took my left hand in her right, and positioned my right hand in the middle of her back. I started counting one two three, one two three in my head and moved my feet in time with the music. I felt like an elementary school violin being played by a virtuoso as Sally led me around the room. She made sure I was facing a mirror when she showed me how to improve my posture, timing and rhythm. I stood straighter, relaxed my arm muscles, and tried to flow with the rhythmic pulses.

  Then my subconscious mind put two and the cube root of eight together and got four. We were dancing to John Philip Sousa’s Liberty Bell March, the opening theme music for the Monty Python comedy show, slowed down to a waltz tempo. I stumbled a bit when the realization hit me and nearly stepped on Sally’s foot.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Just figured out what we we’re dancing to.”

  “I wondered if you would.” Sally smiled. “Ginger likes to use that piece as one of her little jokes.”

  “Ginger,” I said, “I like it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Buckston,” said the A.I.

  How did she know my last name? Oh, right—my credit transaction. Duh.

  “Have you known Rosalind and Conall long?” I asked as we circled one two three.

  “How’s your love life, Jack? Is the girl you were with at GALTEX someone special?”

  We did a tight spin and came out of it holding our inside hands before turning back into waltz position. I felt like I was verbally fencing with a Renaissance swordmaster.

  “Did you get any good corporate intel from the sensors on the advertising blimp you were piloting?”

  “Did you get any good publicity from all the videos of your high speed dirigible chase?”

  The music swelled and Sally twirled under my raised hand then reversed to be back in my arms.

  “You’re actually a pretty good dancer,” said Sally.

  “No kidding?” I said, amazed at her praise.

  “Yes, kidding,” said Sally. “You’re marginally more graceful than a water buffalo, but it would take two or three years to get you ready for serious competition.”

  “What’s the deal with EUA Corporation?” I asked, trying to take her by surprise.

  Before Sally could reply with a diverting question of her own I felt the muscles in her back stiffen and heard her breath catch. She recovered quickly, but the “tell” was there. She was connected to EUA somehow, and I’d bet that Rosalind and “Conall” were, too.

  The waltz was coming to an end and I found myself wondering whether or not Poly would enjoy ballroom dancing. She might have learned the art as a necessary skill for attending formal diplomatic functions with her mother.

  Sally turned me so that I was facing away from the mirrored walls and inserted one of her talented feet between mine, tripping me. I fell ungracefully to my knees. When I stood back up and turned around, Sally was gone. My guess was that one of the mirrors was actually a door. I checked the structural integrity of my pants and confirmed that my fall hadn’t caused any permanent damage—I didn’t want to ruin this tux after only one wearing, too.

  I looked at my phone’s screen and saw that it was four-thirty. I’d have just enough time to get back to the hotel, change out of my monkey suit, and spend a few minutes trying to process what I’d learned before our scheduled dinner meeting.

  “Did you plant it properly?” I asked my phone.

  “Yes. It’s perfectly positioned at the small of her back.”

  “What’s the range on the bug?”

  “Thirty miles. You’ll be able to follow her movements anywhere from Red Rock Canyon to the Hoover Dam.”

  “Excellent. Is the audio range the same?”

  The tiny tracking and listening device—another item I’d taken from my backpack tool bag before breakfast—would do its job, I was sure.

  “Yes,” said my phone. “Glad to help.”

  “We’ll track Sally,” I said, “and she will lead us straight to Rosalind.”

  Chapter 26

  “I have learned the difference between a cactus and a caucus.

  On a cactus, the pricks are on the outside.”

  — Mo Udall

  Dinner was in the SLN Capital hotel’s Iowa Caucus Room—a dining space on the second floor reserved for guests who wanted privacy. I ordered pork chops, because it seemed appropriate given the room’s name. Poly hadn’t been at our suite when I’d returned so it had been great to see her and exchange hugs before sitting down to eat and debrief. She opted for barbecued pork ribs instead of chops. Shepherd continued the theme, but with a much larger portion of partially-cooked pig. Martin was still off his feed and broke the pattern by ordering something with pork and beef, the chef’s special Moo Shu Pork, with the accent on the Moo. The Obi-Yu siblings followed Poly’s lead and ordered full racks of ribs, though each ordered a different regional sauce.

  I wondered if it might be possible to construct a congruency-powered invisible bib that would keep barbecue sauce off clothing, then realized it wasn’t worth the bother when a low tech solution, like a large napkin, could do the job more effectively for a lot less money.

  Terrhi ordered Dauushan Strata casserole for herself and a duplicate of Shepherd’s entrée for Spike, who was sitting on guard at her feet. Mimi, just to be contrary, ordered Fettuccine Alfredo. Jean-Jacques selected the most expensive item on the menu—surf and turf with Nueva Pâkkjuk ubercow steak and freshwater Nicósn lobster. He clearly wasn’t planning on picking up the check.

  Our meals arrived promptly and while we were all focused on our food, Shepherd cleared his throat with an attention-grabbing growl and spoke to Poly.

  “Is everything set for the poker game tonight?”

  “Yes,” said Poly, her face lighting up with excitement or maybe spicy barbecue sauce. “We’re holding it in this hotel in a suite on the thirty-fourth floor at
nine.”

  Shepherd nodded. Terrhi bounced and waved her sub-trunks.

  “Aunt Poly says I can help!”

  “I’m sure you’ll play your part admirably,” said Shepherd with an honorary uncle’s indulgent smile.

  He returned to Poly and spoke softly.

  “You’re sure the Hu Zahn Fierst spray is safe for Dauushan biochemistry? It won’t harm the girl?”

  “Dr. Hu assured me they’ve tested it on adult, adolescent and pre-adolescent Dauushans with no ill effects,” said Poly.

  “How did they find Dauushans to test it on?” I whispered.

  “Deborah Zahn’s next door neighbors are from Dauush. They volunteered.”

  “What’s a family of Dauushans doing in Provo, Utah?”

  “Mission training, I think,” said Poly.

  “I didn’t know there were Mormon Dauushans.”

  “It’s really big there,” my partner answered.

  I walked right into that one. I looked away from Poly and noticed Shepherd staring at both of us like an unhappy schoolmaster. He wanted us back on task.

  “Is there anything else you need for the game?” he said.

  “A cocktail waitress,” said Poly.

  I looked around, looking for the waitress, then realized Poly was answering Shepherd’s question.

  “I can help with that,” I said. “I met a couple of people who run a temp agency this afternoon and I’m sure they can provide us with an actress who can pull off the part.”

  “Why not a cocktail waiter?” asked Terrhi in her innocent, high-pitched voice.