“What’s your relationship to The General?” Poly asked.
“I report to him,” said Cornell.
That was big news. I’d had no idea the man was so high up in the EUA corporate hierarchy. I’d always pictured him as more of a henchman than a top lieutenant. I’d have to adjust my mental models.
“Who, or what, is the Nine?” asked Poly.
The Nine? Oh, yeah, Terrhi told us about getting that from Cornell’s mind.
“The Nine are The General’s top lieutenants,” said Cornell.
I thought something about Sauron and his Nazgul but didn’t say anything.
“Who are they?” asked Poly.
“Winfield and Johnson from C&C,” he said. “Zwilniki from VIGorish Labs.”
“But he’s in jail,” I protested.
Poly gave me another STFU look.
“When has that ever stopped a business executive?” replied Cornell.
He had a point.
“Keep going,” said Poly.
“The chairman of the James K. Polk Group, the executive director of the Monroe Doctrine Foundation…”
Cornell’s recitation was interrupted by the sound of gunfire from the submarine area. The background whoosh of carbon dioxide-based fire extinguishers we could hear through Cornell’s thin office door was replaced by screaming.
“What the…?” I said.
“Take a look,” said Poly.
I opened the door a few inches, confirmed no one was outside, and tiptoed to one side of the archway. Nevada state police officers and members of the Nevada National Guard in full combat kit were pouring out of a third sub that had suddenly appeared. Dauushan Drop Marines, in fully inflated pink bubbles, were disconnecting tow ropes and deflating their air bags to take part in the action. Martin had done his part and mobilized official state resources. The Drop Marines, I assumed, just wanted payback. I returned to Poly in Cornell’s office and gave her a status report.
“We have to get out,” said my partner.
“Why?” I said. “We can just identify ourselves to the state police and be fine.”
“Did you see Martin out there?” asked Poly. “I don’t want to spend an hour explaining who we are to some functionary and then lose custody of Cornell. We have to get out now!”
I stepped close to Poly and gave her a reassuring hug. Then I heard the office door close. Crap.
“Cornell’s getting away,” I shouted.
“That’s what I get for accidentally issuing a command,” said Poly. “After him!”
We left the office and followed the sound of retreating footsteps toward the Tripod area. When the corridor opened up into a large room filled with jointed metal legs, hemispherical operator stations, and racks of heat ray projectors, we lost him.
“Can you track him using Chit’s phone?” I asked my phone.
“Don’t bother,” said a familiar deep voice on my shoulder. “I got found out.”
“Are you okay,” I asked Chit.
“Never better, bucko,” she said, “except for bein’ nearly squished by Mr. Ivy League asterisk.”
“Asterisk?”
“It’s a euphemism, Jack,” said my phone, “for…”
“Hand the circuitry a cigar,” said my little friend.
“Spit,” I said, demonstrating I understood what a euphemism was and could use one in a sentence.
“Cornell finally got wise to the fact that we could track him,” said my little pal. “That, and the fact that I bit ’im.”
“You what?” I said.
“I thought I could slow ’im down.”
I’d never known Chit to bite anything except borsum nuts.
“Thanks for trying,” said Poly. “It’s time to check in at Nellis Air Force Base hospital and find out how Terrhi’s folks and the Obi-Yu sibs’ parents are doing.”
“And Roger Joe-Bob,” added Chit.
Poly and I nodded.
“I also want to know how long the Vonaduzit’s suggestibility effect lasts,” I said. “That information might come in handy if we run into Cornell again.”
“He’s a slippery character,” said Poly. “Now what’s the fastest way out of here that doesn’t involve a trip through a war zone?”
“The Arizona-side stairway,” said my phone.
It guided us through the Tripod area and through more offices and supply rooms until we got to the secret door on that side. Poly and Chit and I climbed up a few levels, then took one of the long corridors to the Nevada side and went back out through the door to the power generation station.
Poly snagged a couple of tall cans of Cthulhu Cola from the cooler as we left and I reluctantly let her store them in my backpack tool bag next to the Nicósn truffles. I hoped the cold cans would help keep the chocolate from melting once we were outside.
My phone was running our rental blimp’s autopilot while Poly and I slumped in our padded chairs, discouraged about losing our quarry. Chit had gotten a new paint job once she was reunited with her bottle in my backpack tool bag. Instead of a camouflage pattern to blend in with Cornell’s hair, she was wearing a picture of the tentacled monster that was the namesake of Poly’s new favorite beverage. Chit seemed as full of energy as if she’d been swimming in a can of the stuff, too. She perched on the tip of my nose in a position she knew I hated, because it tickled.
“What?” I said, going cross-eyed and suppressing an urge to wipe her off.
Chit ignored my unconcealed annoyance.
“So, buddy boy,” she said, stretching two of her appendages. “What did I miss?”
Chapter 37
“A hospital bed is a parked taxi with the meter running.”
— Groucho Marx
Nellis Air Force Base is a flat expanse of paved desert fifteen miles northeast of the Las Vegas Strip. It was more like thirty miles from Hoover Dam as the drone flies, but our little rental blimp got us there in less than half an hour. I’d barely had enough time to bring Chit up to speed on everything that had happened. My little friend had relocated from my nose to my shoulder when I’d almost sneezed, which had made the balance of the flight more pleasant from my perspective.
My phone negotiated with Nellis’ air traffic control, dropping Shepherd and Queen Sherrhi’s names as necessary to expedite the process. We were given a berth at the airship docking area near the base hospital, officially known as Mike O’Callaghan Federal Medical Center. It was a complex of low-to-the-ground buildings constructed of tan brick that seemed more like adobe and helped it blend into its dusty desert surroundings. A taller hangar for helicopters and dirigible emergency vehicles was nearby. I expected that would be where I’d find the Dauushan and Tōdon patients.
Exercising its multitasking capabilities, my phone also called Martin for me. Martin let me know what wing of the hospital they were in. Somehow the notion of wings on hospital buildings on air force bases struck me as particularly funny and brought odd images of flying structures into my brain. I figured I must just be overtired.
“See you in a few minutes,” I said.
Poly was downloading hospital plans onto her phone, so she could navigate us from the entryway near the docking area to our destination. When we reached our designated hovering spot, our blimp lowered a mooring cable. A couple of airmen grabbed it and connected it to a motorized winch that lowered us almost to the ground. Poly and I hopped out of our gondola with Chit still riding on my shoulder. One of the airmen gave me a ticket I could use to reclaim my blimp later. I offered him a couple of chucks for his trouble, but he declined, citing Air Force policy.
With Poly’s expert guidance, we were in the hospital’s VIP ward in minutes. Nettie, Lizzie, A.J., Mimi, Shepherd and Martin were in a well-appointed waiting area just off the ward. Well-appoint
ed, in this case, meant that the chairs were padded and the magazines weren’t more than six months old.
Racks of flat, three-inch T-disks used for making beverages were stacked on a counter against one wall. They were next to stacks of composite paper and Styrofoam cups that washed themselves and lasted forever, thus ending an age-old battle. The disks replaced the tiny white plastic cups and expensive machines I remembered from my youth. All you had to do with the disks was position them above your cup and tap the button for what you wanted. Hot coffee, tea, lemonade, and even beer—in Europe—could be delivered by congruency, so long as you were willing to pay the relevant charge. At home, I was more of a purist and liked brewing my own tea by hand, but T-Disks were a lot more convenient in offices and institutional settings.
After exchanging hugs, nods, and handshakes, as appropriate, Poly and I made ourselves cups of strong, dark tea with lots of sugar and joined everyone in a tight circle of chairs. I grabbed an extra cup and turned it upside down on a coffee table in the middle of the circle so Chit would have a place to sit, too. I dug a thimble out of my backpack tool bag and poured in a little tea for my friend. We were lucky to be the only group in the waiting area, so our conversation would be private.
“What’s the latest word on your parents?” asked Poly.
She was sitting between me and Nettie, patting her friend’s hand reassuringly.
“Nothing yet,” said Nettie.
“They’re under observation,” said Lizzie.
“And running tests,” said A.J.
All three looked demoralized. They wanted to do something to help their parents. Sitting around and waiting was doubly hard for them.
Martin smiled at me and I smiled back, ruefully recognizing our friends’ challenges.
“Thanks for arranging for the state police and national guard,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe what they found.”
“Yes,” said Martin, “I would. The state police captain leading the strike force sent me video.”
“Make sure they keep an eye out for Cornell,” said Poly.
“They’re on the look-out and will call me if they see him,” said Martin.
“Thanks,” said Poly.
“How’s the hospital’s xenomedical team?” I asked Shepherd. “Do they know how to treat non-humans?”
“Quite good, actually,” said the Pâkk. “And yes, they know how to treat Galactics. Several physicians on staff have done rotations at off-planet hospitals and one of the top Dauushan specialists is on her way here from Atlanta. I’ve met her—she’s sharp, and one of the doctors Queen Sherrhi had asked to work with the CDC on the little problem we had last week.”
“Great,” I said. “Can we see Dr. Yu, Dr. Obi, Mr. Crispos, and Roger Joe-Bob?”
“Yes,” said Shepherd. “They’re in a patients’ lounge now, brainstorming ways their companies can stop The Scourge invasion.”
I sighed. Nothing like unnecessary paranoia to ruin your day. At least getting up and moving would help the Obi-Yu siblings feel like they were doing something again.
Shepherd started us down a wide hallway that I assumed led to our destination. Chit flitted back to her spot on my shoulder and all of us except Martin followed. The lieutenant said he’d keep an eye on our teacups while he was talking to officers mopping up the secret dam base. He was already on his phone and waved to us as we left.
An armed airman stood outside the door to the lounge. He checked our identification before we were allowed to enter. On the inside, Dr. Obi, Dr. Yu, Mr. Crispos and Roger Joe-Bob Bacon were talking non-stop, waving hands and tentacles, and pacing in complex interweaving patterns. I’d seen similar behavior at plenty of science fiction conventions, so I wasn’t that worried.
A woman wearing a white lab coat was sitting quietly off to the side. Her phone was on a small table next to her and seemed to be capturing the patients on video. While the Obi-Yu siblings connected with George and their parents, Poly and Mimi tried to slow Roger Joe-Bob down enough for a coherent conversation. Shepherd was standing by the door with his arms folded over his chest, scanning left and right and looking intimidating. I thought it would be a wise move to introduce myself to the woman in the lab coat.
“Jack Buckston,” I said, sticking out my hand.
“Martha Kent,” she said, rising and shaking my hand. “I run the VIP ward.” She was about five foot six, in her mid-thirties, and wore no-nonsense take-me-seriously glasses. I was about to open my mouth and comment, but she stopped me.
“Don’t say a thing,” she said, smiling. “It gets worse. My parents are from Kansas, don’t read comic books, and live a hundred miles from the nearest movie theater.”
“No Netflix?” I asked, also smiling.
“Not even internet, before First Contact,” she replied. “My folks weren’t early adopters.”
“Guess not.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jack. Call me Marty.”
I did a double-take. If she didn’t go by Martha, why introduce herself by that name? Then I thought about it. She could peg me as a geek from across the room. It was probably easier to get being Superman’s foster mom out of the way first, rather than have me tease her when I found out later. I decided I liked Marty.
“How are your patients doing?” I asked, waving my hand in their general direction.
“Other than believing in ravening hordes of invaders from Andromeda, there doesn’t seem to be that much wrong with them,” she said. “I tried using their heightened suggestibility to get them to believe the stories about The Scourge weren’t true, but didn’t have any luck.”
“That sucks,” I said. Then I notice there weren’t any snacks in the lounge.
“Would it be okay to offer them some Nicósn chocolate truffles and some soft drinks,” I continued. “Chocolate and caffeine and sugar always seem to help me when my brain is looping.”
“I can’t see it causing any harm,” said Dr. Kent, “though the hospital dietitians may have a different opinion.” She waited for a beat. “Did you say Nicósn truffles?”
“In a gold foil box.”
“My kryptonite,” said Dr. Kent. “I’ll have to sample them to confirm they won’t harm our patients.”
Poly came over to join us, leaving Mimi with RJB. Talking to Roger Joe-Bob in manic mode was wearing.
“Did I hear you mention soft drinks?” she said.
I nodded.
“I was going to share our truffles and Cthulhu Cola.”
“That’s fine, so long as you save some of both for me,” said Poly. She introduced herself to Dr. Kent, too, and was told the doctor’s name was Marty, not Martha. Poly must not have set off any warning bells, like I did.
“Help me pass them out,” I said.
“I’ll get some cups from the visitors’ lounge,” said Poly.
“See if there’s any ice,” I shouted after her back as the door started to close.
While she was gone, I removed my backpack tool bag, put it on a chair, unzipped it, and removed the two cans of high voltage cola and the box of chocolates. I removed the plastic wrap from around the box with my Swiss Army knife and took the lid off. It was a big box, holding three dozen or so one inch balls of chocolate dusted with cocoa powder. I offered the box to Dr. Kent.
“You’d better taste test them to make sure of their medicinal value.”
“An excellent idea,” she said, with exaggerated formality. “I do believe I shall.”
She took a truffle from the periphery of the box, popped it in her mouth, and smiled a beatific smile.
“Not quite better than sex,” she said, “but it’s close.”
“I’d better confirm your analysis,” I said. I selected a piece of chocolate and let it melt on my tongue. She was right.
Then Poly cam
e back with cups and a bag of ice. She divvied up the ice into the cups, then I handed her the cans of cola. She poured two or three ounces of the potent stuff into each one and began handing them out—patients first, then everyone else. I followed her with the box of Nicósn truffles. Chit had a couple of crumbs of chocolate, and all the humans, Shepherd, and Mimi started with one piece, but Roger Joe-Bob took three. He also took two cups of cola and downed them like he was drinking shots of liquor neat.
The Pyr executive swallowed the liquid, then popped all three truffles into his mouths. All three of his eyes grew as big as dinner plates, and he rotated three-hundred and sixty degrees around on his mobility cilia. It almost looked like steam was coming out of the apex of his pyramidal body.
“Mimi, my turtle dove,” said Roger Joe-Bob, sounding more like his former self. “What a dream I had! It was some crazy thing about an invasion fleet from the next galaxy. Utter hogwash!” He quivered his upper third in a way that suggested a human shaking his head, then Mimi hugged him like an overjoyed octopus and he became otherwise occupied.
Marty, Poly and I exchanged smiles. The Obi-Yu siblings encouraged George and their parents to drink their colas and take extra truffles. A few seconds later the three GalCon Systems executives were also shaking off the effects of the Vonaduzit. Marty checked the patients’ blood pressure, pulse rate, temperature, and blood oxygen saturation—or the equivalents for Roger Joe-Bob’s metabolism. She also used a penlight to check their eyes.
“Looking good,” she said. “I’ve got to share the good news and see if the truffles and cola work for the other patients. Can I have the box of chocolates?”
“Sure,” I said, handing her the box somewhat reluctantly. I’d only had one truffle, after all. Marty left the room grinning.
Xenotech What Happens: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 3) Page 30