Xenotech Queen's Gambit: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 2)

by Schroeder, Dave

“Can you send me the override code for the door lock?”

  “I’ll do better than that,” he said. “My gym is two miles away. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Breakfast’s on me,” he said, “on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to tell me why you need to park a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot robot.”

  “Deal,” I said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  My phone spoke up as soon as my call with Lieutenant Lee was finished.

  “Success!” it said.

  “You’ve got the shutdown code?”

  “Correct. Want me to test it?”

  “It would probably be better to wait until we’re on the ground,” I said. “Octovacs falling out of the sky wouldn’t be a good thing.”

  “Gliding out of the sky,” said my phone. “They have an automatic controlled descent mode.”

  “Gliding,” I corrected. “And thanks for saving my life.”

  “Glad to help,” said my phone. “Just keep it in mind.”

  I landed, none too gently, and my phone reset the octovacs. Ten minutes later, just as the sun was starting to rise, Martin and I made sure that the robot was safely stored, flat on its back, in the hangar. There would have been room for two or three more the same size. It was a big hangar. My phone had the forty-eight octovacs organize themselves into neat ranks before it deactivated them.

  A few minutes later Mike arrived. We stored the two white hat octovacs in the back of my van. They might come in handy, and I needed some units to check out for clues about who was behind all this.

  I’d contacted Shepherd and he assured me he’d do his best to minimize any media attention. So far, nearly an hour had passed and no videos of giant robots flying over the city had shown up on YouTube. The secretive but well-connected Long Pâkk said he’d meet us to debrief at the Waffle House on Virginia Avenue, one exit north of the port on I-85.

  It was going to be an interesting breakfast.

  Chapter 4

  “One should not attend even the end of the world

  without a good breakfast.”

  — Robert A. Heinlein, Friday

  My van, Shepherd’s SUV and Lieutenant Lee’s cruiser found three adjacent parking places outside the restaurant. Every Waffle House is open twenty-four hours a day, but they do have their peak and off-peak times. We’d arrived in a lull after the first morning rush for workers whose shifts started at seven. I’d been to this location three years ago, when I was a recent arrival in Atlanta, and remembered that it was old and tired, with shabby tables and baked on layers of grease over everything like an oily shellac. This time, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the exterior didn’t look run down at all. The signage was new, the brickwork had been recently tuck-pointed, and even the lines marking the spaces in the parking lot were crisp and bright.

  Mike held the unsmudged outer glass door for me and I returned the favor for him with the inner one. Both doors seemed to open on their own ahead of Shepherd and the Lieutenant from the sheer force of their command personalities. I wondered if they could teach me how to do that.

  When I entered I continued to be impressed by the restaurant’s interior transformation. Instead of the standard Formica counter and table tops, the horizontal surfaces were covered in an opalescent white chitin-like composite surface from one of the Orishen conglomerates. It was easy to clean, never chipped, and came with a lifetime warranty, even for species with lifespans measured in centuries. This wasn’t a typical Waffle House.

  The traditionally linear open kitchen had been redesigned to include an L-shaped combination grill and waffle making section at the end closest to customers. A four-foot, three-sided pyramidal male Pyr wearing a tall chef’s hat stood on a low swiveling platform in the center of the right angle. His eyes, at the apex of each of his sides, didn’t miss a thing, and he was using three of his tentacles to make hash browns, fry eggs, and pour waffles, all at high speed. I was impressed.

  We found a table for four by the front window. Mike and I sat across from Lieutenant Lee and Shepherd. I extracted Chit’s bottle and stowed my backpack under the table.

  Chit popped out and perched on top of a ketchup bottle I’d placed on a napkin dispenser so she was closer to eye level. Her carapace was painted Waffle House yellow with a black “W” on one wing and a corresponding “H” on the other. Her paint scheme amused me—she usually opted for fine art.

  I was pleased that the seats in our booth were padded—another upgrade from the hard benches at the typical Waffle House franchise. Now that I was off my feet I felt some of the fear-induced tension go out of my neck and shoulders. I was glad the morning’s excitement was over. A server came to take our order.

  Waffle House servers are a special breed. They pride themselves on knowing their regular customers’ orders, but many of them have lived hard lives and it shows. It’s a difficult job, with odd hours, and the pay isn’t great, so servers tend to be people with brains but without the drive or luck needed to get other work that isn’t as hard on the arches. I’d been to dozens of locations and the servers have always been human beings—even at the single unit on Orish where the servers were all Terran grad students at Mulbiri Tech, my proud alma mater. Too bad the place had only opened during my last month on the planet. It had been a nice reminder of home.

  All that being said, I was disconcerted to see that our server was a lean, seven-foot tall, tiger-striped Tigrammath woman wearing a French blue shirt and black Waffle House apron. Her uniform matched the colors of her stripes quite nicely. The sparkle in her feline eyes wasn’t anything like the look I was used to seeing on servers after handling the first morning rush. Her name tag read “Dox.”

  “What would you like to drink, y’all?” she said.

  Her voice had a low, sensuous purr to it. I looked up at her—way up. She winked at me. At me?

  “I’ll have a diet Starbuzz, please.”

  Mike ordered a Coke and Shepherd and Martin opted for coffee. Chit asked for water. Our server wasn’t surprised to see a Murm, which was odd—they’re a rare species.

  “I’ll be right back, honey,” she said, smiling at me. “Y’all figure out what you want to order.”

  Her fur was short but still waved gently as she moved to fetch our drinks. Shepherd and the Lieutenant looked at the low tech laminated menus and Mike handed me one, but I didn’t need it.

  “Two coffees, a Coke, and water for the lady,” said our server, returning with drinks in glasses, mugs, and a thimble for Chit. “Plus a big ol’ diet Starbuzz for you, sweetie.”

  She touched me on the arm after she put my soft drink on the table then headed back to the kitchen to pick up another table’s order. Was I giving off pheromones or something to make me irresistible to women? Not likely and certainly not to Chit.

  “Looks like ya just made another new friend,” said Chit from the top of the ketchup bottle. “That’s what? Two, today? And the sun’s barely up.”

  “I thought you were asleep when I met the security guard.”

  “I wish,” said the Murm. “Too much commotion to sleep—and her name is CiCi. She was cute and kinda into you.”

  Lieutenant Lee and Shepherd were paying attention and Mike was glaring at me with a look of disapproval on his face. I tried to look innocent.

  “I had other things on my mind,” I said, “like the octovacs. And Poly. You know… my girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Chit in a teasing tone. “First the security guard, now the waitress.”

  “Server.”

  “Whatever. That’s what I get for learning English from old movies.”

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes in silent commentary. Mike’s look changed from a glare to a smile when he realized Chit
was kidding. Martin Lee was grinning and Shepherd may have raised one corner of his mouth. Maybe.

  “Be nice to CiCi,” said Mike, trying to do some teasing of his own, but with a hint of something more serious he couldn’t hide. “She’s a friend.”

  “What kinda friend?” asked Chit.

  “None of your business,” mumbled Mike.

  “Have you asked her out yet?” said Martin.

  “Maybe,” said Mike, looking down at his menu.

  Was his face turning red or was that just a reflection from the taillights of a passing car? I took pity on him and changed the subject.

  “Let’s talk about the two-hundred-and-fifty-foot robot.”

  Before I could say more the waitress, I mean server, appeared at my elbow.

  “A two-hundred-and-fifty-foot robot?” she said.

  “It’s for a new video game,” said Mike.

  Fast thinking. Mike would be an excellent addition to the Xenotech Support team once Poly and I got our hiring plans nailed down. Poly is my girlfriend and business partner. There hadn’t been time for figuring out hiring plans during the last month, given Poly’s academic commitments related to finishing two master’s degrees.

  “What’ll you gentlebeings have?” our server said, smiling and showing off a mouth filled with lots of pointy alien carnivore’s teeth.

  Good thing Tigrammaths are pacifists, mostly.

  Shepherd, predictably, had city ham, country ham and three rare steaks. Martin was on a special workout regimen so he had two scrambled egg whites and dry whole wheat toast. Mike and I were young with healthy metabolisms, so we opted for All Star Breakfasts with fried eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast and waffles. Mike had his shredded potatoes smothered, covered and peppered—that’s with onions, cheese and jalapeños—while I was a purist and ordered mine plain. It didn’t make sense to order for Chit, but I did ask for a second thimble. I’d give her a bite of my waffle with maple syrup. My friend had a sweet tooth.

  “Order up!” said our server as she turned back to the kitchen.

  Had she bumped my shoulder with her hip intentionally or by accident? It wasn’t relevant—there were important matters to discuss.

  “Tell us about the two-hundred-and-fifty-foot robot, Jack,” said Martin.

  His police badge glinted in the early morning sun. Shepherd raised one eyebrow and looked at me, then at Mike.

  “I’ll start,” said the WT&F fab operator. “Jean-Jacques got a new rush order late yesterday afternoon and wanted me to work all night to meet a noon delivery deadline.”

  “Did he promise ta pay ya extra?” said Chit.

  Mike looked sheepish.

  “Thought so,” said Chit.

  “Where does the robot come in?” said Martin, his strong, dark face looking puzzled.

  “I was supposed to be fabbing household appliances—vacuum cleaners with eight arms to lift furniture out of the way,” Mike continued.

  “The octovacs?” said Martin.

  “Uh huh,” said Mike.

  “Then what happened?” said Chit, licking drops of water from her forelegs.

  “After the first dozen were printed, they took over the production room and forced me out,” said Mike. “And then I called...”

  Everybody looked at me and Mike and Chit and Martin spoke simultaneously. They knew what was coming.

  “Jack.”

  I picked up my cue.

  “At five-fifteen in the morning.”

  “Poor baby,” said Chit.

  “Hey,” I said, “you slept through it.”

  I couldn’t jump right into the rest of the story. Our server had returned with our orders. She balanced all the dishes on one long, striped arm and expertly distributed the right meals to the proper diners. When she came back to refill Lieutenant Lee and Shepherd’s coffee cups, I saw a look pass between the Tigrammath and the grizzled old Pâkk. I couldn’t tell if it was the natural antipathy between the two species, who get along as well as felines and canines, or something else. I’d have to remember to talk to Shepherd about it later.

  Between bites of breakfast, Mike and Chit and I described my encounter with the octovacs on the roof—where I made sure Chit got the credit for rescuing me. I also told them about my inadvertent attempt at parasailing that saved me from a close encounter of the worst kind with the surface of the parking lot. My phone beeped to remind me that it had done the saving. I acknowledged my phone’s resourcefulness and stopped to butter my waffle. After three beats of silence, Shepherd spoke. We all listened.

  “Do you recognize the robot’s technology, Jack?”

  His voice was deep and raspy, like a blues singer with lots of mileage.

  I nodded. Thankfully, nothing rattled.

  “The general tech-style for the robot is Orishen mutatech, with allowances for human, rather than Orishen configurations,” I said.

  Shepherd inclined his head a millimeter to acknowledge what I’d said.

  “And the weapon systems?”

  “All Terran, from multiple nation states,” I said, “at least from what I could tell without closer inspection. Mostly designs from Japan and the Russian Oligarchic Republic.”

  “Curious,” said Shepherd. “You’d think an Orishen robot would use an Orishen body type.”

  “Or more than one of ’em,” said Chit, who was trying to remove bits of waffle from her mandibles. “Egg, grub, nymph, adult, supra-adult… they’ve got robots that can shift into all five forms back on Orish.”

  “And you know this how?” I said.

  “I was on Orish for a long time before I met you, bucko.”

  “I’m glad I never saw one when I was in grad school at Mulbiri Tech,” I said. “A two-hundred-and-fifty-foot giant praying mantis-shaped nymph-form robot would be the stuff of nightmares.”

  “But this one is humanoid,” said Mike.

  “With more weapons than an armored battalion,” said Martin.

  He should know, he’d been in one.

  “I’ll have to check out its mutagenic specifications to see what other forms are preprogrammed,” I said.

  “Do you think one of them is a truck?” said Mike.

  He really wanted the robot to be a Transformer.

  “I won’t know until I check,” I said, “but if it is, it would be a really big truck.”

  Everyone nodded, except Shepherd—and Chit. Her head was in a thimble, sucking up artificially flavored maple syrup from the bite of waffle I’d given her.

  Mike spoke again.

  “What am I going to tell Jean-Jacques about what happened? He’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

  “I told you I’d talk to him,” I said.

  “And I’d like to join you for that conversation,” said Martin.

  Ever since the events that ended up with me being shot last month, his superiors at the state capitol’s police force had assigned him a special portfolio, troubleshooting issues that didn’t fit into normal law enforcement categories.

  “That should keep Jean-Jacques off balance,” I said. “I’ll be good cop and you can be bad cop.”

  “You’re not a cop,” said Martin, his brown eyes merry.

  “Details, details.”

  “I’ll meet you at WT&F at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “Thanks, guys,” said Mike. “Better you than me. Much better.”

  “Hey,” said Chit, “what about the octovacs?”

  “What about ’em?” I said.

  “Are they Orishen technology?”

  My phone beeped again. I pulled it out, flipped out its kickstand and stood it up on the table next to a plate that used to hold one of Shepherd’s steaks.


  “The octovacs are standard, off-the-shelf construction ’bots designed by Khufu, Limited, a Pyr-owned conglomerate,” it said. “They’re fully programmable and can be operated remotely.”

  When my phone said “Pyr,” the short, three-sided cook in the chef’s hat hopped down from his platform and glided over to our table on his hundreds of tiny cilia “feet.”

  “Sorry to eavesdrop,” he said, “but you mentioned Khufu, Limited?”

  “That’s right,” said my phone. It should have asked me before responding, but I was glad to see it taking initiative.

  “My name is Roger Joe-Bob Bacon, and I own this place,” he said.

  He waved one of his tentacles in a friendly greeting. We all waved back, even Shepherd. Chit had emerged from her thimble. Her waving forelegs looked sticky.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bacon,” I said.

  “Call me Roger, or Joe-Bob or anythin’ ’cept late for breakfast,” said the Pyr.

  Our server came back to refill our drinks. She was so tall it was easy for her to reach over her boss to do so. I gratefully accepted more diet Starbuzz.

  “Thanks, Dox,” I said.

  She smiled at me and stayed close to our table.

  “I’m an investor in Khufu,” said Roger Joe-Bob, “and wanted to hear what you folks had to say about the company.”

  My phone started to speak, but I cut it off.

  “We had some problems with the construction ’bots assembling something they shouldn’t have,” I said.

  “They’re s’posed to be used for buildin’ skyscrapers,” Roger Joe-Bob replied.

  “They were building something tall,” I said.

  “But not skyscrapers,” said Mike.

  “And not particularly legal,” said Martin.

  The Pyr drew himself up to his full four-foot height—five, with his chef’s hat.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said. “If you can provide me with the particulars I’ll bring it to the board’s attention.”