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

by Schroeder, Dave

  Martin and I looked at each other and came to an unspoken agreement.

  “Are we done here?” asked J-J.

  Now that he was getting out of Dodge some of his old cocky attitude was returning.

  “Just a few more questions,” said Martin. “Did any funds change hands?”

  Jean-Jacques’s eyes bored into the lieutenant’s.

  “What do you take me for?” said J-J. “I’d never print an order without a deposit.”

  “That should do it,” said Martin, “so long as you provide us with all the details of the transaction.”

  “My assistant and my CFO will take care of that for you,” said J-J.

  His desk phone rang and his assistant’s voice announced, “Your limo is here, sir.”

  “Show yourselves out,” said Jean-Jacques. “I have a starship to catch.”

  He pulled a suitcase out from behind his desk and left us standing in his office. Martin kept it together, but my mouth was hanging open. I shut it.

  “You know what we have to do now, right?” said my friend.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Follow the money.”

  * * * * *

  Martin stayed on the executive level to get information from Jean-Jacques’ CFO and assistant. He promised he’d have police financial forensic investigators look into WT&F’s deposit from Factor-E-Flor and said he’d share the account numbers and other particulars once he got them. I suspected the official investigation would take weeks, if not months, and promised myself I’d do some digging of my own a lot sooner.

  I also shared my own suspicions about who had called Jean-Jacques and threatened him. Martin agreed with my reasoning and promised to make the ongoing search for her a higher priority for law enforcement across the state. We shook hands, then I went downstairs to find Mike and warn him about J-J’s death threat. CiCi and Mike weren’t in the lobby—it was probably long past the end of her shift—so I walked to the entrance to the production floor, pulled open one of the steel double doors, and entered.

  Mike was standing at the Model-43’s control panel. His head was down and he looked like he was trying to make sure his settings were right.

  “Did you remember Rule #3?” I said.

  “There’s a Rule #3?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We just learned it. Always know what you’re fabbing.”

  “Smart,” said Mike. “I’m doing something like that now.”

  “How so?”

  “The specs for the robot are really complicated,” he said, “so I started with the octovacs.”

  I nodded, which meant, “Tell me more.”

  “I called the Waffle House by the airport and spoke to Roger Joe-Bob Bacon,” he said. “Roger Joe-Bob sent me the off-the-shelf octovac design. I’m comparing it line by line to the spec I 3D printed yesterday.”

  “Great idea. Find anything yet?”

  “Not really,” said Mike. “I think the hardware for the octovacs I printed used the standard specs. It’s only the software that’s different. I’ll have to look at their control codes line by line, too.”

  Mike returned to reviewing the two sets of specs. I interrupted and walked him through how to run a file compare that showed only the differences between the two versions. He gave me a “Padawan bows to Jedi Master’s wisdom” look and smiled.

  “I can do the same thing for the robot’s software next,” he said. “That means I should be able to get some sleep tonight.”

  “Sleep is good,” I said. “Thanks for checking it out, but don’t get too focused. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

  Mike raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “I found out why J-J was acting weird,” I continued. “I think he got a death threat from Columbia Brown.”

  “The woman who shot you?”

  “Uh huh. One of my favorite people. She said if Jean-Jacques didn’t produce the robot by noon today he’d be very, very sorry. He got the point and is catching a fast ship to Dauush.”

  “Understood,” said Mike. “Since she can’t go after him, she might go after the company.”

  “Right,” I said. “Watch your six.”

  “Will do.”

  “Now that I think about it,” I said, “you should text Martin. See if he can get WT&F some police protection, at least for the next few days. We don’t know how far J-J’s mystery client is willing to go.”

  “I’ll make it happen,” said Mike.

  He pulled out his phone and began typing. Mike was proactive and would make a good addition to XSC. As he tapped keys, I thought I’d see how good he was at multitasking.

  “How are things going with CiCi?” I asked.

  “Why do you want to know? What do you want with her?” Mike answered.

  Wow. I must have pushed a hot button.

  “I just thought the two of you looked pretty close when I saw you in the lobby.”

  “She said she told you she thought you were cute and you blew her off,” he said.

  “I had other things on my mind,” I said, “like your tech support emergency.”

  Mike looked like he was playing mental tug-of-war with himself. I went on.

  “And I’m crazy in love with Poly. Passes from other women just bounce off.”

  Mike’s shoulders slumped.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I know you and Poly are tight, but I get jealous. I really like CiCi. She says she likes me, but I don’t know if she likes me likes me, or just likes me.”

  “Ah, young love,” I said, the corners of my mouth turning up.

  “Shut up,” said Mike, smiling. “She’s going out with me again on Friday. And hey, you’re only a year older than I am. Remember, I did a hitch in the Army before going to Georgia State.”

  “Right. I forgot. What was your specialty?”

  “Translator, at least when I left the military. I learned Hindi and Mandarin at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, then taught myself Finnish so I could get a better handle on Quenya.”

  “Learning Finnish to help with Elvish? You’re my kind of geek,” I said. “Mandarin is useful for learning spoken Dauushan—their structure is similar, but it’s still a challenge.”

  “That’s what Poly said in Introduction to Galactic Languages,” Mike said. “I’m trying to master basic Galang before I dive into anything as complicated as Dauushan.”

  “Wise move. Sounds like you’ve got a knack for languages.”

  “I try. Not like you and Poly.”

  “You’ll get it. We’ve been at it a lot longer—and Poly and I have both been off-planet. That helps.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but I want it now. J-J won’t pay for any sort of training and I’m getting sick of this place.”

  “Hang in there for a few weeks,” I said. “Who knows, a great opportunity might fall into your lap.”

  I gave him a knowing look.

  He looked back optimistically, but with a touch of wariness. Working for J-J will do that to you.

  Mike’s phone made a ding sound. He looked at its screen.

  “That’s Martin,” he said. “There will be police patrols around the parking lot and loading dock every hour for the next two or three days. He says the CFO will spring for increased private security inside the building.”

  “I hope that doesn’t screw up your date with CiCi,” I said.

  “Me, too,” said Mike.

  “Cheer up,” I said. “If she has to work you could bring her take-out.”

  Mike smiled.

  “CiCi said she liked Thai,” he said.

  I could see that Mike’s brain was spinning off trying to figure out a good place near the office for Pad See Ew and Pad Thai. I was glad the odds were now less likely Columbia Brown would blow up WT&F
, given their increased security.

  “Try the Bangkok Delhi on Roswell Road,” I said as I turned to leave. “Good Thai, and Indian. Their samosas are delicious.”

  Mike didn’t even look up. My work here was done and it was time to head back to my apartment. I had several tech support visits to make via Remote Hands after lunch. Speaking of lunch, Thai and Indian food sounded pretty good.

  Chapter 10

  “All I need is an extra pair of hands.”

  — Catherine Anderson

  These days, my apartment seems empty when Poly isn’t in it. I checked the bedroom and bathroom to confirm she was gone. Then I put a box of extra samosas from lunch in the refrigerator in case I needed to feed Poly later. She was always starving after her all-nighters at Tech.

  Before I closed the fridge door I pulled out a Diet Starbuzz for myself and took several swallows. The carbonated liquid helped put out the fire from the extra-spicy curry dish I’d enjoyed earlier. I was feeling completely full and mostly happy. Feeling all the way happy would have to wait until Poly got back.

  My first Remote Hands appointment wasn’t until one thirty. That gave me a few minutes to take care of essential biological needs and get into my RH suit. Without Remote Hands I never would have been able to support my clients while I was recovering from my injuries.

  The idea behind Remote Hands, Inc. was an inspired concept for a company. If I’d thought of it five years ago, before two Greek brothers named Telemanus had founded their start-up, I’d be plutocrat-level rich. Advances in virtual reality technology and instantaneous congruency-based communications made it possible for someone to effectively be in two places at once.

  When I put on my RH Prime suit, I could see, hear, smell and feel exactly what my distant RH Operative doppelganger did. When I moved, my remote human operative duplicated my movements.

  My RH Prime ensemble was a virtual reality helmet and a form-fitting bodysuit covered in sensors that passed my operative’s sensory data in and my movement instructions out. A curved screen on the outside of the operative’s helmet showed my face in real time. That made it easier for people interacting with my remote to think they were dealing with me. It sounds complicated, but it’s not.

  While I’d been recuperating I’d rented a special RH suit made for hospital patients. Wearing the special suit, I could instruct my remote to move without leaving my bed. It sensed the nerve impulses I sent to my legs, even if I didn’t get up and walk. I was glad to switch back to my normal suit a few weeks ago, when I’d recovered enough to stand for a few hours at a time.

  The business world had jumped on Remote Hands’ technology. The company had several million remote operatives across the solar system and beyond. They also put prospective remotes through an extensive training program before certifying them for deployment. Operatives were also bonded and had to pass exhaustive background checks, which helped lead to their widespread acceptance.

  More than half the world’s tech support was delivered using operatives from Remote Hands, Inc. or one of their competitors. Most organizations had one or more RH operatives at every branch office for the convenience of vendors providing hands-on help. The technology was a major boon for remote health care, too. Physicians were even doing house calls again.

  Some competitors used robots, but mechanical operatives only caught on in hazardous environments, like mining, processing toxic chemicals, and space-based manufacturing. Robot remotes were also very popular as bouncers and process servers, for obvious reasons. There were rumors that the NFL, bowing to pressure from the players union about concussions, was considering a move to robots operatives, but I’ll believe that when I see it.

  It was no surprise that the adult industry had thrown itself into RH technology using human remotes, though not in partnership with Remote Hands, Inc. itself. Competitors were quick to exploit adult market niches and the resulting sensitivity improvements in suits and equipment, especially for touch, drove innovation across the industry.

  I had used Remote Hands, Inc. technology for several years, but only for my most distant clients. When I was stuck in bed recuperating, things were different. I’d bought an extra hundred-hour block of operative time so I could cover everything that came up without leaving my apartment. That let me keep my clients happy, even if it did cut into my profit margins.

  I didn’t like using Remote Hands tech at Mistress Marigold’s—her plants were particularly sensitive—which was why I’d been behind on preventive maintenance for her systems. This afternoon’s appointments were all routine, so I went into my bedroom, stripped down to my underwear, and put on my RH Prime suit and helmet.

  There was a full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, so I took a few seconds to see how I looked. The answer, to be frank, was dorky. Wearing the suit, I did look a little like a superhero, but my appearance was more Ant-Man than Iron Man.

  I walked to my living room, since it was helpful to have extra space for Remote Hands sessions. Thank goodness operatives would use common sense and continue to walk or climb stairs once the appropriate action was indicated by the Prime, or I’d need to go out to the courtyard to have enough room. My phone announced it was one thirty, so I issued a voice command.

  “Prime ready.”

  “Operative ready,” said a crisp soprano voice with a south Georgia accent.

  “Is that you, Emma Ann?”

  “It is. Jack?”

  “At your service, ma’am.”

  “No, I’m at yours,” said Emma Ann.

  “And I’m glad you are.”

  She’d been my operative several times before. Remote Hands, Inc. liked to match up primes and operatives who worked well together when they could. Remote Hands operatives could be completely passive, or as I preferred, active and offering their own comments on what they saw. Emma Ann didn’t miss much and I knew she was a pleasure to work with.

  “Since I’m standing outside NOD Music, I assume they’ve got a tech problem?” she said.

  “Not that I know of,” I said. “It’s just routine maintenance.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Emma Ann. “I like being your remote when you’re troubleshooting. I learn a lot.”

  “Want to be a Prime yourself some day?”

  “That’s my plan. I’m studying Galtech at West Georgia Technical College.”

  “More power to you,” I said.

  Nostalgia On Demand Music was founded by an audiophile with fond memories of his parents’ and grandparents’ collections of old 78s, LPs and 45s. Located nearly fifty miles south of my apartment in the medium-sized town of Newnan, Georgia, it would take me at least an hour, more likely two hours with traffic, to drive there. Remote Hands would let me take care of my client without wasting half a day in the process.

  The company’s business model was a lot like the print on demand companies that would churn out dead tree books for individuals who still preferred physical versions to e-books. Nostalgia On Demand Music applied the same approach to music and audio.

  Fans of more recent oldies could get CDs of Christina Aguilera’s greatest hits or DVDs of Kanye in concert if they preferred physical digital recordings to insubstantial bits streamed from the cloud. You could order a freshly made cassette tape of Jim Morrison and the Doors’ 1967 Doors album, or a 45 rpm version of Elvis singing Blue Suede Shoes. They could make you an LP of Sinatra crooning My Way, or 78 rpm records of Tommy Dorsey and his orchestra’s greatest hits if you wanted. For a small niche collectors’ market they would recreate Edison’s original cylindrical recordings to be played on old Victrolas. Masochists could even get Three Dog Night on eight-track cartridges.

  NOD Music’s fabrication setup used a particularly complex collection of custom Dauushan and Orishen components to produce all the different formats. I’d been called in by the mega-consulting compa
ny hired for the original installation after it became clear they had bitten off more than they could chew. Their techs could only fab 50 Cent on Victrola cylinders. Once I’d gotten everything working properly, the project manager was called to the private office of NOD Music’s CEO for a one-on-one meeting. When he came out, I had a new client.

  With our RH link fully activated, I took control and “walked” Emma Sue into NOD Music’s headquarters. The office manager, Mrs. Carmichael, greeted me. She was older and looked like a church lady, but I knew from talking to her previously that she was into classic country and gangsta rap. Unfortunately, she didn’t quite get the whole Remote Hands thing.

  “You’re looking very pretty, child,” she said.

  I turned red back in my living room. Emma Ann sniggered softly in my ear.

  “It’s Jack, ma’am,” I said. “You’re not supposed to refer to the operative.”

  “I know, dear,” said Mrs. Carmichael. “But I bet you’re blushing.”

  Busted. Memo to self, don’t mouth off to old ladies. They’ll kick your…

  “Head right in, dear,” she said, motioning to her boss’s office door. “He wants to talk to you.”

  He was Ray Charles Dunwoody, the audiophile who’d founded the company. The man’s office was a shrine to his namesake, the musical legend born farther south in Albany, Georgia. There were photos of Ray Charles and his famous glasses on every wall, including a large one of the award-winning blind musician standing behind a much younger R. C. Dunwoody with his arm around him. R. C. is wearing headphones with their cord dangling. An engineer’s board from a recording studio was in the background. It was a picture worth building a shrine around.