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

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Xenotech Queen's Gambit: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 2) Page 14

by Schroeder, Dave


  “The Pâkk-Tigrammath War, of course,” said Niaowla. “It’s the turning point in ancient Galactic history.”

  “What ten cultures are you studying?” I asked.

  “Pâkk and Tigrammath, as you might assume,” she replied, “and Dauushan and Pyr and Orishen.”

  “That’s five,” said Poly.

  “Murms?” I asked.

  “No,” Niaowla answered. “Hive minds don’t tend to go in for inscriptions. The Quirinx fliers make fascinating letter forms on soft rock with their beaks and the Musans have the most exquisite miniatures. The level of detail they can achieve with their tiny hands takes a magnifying glass to appreciate.”

  She paused to take a sip of water and spear a slice of spiced turkey from the plate of cold cuts with her fork.

  I’d seen Quirinx the size of California condors soaring around my apartment complex, and smiled to think of the chipmunk-sized Musan family I’d observed dining on a cup of boiled peanuts at a Southern-themed gastropub on Piedmont Road last year. A lot of Galactic species in Atlanta like to live in Buckhead so they can be close to their consulates at Ad Astra.

  “That’s seven,” said Poly. There are times when I think my partner fixates on numbers.

  “The J’Vel don’t make incised inscriptions,” said Niaowla, referring to another small species like the Musans. “They create something more like mosaics using glue and colored seeds to put words and scenes on their monuments.”

  “Are there a lot of problems with the seeds being eaten over the centuries?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Niaowla, “Very few of the J’Vel monuments have seeds remaining, but we can detect the patterns of the glue that was applied using UV light, and identify pigments from DNA analysis of fragments left embedded in the adhesive.”

  “It’s as much physics and biology as it is philology, according to my mate,” said Bart, reaching for a thin slice of Virginia ham.

  “And politics and bureaucratic maneuvering to get permission to excavate the inscriptions in the first place,” said Niaowla. “Too many species don’t want to be reminded of what happened in the P-T War.”

  “That’s still only eight,” said Poly. See what I mean?

  “Tōdons make nine,” said Niaowla. “There are remote cliff faces on Tōdo simply covered with intaglio Tōdon etchings made by acids released from the tips of their abdomens.”

  “Very large etchings, I assume?” said her mate.

  “Everything about the Tōdons is large,” said Niaowla.

  “And ten?” said Poly. Have I mentioned that my partner is persistent?

  “The Nicósns,” said Niaowla. “Which reminds me of the practical joke some anonymous prankster tried to play on me last summer with an obviously sham inscription in Old High Nicósn.”

  I was eating the other half of my roll but stopped chewing and paid close attention.

  “It came to my inbox as an anonymous email. Scans of the inscriptions and associated pictograms were attached.”

  She sniffed as if detecting an odd smell.

  “It was something about how to properly manage a biological super-weapon and sounded like something out of the latest Zombie Apocalypse comic book from the CDC.”

  Niaowla shook her head back and forth at the very idea.

  “I don’t know who was playing games with me,” she said. “But I went along with the gag, translated it, and sent it back to the sender.”

  She bit off half a slice of corned beef.

  “I must be hungrier than I thought.”

  The other half of the slice disappeared.

  “I kept expecting to hear from someone, a fellow faculty member if not a student, claiming responsibility, but never heard another word.”

  She laughed.

  “I was expecting some sort of reply, based on what I’d done in my translation.”

  “What you’d done?” I said.

  “Let’s just say I’ve been known to play practical jokes myself.”

  My cheeks turned red. Her eyes danced in response to my reaction.

  She chuckled as if remembering a private joke, then reached for a second slice of turkey, only to pull her hand back.

  “I’ll spoil my appetite at this rate. I guess the joke’s on me.”

  Niaowla looked to her left and noticed I was staring at her.

  “Is something wrong, Jack?”

  “Do you still have the email?” I asked.

  “I’m sure it’s still on the server somewhere,” she said.

  “Could you forward it to me? It’s very important.”

  “Certainly,” she said, seeing my concern.

  “Could you check now?”

  “If you’d like.”

  Now Poly and Bart were both staring at me. Poly knew me well enough to wait for an explanation. Bart just looked puzzled and a bit protective of his mate.

  “Here it is,” she said, tapping the extra-hard glass surface of her phone with a foreclaw.

  “[email protected],” I said.

  “On its way.”

  As soon as the message arrived I sent it along to Tomáso and Shepherd and Martin and Chit with a brief explanation about where it had come from. While I was typing, of course, our meals arrived. I waved a hand to encourage the others at the table to start eating and pushed SEND a minute later. My salmon smelled good. So did the barbecued ribs and Poly’s tuna.

  “Can you tell us what all that was about?” asked Bart.

  “Unfortunately, no,” I said, “but it may be a very important clue to a mystery of galactic proportions.”

  “Speaking of galactic proportions,” said Bart, always the one to smooth over awkward moments. “Look at the size of these ribs.”

  Chapter 15

  “When she’s cuddled close, I feel there’s nothing I can’t do…”

  — Jarod Kintz

  My reaction to Niaowla’s Old High Nicósn translation story guaranteed that Poly would come home with me instead of going back to her place or straight to the lab with Professor Urrrson. On the drive to my apartment, I filled her in on my earlier capture and near-arrest, as well as the revelations from Tomáso and Shepherd. I could see her brain was spinning as she processed all the new information.

  While she asked me more questions I brewed a pot of decaf hibiscus passion tea and poured the hot, aromatic, deep purple liquid into our favorite mugs. After a few sips she relaxed and finally noticed something new in my apartment.

  “The flowers are lovely,” said Poly, looking at the vase on the dining room table. “Where did they come from?”

  “Is it so hard for you to believe that I bought them because I thought you’d enjoy having them in the apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  She knew me too well. Her response was curt but her voice was merry and teasing.

  “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady?”

  Poly knew I was playing a role for comedic effect: the lovesick swain. I know, I know. Typecasting.

  “Give.”

  I knew when to surrender.

  “They’re from Mistress Marigold.”

  “And therein hangs a tale?”

  “A long, and rather funny one involving hamburger, sleeping pills and self-mobile plants.”

  Poly laughed.

  “I’d love to hear it—in a few days—after I’ve finished my paper and collected a couple of sheepskins.”

  “I think they’re using acid-free paper for diplomas these days,” I said, “not sheepskin parchment.”

  “I’ve been deceived,” said Poly.

  Then her tone of voiced changed.

  “And speaking of deception…”

  “Time to get serious?” I said.


  “Yes,” she said. “If O’Sullivan Fabrication was just misdirection, why is Ray Ray Dunwoody worried about what’s going on there?”

  Poly took my free hand and guided us to the couch in my living room.

  “I have no idea,” I said, putting my mug down on the end table to my right. Poly held on to her mug and inhaled the steam from her tea.

  “But you’ll talk to him?”

  “If R. C. says it’s okay,” I said. “I don’t want to break my word.”

  “You’re a good man, Jack Buckston.”

  “Aw, shucks, ma’am.”

  I said the phrase with the obligatory western drawl. Poly put her mug down on the coffee table in front of her and leaned on my shoulder. I put my arm around her and helped her fit more tightly against me.

  “Do you think the robots and bio-weapons and Pyr prisoners are real, or is Columbia Brown or Agnes Spelman or whatever her name is just messing with our heads?”

  “They’re real, all right” said my phone. The now fully mobile device had hopped off my belt and climbed across my lap to stand with one foot on my leg and one on Poly’s. It was waving its extruded arms indignantly. I was beginning to regret buying the mutacase.

  “How do you know?” said Poly. “Couldn’t they be a highly sophisticated simulation?”

  I was impressed that she didn’t react to my phone’s new functionality.

  “A simulation might be able to fool an organic person, but not a cybernetic intelligence,” it said.

  “Yeah, right,” I said.

  My phone knew me well enough to detect my sarcasm. Before it could snark back, Poly asked it a question.

  “Are there any other large buildings in metro-Atlanta owned by O’Sullivan Fabrication?”

  “Or Factor-E-Flor or the James K. Polk Group,” I said.

  “Or the EUA Corporation,” added Poly.

  I thought for a second. Were we missing any? An LED turned on in my head.

  “Or Wallace Engineering.”

  “Searching,” said my phone. It hopped off our legs and sat in a contemplative pose on the coffee table.

  “Do you think EUA is behind all this?” said Poly.

  “Maybe,” I said, “but we don’t know much about them.”

  “Sounds like a research project.”

  “In all my copious spare time,” I said.

  My phone stood up and shook its extruded head.

  “I can’t find any other facilities run by the companies you’ve specified,” it said. “I’m searching for properties that may be owned by other organizations that have done a better job of covering their tracks.”

  “Try looking for any other complex that’s approximately the same size and shape as the O’Sullivan footprint,” said Poly. “Use your recordings of the warehouse and other parts of the complex to figure out the dimensions and find matches.”

  “An excellent recommendation,” said my phone, returning to its thinking posture.

  “Could we talk privately for a minute, Jack?” said Poly.

  “Microphone off for 300 seconds,” I told my phone.

  It made an acknowledging beep and continued its research.

  “How long has your phone had arms and legs?” said Poly.

  “It just talked me into getting it a mutacase a few hours ago,” I said. “It’s still getting used to it, and so am I.”

  “I think it’s going to take me a while,” said Poly. “It’s a little like living with a precocious child and I’m nowhere near ready for that.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “It saved my life yesterday, or was it the day before yesterday?”

  Poly checked her tiny phone after pulling it from a front pocket of her jeans.

  “It’s twelve thirty,” she said, “so it was two days back.”

  “I couldn’t say no,” I said, “and my phone saved the day again tonight.”

  “I guess I can live with it,” said Poly. “There are times when I’m glad I can’t afford a phone that’s state of the art.”

  “You can get whatever you want,” I said. “You’re a partner and can get a company phone.”

  “I can, can’t I?” she said, tilting her head up and kissing my neck. “I’ve been so focused on grad school I haven’t considered the implications of my new status.”

  My toes had curled when she’d kissed me, so I had to control my autonomic reactions to find my own focus.

  “Speaking of your new status as a partner and someone about to receive two prestigious graduate degrees…”

  I got another kiss on the neck.

  “Umm… Where was I? Uh… graduate degrees, I’d like to talk about next steps.”

  “Next steps for Xenotech Support?”

  “Next steps for us.”

  “Oh,” said Poly, suddenly sitting up and turning to face me. She held my hands.

  “You know I really like spending time with you.”

  She squeezed my hands.

  “Back at you,” said Poly.

  “And what with your academic schedule and my work and recuperation, we haven’t had a lot of time together…”

  Poly looked at me with a broad smile on her face, patiently waiting for me to get the words out.

  “True,” said her lips. Her eyes said, “Please go on.”

  “I was thinking we could go on a week’s vacation together after you graduate. We could go somewhere warm.”

  “Atlanta in May is warm,” Poly said, teasing.

  “And romantic,” I said.

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  I knew what her answer would be, but it was still nice to hear it.

  “Separate rooms?” said Poly.

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “Hell, no.”

  She leaned in and kissed me on the lips. It was very nice and lasted for a long time. Then we were interrupted.

  “Still researching,” said my phone.

  “Microphone off for 3,600 seconds,” I said.

  “Beep,” said my phone, then went quiet.

  “Where do you want to go?” said Poly.

  “Wherever you want to go. Maui, maybe, or one of the Pyr pleasure planets.”

  I didn’t tell her I already had half a dozen brochures.

  “We could even get a suite at a nice resort,” I added.

  “Why don’t we both make lists of our top ten romantic vacation spots?” said Poly, “Then compare them.”

  “Great idea.” I started to get up to find a couple of pencils and some paper.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” said Poly, pulling me back down and giving me another thorough kiss that was not interrupted.

  After more than 300 and less than 3,600 seconds, Poly broke our clinch and smoothed down her t-shirt.

  “I’d love to stay, Lover Boy, but can’t. I promised Professor Urrrson I’d build the tables for our paper tonight.”

  “It’s one thirty in the morning. You’re becoming nocturnal.”

  “It the only way I’m going to get the paper finished before Georgia Tech’s graduation on Friday.”

  She was up and out my front door before I remembered.

  “Watch out for my what?”

  Chapter 16

  “Housework is something you do that

  nobody notices until you don’t do it.”

  — Author Unknown

  I had the presence of mind to pick up my phone and tap its screen to get its attention.

  “Send the van to Peachtree Street to take Poly to her lab,” I said, “and text her phone so she doesn’t get an autocab.”

  “Glad to,” said my phone. “Should I keep my microphone off?”

  “No, you’re
fine,” I said. “Leave it on.”

  “Thanks,” said my phone. “Still researching, by the way.”

  I nodded acknowledgment and my phone resumed its thinking pose, this time extruding a rock to sit on so it better resembled Rodin’s famous sculpture. I laughed, but only on the inside. My phone had its dignity.

  I was pleased I didn’t have anything on my calendar today until I had to leave for the airport. That meant I could sleep late and take my time getting my apartment in shape to potentially have company, just in case. When your partner’s family is in town it pays to be prepared.

  Of course, there was also the small matter of a royal invitation to dine with the Queen Matriarch of Dauush at the Teleport Inn at eight. I’d have to check my best suit when I got up to make sure there weren’t any stains on it. Maybe I’d pick up a new shirt and tie for the occasion at one of the expensive shops in the retail part of the complex. It was nearly two in the morning and I’d be a zombie all day if I didn’t get some rest.

  If I’d been conscious when it happened I’d have known that I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

  * * * * *

  I woke up suddenly when something jumped on my bladder.

  “But I don’t have a cat,” said a semi-conscious part of my brain.

  “Jack,” said my phone, the something that had been doing the bladder jumping, “Terrhi’s at the front door and if you don’t answer it soon she’s going to knock on it loud enough to annoy the neighbors.”

  “What time is it?” I said, rotating my body and putting my feet on the floor.

  “Seven-thirty.”

  I grunted a combined acknowledgment and protest and shuffled out to the front door in my bare feet. On the way, I tried to wake myself up and put at least a simulation of cordiality on my face. Terrhi didn’t need to see me at my morning worst—it might scar her for life.

  I opened the door.

  “Hi, Uncle Jack!”

  “Hi Terrhi,” I said, with a tenth of her child’s enthusiasm. “To what do I owe the honor of your unexpected presence at this hour?”

 

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