Xenotech General Mayhem: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 4)

by Dave Schroeder

  “What?” I could have just as easily said, “Huh?”

  “Where did you go just then?”

  “I was thinking,” I said, “about Rosalind and Max and birth control.”

  Poly’s face contorted as she tried—and failed—to suppress a laugh.

  “You really are an innocent, aren’t you,” she said, stroking my hair affectionately and kissing the tip of my nose.

  “Ummm….” I said. “Guilty as charged. Are you…”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’m on the new pill.”

  Galactic Free Trade Association medicine could do more than cure cancer. Nicósn pharmacology had solutions for controlling human fertility that were more effective than traditional Terran birth control pills, with fewer side effects. My friend Mistress Marigold’s company, Marigold Flowers & Pharmaceuticals, sold a pill called Choyse® that was quite popular. Other Nicósn firms offered competitive and complementary variations, like shots and implants.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For what?” answered Poly.

  “For not discussing it ahead of time, like a responsible adult.”

  “I forgive you,” she said. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “What?” I exclaimed, jolted fully out of my distracted reverie. “Every time?”

  “No,” said Poly. “Consider the topic covered where you and I are concerned. It’s your other bed partners I’m concerned with. I don’t want Max to have any half-siblings unless I’m their mother.”

  My eyes went wide and my jaw dropped.

  “Not anytime soon, mind you.”

  “That’s okay, then,” I said, recomposing myself. “What if I’m not in a bed with one of these hypothetical other partners?”

  “Don’t go looking for loopholes on me, buster,” said Poly, lowering the pitch of her voice to imitate Chit.

  “I won’t,” I promised, putting my hand over my heart. “I’ll stick to enjoying your delightfully infinite diversity.”

  That made Poly smile and earned me a real kiss.

  “Though how do you feel about options that don’t include beds?” I said.

  “Like the shower?” said Poly.

  She grinned, threw off the sheet and headed in that direction to start the water running.

  I told my phone to let everyone know we’d be meeting in one of the facility’s small conference rooms in an hour and followed. With luck, we might even have time to remake the bed.

  * * * * *

  We sat at a round table. I hoped we’d have more success than King Arthur and would avoid ill-advised romantic triangles. The table was big enough for twelve, but there were only eleven of us. More like nine, really, because Chit didn’t need a chair and Max didn’t stay in his. He’d hopped down and was drawing pictures on the room’s smart wall with his fingers, softly singing a song I didn’t recognize.

  Chit’s wing cases were painted in Georgia Tech navy blue and gold. She was sitting in front of me on top of a tall stack of wooden university logo coasters. The stack wasn’t quite stable, but would be fine if Chit didn’t make any sudden moves.

  Poly was directly to my right, with Martin and Shepherd on my left. Our reluctant new allies were opposite. Winfield and Scott sat with empty chairs between them and the rest.

  Rosalind, Sally and Cornell sat where they could keep an eye on Max while we kept an eye on them.

  My phone had extruded limbs and a head and something that resembled a captain’s chair from the original Star Trek. It sat like it was ready to say, “Warp factor six, Mr. Sulu.” I hoped that meant it was taking our current situation seriously. At least it didn’t try to make its featureless stick-figure head look like William Shatner. My phone was more Spock than Kirk, anyway.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here today,” I said, invoking an appropriate trope.

  “Get to the bottom line, Miss Marple,” interjected Josephine Johnson. “What do you want us to do?”

  I decided to meet her rudeness with my own.

  “I want the two of you to tell us everything you know about The General. The more we know, the faster we’ll find him.”

  Poly, Martin and Shepherd all nodded. Max drew a picture of Spike. I turned to Rosalind, Cornell and Sally.

  “The same goes for you.”

  “We’ll cooperate,” said Rosalind.

  “We said we would,” added Sally.

  “For all the good it will do us,” moped Cornell.

  Sally affectionately poked him in the ribs and he sat up straighter.

  “Where do we start?” she asked.

  “Tell us about your interactions with The General,” said Martin. “How does he contact you or vice-versa?”

  “Mostly he contacts us,” said Scott Winfield.

  “By text message,” said Josephine Johnson.

  “From an intermediary,” said Winfield.

  Martin nodded.

  “We get text messages or flash drives delivered by messengers,” contributed Cornell.

  “Your mission, should you decide to accept it,” I joked.

  “There’s no ‘should you decide’ about it,” said Sally. “You saw how The General reacts when missions don’t go well.”

  “That’s right,” said Rosalind. “When The General says jump, you’d better hit geosynchronous orbit.”

  “How do you report back?” asked Poly.

  “We contact Manny,” said Cornell.

  Finally! A name—something we could work with.

  “Who’s Manny?” asked Chit.

  She looked sideways at my phone. It was kicking at her precarious stack of coasters with one of its extended pseudopod legs—whether from boredom or malice, I couldn’t tell.

  Cornell answered. “Manny is an A.I., I think. The General once joked about using him to coordinate the revolution that would help Earth conquer the galaxy.”

  “Probably just another chump,” said Chit.

  “I don’t think so,” said Poly. “I think the A.I.’s name is short for Manuel Garcia O’Kelly-Davis.”

  “Brilliant,” I said. “The General is stealing Heinlein’s idea from The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Martin.

  “Of course! How did I miss it?” asked Rosalind.

  “There’s a famous science fiction novel from the sixties where a computer named Adam Selene helps Luna win its independence from Earth,” I explained to Martin. “Using an A.I. is an excellent way to coordinate any sort of covert operation. Manny was a human, his best friend, and the book’s narrator. ”

  “I can see that,” said Martin, rubbing his chin. “One of the private law enforcement news sites had an article about an A.I. rigging bids on eBay that made several hundred million galcreds last year.”

  “Did you say Manuel?” asked Winfield.

  “Garcia O’Kelly-Davis,” said Sally. “Open your ears.”

  “Put a sock in it, sweetheart,” said Winfield. “Manuel is the name of the person we contact to get our reports to The General.”

  “Could your contact also be an A.I.?” I asked, then mentally kicked myself. Of course it could. Any Turing-test certified A.I. could pass for a human.

  Winfield and Johnson gave me dirty looks. I ignored them.

  “Okay,” I said. “This approach is a dead end, except for trying to track down the A.I. angle.”

  “Ahem,” said my phone, clearing its non-existent throat. “There’s also the oligarch angle.”

  “Good point,” said Poly. “Show us.”

  My phone leaned a bit forward in its Federation-standard captain’s chair.

  “Here’s a list of the top one hundred wealthiest Americans,” it said.

  The top part of the smart wall shimmered, then showed the list. I was grateful that my phone didn’t interfere with Max’s drawings.

  “Why only Americans?” asked Martin.

  “I know,” said Sally. “It’s because of the company names. A lot
of them are taken from American history.”

  “The James K. Polk group,” I said.

  “Maine Havana Insurance,” said Poly.

  “Chapultepec & Castle,” said Winfield and Johnson in unison.

  “Huh?” said Chit.

  “It’s from the Mexican-American War,” said Johnson.

  “The Battle of Chapultepec in eighteen forty-seven,” added Winfield.

  Martin started singing in a pleasant baritone, “From the halls of Montezuma…”

  “Exactly,” said Johnson. “That’s where the first line in the Marines’ Hymn came from.”

  Who knew?

  “Okay, I get it,” said Martin. “We start with American oligarchs—which lets Nicky Stone off the hook.”

  “And Roger Joe-Bob Bacon,” I added.

  “Correct,” said my phone. “Now let’s focus on Atlanta-based individuals.”

  The list contracted from one hundred down to five.

  “My mother told me Ted Turner is living in Montana full-time these days,” said Poly.

  “Yeah. He’s ninety-two and fully occupied raising buffalo and cavorting with his twenty-three-year-old nurse,” added Sally.

  One of the names on the smart wall disappeared.

  “The heiress to the Coca-Cola fortune is having a grand time with a gold-digging Pyr in the north of Spain,” said Sally. “They’re in all the gossip magazines.”

  Living with a Pyr in the Pyrenees?

  Rosalind shook her head. “All those tentacles,” she said in a breathy whisper.

  My brain didn’t want to go there.

  Another name disappeared.

  “What about Alban White?” asked my phone.

  White had come out of nowhere to buy Home Depot from Arthur Blank and Bernie Marcus ten years ago. He’d renamed the chain as White House & Home and used the façade of the presidential mansion in all his advertising. That sounded like someone obsessed with American history. Alban White could easily be our man.

  “I’ll check him out,” said Martin. “I’ve got friends who work for him.”

  “Be careful,” said Poly.

  Martin stared at her and narrowed one eye.

  “All right, all right, you can take care of yourself,” said Poly. “I’ll take Pablo Daniel Figueres.”

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “No, but Professor Urrrson does, and he can introduce me.”

  “Great,” I said. “Take Cornell with you.”

  Cornell and Poly were both startled for a moment, then it sunk in. It wouldn’t do to have our our new allies operating without supervision. The two of them nodded, without enthusiasm.

  “What about the fifth name?” asked Johnson. “Who names their daughter Bavarian?”

  “Someone a touch sadistic,” answered Poly. “When Casper Kreem consolidated Dunkin’ Donuts, Winchell’s, Tim Horton’s and Krispy Kreme to become the continent’s Donut King, something snapped in his brain. Thank goodness he only had one child.”

  “Casper was a nutcase,” said Winfield. “I met him once at a conference and can understand why his ex-NBA bodyguards drowned him in a vat of coffee.”

  “The ultimate dunk,” said Poly in a stage whisper.

  I couldn’t help myself and chuckled.

  “Go ahead and laugh,” said Winfield. “It is funny—but who’s going to check out Bavarian Kreem?”

  “Nobody,” I said. “She’s nine.”

  “Oh,” said Johnson.

  “I’m going to follow up possible leads to Manny the A.I.,” I said.

  “Good luck to you,” said Rosalind.

  “Good luck to us, you mean,” I said.

  Poly raised an eyebrow.

  I shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

  “That leaves me to watch Max,” said Sally. “I’m glad to do whatever I can to support you from here.”

  “Thanks,” said Rosalind, nodding at Sally.

  “No worries,” Sally responded.

  “What are you two going to do?” asked Martin, his eyes on Winfield and Johnson.

  “We’re going to find out everything we can learn from our connections at Factor-E-Flor, O’Sullivan Engineering, VIGorish Labs and Chapultepec & Castle,” said Johnson.

  “Can you order us a car?” asked Winfield.

  “You’re not leaving this building,” said Martin. They tried to protest but received one of Martin’s full-on cop glares and thought better of it.

  Shepherd spoke for the first time during the meeting.

  “I will stay with them,” he said. “I have my own avenues of investigation that I can perform with a computer and a phone.” The Pâkk nodded at the former C&C executives. “I will see that they’re able to do their research remotely.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I owe you one.”

  Shepherd inclined his head to acknowledge the fact.

  “Where do you want me, bucko?” asked Chit, buzzing in front of my nose. She’d had to fly off the top of her stack of coasters because my phone had finally managed to topple them with an errant pseudopod foot.

  “Why don’t you keep an eye on Jack and Rosalind?” Poly said encouragingly.

  “Great idea,” said Chit. “Somebody has to keep ’em out of trouble.”

  “Exactly,” said Poly.

  Chapter 11

  “Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think.”

  — Guy Lombardo

  “Let’s get started,” I said. “There’s no time to waste. We can meet back here at seven to trade notes.”

  “Uh, Jack,” said my phone.

  “What?”

  “It’s almost seven o’clock now.”

  The heel of my palm smacked my forehead as I realized my error. I’d forgotten about the three-hour time difference between Las Vegas and Atlanta. In the few short, but hectic days I’d been in Vegas my body had adapted to Pacific time and our quick hop up to orbit and back hadn’t provided my brain with enough cues for it to reset.

  “Ouch!” I said. “Sorry about that. Let’s rendezvous back here at nine-thirty local time. I should be able to get back in a couple of hours.”

  “That works for me,” said Poly. “I’ll see if Professor Urrrson is still on campus. Maybe he can meet me here.”

  “Make sure he uses the underground utility corridors,” I said.

  Poly gave me a look just short of exasperation and I realized my mistake immediately. Don’t try to teach your grandmother—or your significant other—how to suck eggs, I reminded myself. I gave her a half bow and mouthed the words, “Mea culpa.” She forgave me, I think, because she kissed me on the cheek. Either that or she was treating me like the village idiot who wasn’t very quick on the uptake. I remembered she’d made the same mistake by cautioning Martin earlier and smiled.

  “Be careful,” I said.

  It was fun watching Poly’s face as she remembered the last time she’d said those words. We both grinned, then hugged, wiser for the experience.

  Martin found our exchange amusing. The corners of his mouth turned up, but he didn’t laugh. He’d been married a long time and I’m sure he’d been through a similar relationship equilibrium-setting process.

  “I’ll call my friends who work for White House & Home later, when they get home,” he said. “Most of them work long hours. Right now, I’m going back to my room to talk to my family.”

  “Give Apollonia—I mean Apple—and the boys our best,” said Poly as Martin left the room.

  “Now is a good time to confirm you have what you need to begin your research,” said Shepherd to Winfield and Johnson.

  The Pâkk moved to stand behind the pair and the two of them rose in unison, as if being controlled by invisible marionette strings. He escorted the former executives out of the conference room. I don’t know how Shepherd pulls that stuff off, but he does.

  Sally got up. Max noticed, glanced at Rosalind, and ran over to where I was sitting. He hopped in my lap and gave me an enthusiastic hug, then jumped down and did t
he same to his mother.

  “Time to go, big guy,” said Sally, motioning to Max. “I can order something delivered for dinner. What do you recommend?”

  “Not the Varsity,” said Poly. “I’d like something that at least pretends to be healthy.”

  “Pizza and salads from Fellini’s?” I said.

  Poly’s expression was neutral.

  “How about Ginsberg & Wong’s?”

  My partner’s face lit up.

  “I’ve always wanted to try them. One of my classmates raved about their corned beef and cabbage egg rolls.”

  “I thought you wanted something healthy,” I teased.

  “Hey, it has cabbage,” said Poly.

  “Do you eat those with mustard or duck sauce?” asked Rosalind.

  “Definitely mustard, according to my classmate,” said Poly.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said. “Want a Kosher Pu Pu Platter, Max?”

  Max’s expression made me wonder if I’d turned into a praying mantis-like Orishen nymph in front of his eyes.

  “It’s not made from what it sounds like,” I added quickly.

  “Okay,” said my son. “I’ll eat anything that doesn’t eat me first.”

  I wondered where he’d picked up that phrase. My mother used to say it on our rare camping trips when I was little.

  “Ginsberg & Wong menus have been sent to everyone,” said my phone. “A consolidated order will be placed at nine.”

  “Max and I will be at the street level entrance to pick it up when the drones deliver it,” said Sally.

  “Drones!” said Max.

  He rubbed his lower lip up and down rapidly, to imitate the sound of spinning rotors.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll pick up dinner,” said Poly. “I have to be near the entrance anyway.”

  “Okay,” said Sally.

  Max was disappointed but was quickly distracted by Chit circling his nose. He managed a fair imitation of the higher-pitched whine of Chit’s wings.

  Poly typed a message into her phone and seemed pleased to get a quick response.

  “Bart can meet us in twenty minutes,” she told Cornell. “Please don’t be a jerk when he gets here.”

  “I will be a consummate professional,” said Cornell.

  Poly removed a mini-sweetener from her pocket and held it up just above the surface of the table.

  “I’m counting on it,” she said. “Let’s meet him at this end of the utility corridor.”