Xenotech Rising: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 1)

by Dave Schroeder

  With my eyes closed I pumped some shampoo into my right hand and reached up to rub it into my hair. That’s when my open palm hit the squirrel’s revenge, a pink spiny seed pod from the Dauushan tree that had—unknown to me—stuck to the back of my head. That pod dug its hooks into my hand and wouldn’t let go, stinging like a Portuguese man o’ war. Increasing my joy, a second pod that must have been stuck near the first was dislodged by my vigorous reaction and fell to the tiled floor of the shower. I promptly stepped on it, driving its hooks into the sole of my left foot as I danced the ouch-ouch-ouch-that-hurts dance of pain. To add olfactory assault to physical injury the pressure from my foot ruptured the second pod, releasing a foul-smelling pink goo whose odor seemed like a cross between skunk and whatever scent was the diametric opposite of wintergreen.

  Watching me hop up and down on one foot, screaming in agony while simultaneously trying to hold my nose with one hand and scrape off the first pod stuck to the other was much funnier when I viewed it later on the shower A.I.’s video of the debacle—but as it was happening it totally lacked any element of humor. While balancing unsteadily on my right foot I held my breath and removed my left hand from my nose long enough to grab one of my wet socks. I used the sock to grab the pod embedded in my right hand and remove it. My right palm felt like it was being ripped off but when I looked more closely it seemed intact. It was just bright red and dotted with needle-thin hooked spikes. What fun.

  I tossed the sock with the pod in it to the back of the shelf holding my soap, shampoo and cream rinse. Then I grabbed the other wet sock in my left hand and used the tips of the fingers on my right hand to grip the shelf and stabilize myself while I tried to excise the crushed pink pod that seemed to have permanently fused with the tender skin of my left instep. I was just about to rip the pod away like pulling off a superglued Band-Aid when the Earl Grey program switched from a soft, warm flow of water to its second phase—sharp, stinging hot needle jets of high pressure water that surprised me and almost knocked me off my feet, or rather foot. I squeezed the fingers of my right hand tightly on the shelf and fought for balance while preparing my left hand to grab the second pod. One. Two. Three!

  The pain was excruciating. It flowed at lightning speed from the sole of my foot to the crown of my head and seemed to blow the top of my scalp off as it headed for the ceiling. I lost my grip on the shelf. Then I lost my balance and slid unceremoniously down the side of the shower stall. I sat there, whimpering in a pool of pink, smelly liquid next to the drain, which was now clogged by a crushed pod and a soaked sock. I felt like Droopy on a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Then the Earl Grey program moved to phase three and I screamed as a blast of frigidly cold spray added insult to my already extensive injuries.

  When the cold water finally stopped and the Earl Grey program finished, I used the sock to push the second pod away from the drain so the water level could go down and make it marginally safer for me to try to stand. Each attempt at standing brought pain to either my foot or my palm. I continued to sit at the bottom of the shower and tried to get enough brain cells to line up in a row to manage a coherent thought. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  “Hey, Psycho,” I said, with just enough energy to win a wrestling match with a day-old kitten.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Can you talk to my cell phone and have it place a call for me?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Please ask it to call Tomáso Kauuson and patch me through to him on your audio.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Psycho. “Your phone is ringing him now.”

  “Hello,” said the senior Dauushan government official. “It looks like you’ve had a run in with prickly pods and didn’t fare so well.”

  “Psycho, I said patch me through to him on your audio, not audio and visual.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the A.I. “My nuance-sensing subroutines are limited.”

  “It’s done now,” I said. “I guess you can see what a mess I’m in Tomáso, though you’re lucky you can’t smell it.”

  “Agreed,” said the Dauushan. Did I mention that all nine of their trunks are also noses?

  “Can you help?” I said, moaning.

  “Certainly. It’s a common enough problem on Dauush. Our children step on pods all the time.”

  “Thank you.”

  I was glad Tomáso could see the visual so he could tell how much I meant it.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got just the thing for it. See if you can make your way into your spa tub and I’ll send a friend to deliver the perfect solution for you right away.”

  “Will do,” I said, wondering how I’d get the energy to crawl that far.

  “Just tell your phone to let my friend in when he arrives,” said Tomáso. “He should be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  I was in too much pain to question his choice of idiom.

  “I will,” I said, “and thanks again.”

  “No problem at all. I’m sure you’d do the same for me.” I could sense that Tomáso was trying hard not to laugh.

  He ended the call and I managed to push open the shower door and crawl over to the empty tub on knees and elbows. Then I levered myself up and flopped over its side. I ended this physically daunting expedition curled up in a ball and moaning in the center of the tub’s cold vitreous bottom. I think I blacked out for a little while but roused when I heard voices from the front of the apartment—my phone must have understood my intent if not my specific instructions and allowed Tomáso’s friend to enter. Tomáso couldn’t very well come to my place himself—there wasn’t room for an adult Dauushan. He couldn’t even fit through the door.

  I heard a low growl somewhere above me and summoned enough brain cells to get my eyes to focus. An older but solidly built Pâkk was standing next to the tub. He was wearing his species’ version of a business suit—that is, nothing, except for a cordovan leather vest with lots of pockets. His fur was short and medium brown and he was holding a square white box the right size for a blueberry pie. Next to him on a hand truck was a transparent 40 gallon drum holding an odd-looking chartreuse green liquid. That must be Tomáso’s perfect solution. I hoped it would work and took a closer look at my unlikely angel of mercy.

  Pâkk are a bipedal bear-like, wolf-like group hunting species with big brains, long broad snouts and large teeth, originally from a planet much like Earth. They’re one of the most prolific species in the Galactic Free Trade Association and have expanded to more than a dozen planets from their home world. Sometimes that expansion has been peaceful, sometimes not.

  The Pâkk-Orish War was less than a generation ago and was frequently ignored by economists on and off planet. Those experts were all convinced that free trade between Galactic species would eliminate all armed conflict, despite clear evidence to the contrary. Pâkk are very clannish and had a mixed reputation. Some Galactics use them when they need a physical representation of the boogey man to frighten their offspring. I’d met several before. Some seemed decent people. Some scared the hell out of me.

  I hadn’t met this Pâkk so it was too soon to tell. He had gray streaks in the fur by his eyes that made me think he’d already lived a hard life. He looked straight ahead at the tiled wall, not directly at me. Was he trying to spare me embarrassment or him? From my vantage below I could see right up his nostrils. He was wearing nose filters.

  “I’m wearing filters because you stink,” the Pâkk said in English with a voice that sounded like a human blues singer who’d smoked too many cigarettes and drank too much whiskey for too many years. His voice alone predisposed me to like him.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “This diversion wasn’t on today’s formal agenda. Thanks for your help.”

  “I owed Tomáso a favor,” said the Pâkk. “And he owed me one.”

  “What do you mean?” I tried to sit up and didn’t succeed.

  “Stay where you are. You need to start soaking.”

&nbs
p; He flipped the drain closed, leaned the drum over the side of my spa tub, extended a spout and started pouring the chartreuse green liquid over my naked, smelly body. The stuff was translucent and had the consistency of cake batter. It smelled sweet and had an underlying hint of some undeterminable fruit scent. Wherever it touched my skin I felt better. I rolled over on my back so that more of my body would be immersed sooner as the Pâkk emptied three quarters of the drum into the tub.

  “How is Tomáso doing you a favor?”

  “I wanted to meet you,” he said. “Now I have. I may have an opportunity for you in the future.”

  “Sounds great.” An opportunity? I tried to muster new prospective customer-level enthusiasm and failed.

  “Save your strength. You should be fine in a few minutes.”

  The liquid was now deep enough to cover my entire body if I flattened myself against the bottom of the tub. It felt marvelous. I could sense the hooked needle barbs in my hand and foot dissolving. The pain associated with the pod spines moderated and nearly vanished. Even the soreness in my ribs and hips where Tomáso had grabbed me earlier was fading. Note to self: Investigate the properties of this liquid and bring it to the attention of one of the health and beauty consortiums after locking up an exclusive sourcing agreement.

  I tried to work up new customer enthusiasm again and, thanks to the restorative liquid, this time I succeeded.

  “What sort of opportunity can I help you with?” I said, with a throat-clearing interrogatory at the end that a human, at least, would recognize as “And your name is... ?”

  “How much do you know about the Pâkk?” said my rescuer.

  “Just the basics. You control at least 12 planets and a lot of Galactic trade. You’ve got two major dialects, Long Pâkk and Short Pâkk. You’re often feared, seldom loved.”

  “Do you know the major difference between the Long Pâkk and the Short Pâkk?”

  “No.”

  “Pâkk believe all other species are there to be exploited,” said the older Pâkk.

  “Okay, so what’s the difference?”

  “Other species are like sheep,” he said. “Long Pâkk see them as wool.”

  “I get it,” I said, “and Short Pâkk see them as lamb chops.”

  “Exactly,” said the older Pâkk.

  “You are speaking metaphorically, aren’t you?”

  The Pâkk put the pie-sized box down on the edge of the tub.

  “This is from Terrhi,” he said. “She said you’d need it for your date.”

  “Thanks.” I wondered what it was.

  He turned and wheeled the drum that was still about a quarter full of greenish liquid over to the shower and poured it in to kill the smell of the remaining prickly pod goo. Then he surprised—and scared me.

  “Earl Grey—hot. Make it so,” he said.

  Psycho the small brained shower A.I. started the cycle that washed the excess greenish liquid and the now neutralized pink goo down the shower’s drain.

  “It’s 7:15,” said the Pâkk. “If you hurry you have just enough time to shower, dress and make it to the Teleport Inn by 8:00.”

  The relaxed feeling from the greenish liquid in the tub instantly changed to the urgency of a five alarm fire. I’d have to shift into overdrive and hope that traffic was light. But business was business.

  “What about the opportunity you mentioned?”

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said as he turned and started to leave the bathroom.

  “Wait,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Call me Shepherd.”

  Chapter 9

  “Tell the truth, work hard, and come to dinner on time.” ― Gerald R. Ford

  I’ve never been considered short on entrepreneurial drive but when Shepherd left my apartment I managed to accelerate past overdrive into hyperdrive. I beat thirteen seconds off my previous shortest time to take a shower. Then I hopped into a pair of underwear with only a few twinges from my injured foot. I pulled a dress shirt over my head without unbuttoning it and snatched my favorite fractal pattern tie off the rack while stepping into the pants of my best suit. The Teleport Inn was a wear a suit—or a tux—kind of place. I shrugged into my suit jacket then sprinted to my nightstand to fill various pockets with phones and the other assorted personal paraphernalia. As I headed for the front door to my apartment my feet felt cold. Shit. Shoes. Socks. I went back to my bedroom closet and got my best black dress shoes then detoured by my bureau to grab a pair of socks. I sat on my bed and put them both on. Then I looked in my bedroom mirror and went through a quick checklist before I headed out the door. Crap. Belt.

  I returned to my closet and found a dress belt but I knew I was still missing something. Belt. Socks. Box! Terrhi’s box! I detoured by the bathroom, grabbed the box, told my phone to have my van meet me at street level and opened the door to leave my apartment. My phone said, “Backpack,” so I stuck out an arm to snag that essential accessory as I went by. I’d better not get a support call tonight!

  I zipped out of my garden apartment and ran across the courtyard park to the nearest exit to the street, giving the Dauushan tree and its prickly pods a wide berth, even if it cost me a few seconds. My van saw me and opened its front driver’s side door so I could enter quickly.

  “Teleport Inn and step on it.”

  “Seat belt,” said my van.

  I put my backpack and Terrhi’s box on the front passenger seat and buckled myself in. The van’s A.I. accelerated like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. The reality of modern driving is that if you want to get somewhere fast it’s smarter to let your vehicle drive itself. My van could time the lights, negotiate with other vehicle A.I. units and out-maneuver even NASCAR drivers on the streets of Atlanta. Besides, I needed the time to calm down and get myself organized.

  “Mirror, please,” I said.

  The entire front windshield turned into a mirror without comment from my vehicle. It’s a van of few words.

  I brushed my fingers through my hair to tame it a bit then buttoned the top buttons on my dress shirt and tried to remember how to make a full Windsor knot in my Orishen meta-silk tie. I fumbled my way through tying something that didn’t look too embarrassing and maneuvered my body to insert my belt through all its loops without unbuckling my seat belt and bringing my van to a premature halt. The whole process made me wish I was Pâkk. Their idea of formal-wear was a plain black vest made from the hide of one of their own kills.

  I continued to go through my self-inventory and bent down to check the laces on my shoes—archaic technologies have their place—and confirmed that both were tied so I wasn’t likely to trip on them and make a fool of myself, I hoped. Then looked up and smiled at the windshield mirror. Crap. There was a piece of onion from lunch stuck between my upper left incisor and bicuspid. I’d forgotten to brush my teeth. Crap.

  I dug around in various pockets of my backpack and found a single use toothbrush and a metal tin of breath mints—both came in handy after spicy lunches and before afternoon client meetings. I even used floss. The piece of onion was gone and my breath now smelled minty fresh when I exhaled into my palm. I could do this.

  The van started to slow and my heart rate sped up. I was nearly there with five minutes to spare.

  “Problem ahead,” said my van’s laconic A.I.

  “Cancel mirror.”

  When the windshield returned to its usual transparent mode I could see the problem. The street in front of the Teleport Inn was blocked by several hundred Earth First Christian protesters shouting and waving crudely hand printed signs. I asked my phone why they were there.

  “The Atlanta Journal-Constitution reports that the Nicósn Supreme Prelate is dining with the North Georgia United Methobapterian Elder Bishops at the Teleport Inn this evening,” said my phone. “They’re negotiating a treaty to accept each other’s sacraments as mutually valid in the morning.”

  There was no way my van would be able to get through the crowded street to drop me off at th
e door.

  “Stay nearby,” I said to my van. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  The drivers’ side door opened and I started to slide out.

  “Box,” said my phone. Maybe it knew something I didn’t.

  I reached over, grabbed Terrhi’s box and made my exit. The door closed smoothly behind me. My van did a neat three point turn and headed back the way it had come with a soft bassoon accompaniment. I had three minutes to get around the protesters and meet my date.

  I spent a few seconds observing the Earth First Christians. They were marching in an elongated oval in front of the humanoid entrance to the restaurant. I fell in behind one of the larger protesters—a bald, broad-shouldered man with a prominent brow ridge—and tried shouting the same things he was shouting. I think it was nonsense like “Earth first, Nicós worst.” I followed the oval as it marched around from the street side to the restaurant side and made a break for the entrance when I was closest to it.

  The doorman—an imposing seven foot red and black stripped cat-like Tigrammath in crisp blue livery with epaulets—recognized my ploy and let me in.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  I was glad he hadn’t decided I was unwelcome. Three inch claws are intimidating.

  I inhaled deeply and let my breath out slowly. I hoped that would calm me down and encourage my heart to stop beating so fast. It helped, a little. I started walking down a short corridor toward the hostess stand to check in. Then I saw my date and my heart rate went from largo to presto in a millisecond.

  She was wearing an elegant knee-length dark green meta-silk dress draped so it moved in very interesting ways as she walked toward me. It matched her eyes and was cut something like a Greek chiton. She looked like a statue of Athena come to life, strong and wise and lovely with her auburn hair gently bouncing around her shoulders. She was carrying a small white box. We intersected at the hostess stand. There was no one behind it, not that I would have noticed if there was.

  “Hi,” she said.