“Did anything change recently?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” she said, “but you can confirm that with José.” She pushed through a pair of swinging doors and we were on the production floor. It was three stories tall, like the lobby, and half a block long with offices around the edges of the second and third floors. The ground floor where we’d entered was filled with giant machines reaching up half way to the ceiling. Some had hundreds of needles the size of javelins. Others were more traditional looms with warp and weft and shuttles. All had the curious semi-melted design typical of Orishen equipment and were fed by a thirty-foot tall stainless steel tank the shape of a propane cylinder filled with milky morphic silk fluid—the raw material for all the machines. José, the VP of Production, was standing by the nearest loom, a warp and weft machine that seemed to be empty of fabric except for a mechanical shuttle that looked like it was floating in thin air.
“Hola, José,” I said, “Como estás?”
“I’m fine, Jack,” said José, “but my looms aren’t.”
José Tejedor was a third generation Mexican-American in his mid-thirties with round John Lennon glasses and dyed white Albert Einstein hair. He had partnered with Ellie to start Morphicouture after she’d moved to Atlanta to escape northern winters and they’d both seen the promise of Orishen morphabrics. She took care of design, sales and advertising while he handled cloth production, cutting patterns, assembling garments and distribution. The looms were largely automated and the computer-driven laser cutting systems handled their duties with minimal staff so most people on José’s team sewed garments together or worked on the loading dock. Half a dozen employees responsible for the looms stood near José, ready to answer questions if he needed them. They were all Terrans. I nodded to them.
“Where’s Shuvvath?” I asked. He was an Orishen grub interning at Morphicouture who really knew how to keep machinery from his home planet humming. I liked talking with him to keep up with the younger Orishen generation’s latest idioms.
“Yesterday was his last day with us,” said José. “It was the end of his internship and he said he was heading back home. We had a pot-luck party for him at lunch yesterday afternoon.”
“The cloth was coming off the looms and knitting machines correctly yesterday?” I said.
The employees standing nearby bobbed their heads. “Right,” said José. “Our entire run from yesterday was fine.”
I had some suspicions about the source of the problem.
“Jack will solve it,” said Ellie. The pearls around her neck were pulsing faster to reflect her anxiety.
“I think we can get this sorted out quickly,” I said. “José, let’s head up the catwalk to check out the inspection hatch for the feed tank.”
“Sure,” said José.
“Please ask your team to inventory your bolts of morphabric,” I said.
“I can help with that,” said Ellie.
“Thanks,” said José. He found hard hats and flashlights for both of us.
Ellie gathered the production employees around her to assign inventory-related tasks while José and I headed for the stairs to the catwalks. Climbing up three flights of metal stairs was less strenuous than using gecko gloves to climb the side of an office building, which meant today was off to a better start than yesterday. When we got to the top third level José used his palm print to open a wire mesh door leading out to the catwalk around the top of the storage tank. Fluid from the storage tank fed the spinnerets that squirted out the threads used to weave or knit fabric. The tank was resupplied through a 12-inch pipe leading up to the ceiling. Regular shipments of new fluid came to Morphicouture by cargo dirigible from Hartsfield Port where it was directly loaded from Orishen tankers.
“When’s the last time you filled it up, José?” I asked. We walked out the catwalk toward the tank’s inspection hatch. Our path was narrow and high enough that I was glad I wasn’t acrophobic.
“Yesterday morning,” he said. “I inspected it myself.”
“And all the cloth you made yesterday was fine?”
“Absolutely,” said José. “There weren’t any problems.”
“What about the cloth in the looms? Was it transparent when you left?”
“It wasn’t,” said José. “I hope this isn’t some sort of practical joke Shuvvath is playing on us. If it is, it’s not funny.”
“I hope not, too,” I said. We reached the end of the catwalk. The tank was in the far corner of the production floor and a smaller catwalk went all the way around it near the top to allow for painting and inspections. There was a space about three feet wide between the steel walls of the tank and the brick walls of the building. A short ladder led up to a narrow platform next to the hatch. We climbed up. José turned a latch and opened the hatch. We turned on our flashlights and looked inside.
“It’s empty!” said José.
“Is it?”
I leaned my head into the hatch and shouted “Hello-o-o-o!” There wasn’t an echo.
José looked at me then leaned his head into the hatch and shouted “Hola-a-a-a-a!” No echo.
“Damn,” he said.
“Yep. The tank’s full, but the fluid’s turned transparent.”
“What could cause that?”
“You know how your dresses and suits respond to the explicit or subconscious desires of the people wearing them?”
“Yes,” said José. He drew the word out like he wasn’t sure where I was going.
“Morphic silk fluid is highly sensitive to human thoughts and emotions. It’s even more sensitive to Orishen thoughts and emotions.”
“So Shuvvath did do this!” said José. His face clouded up in indignation.
“Maybe,” I said, “but not in the way you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me get more details first,” I said. “Did anyone on your staff call in sick today?”
“Columbia Brown did,” he said. “She’s a loom operator and said her mother was sick so she had to take a few days off.”
Hmmm… More Ivy League school names? “Is she a new employee?”
“Yes,” said José, “she’s only been here for a few weeks. How did you know?”
“One more question first. What did Columbia bring to the pot-luck lunch?”
“A salad made from five colors of lettuce or something like that,” José said. “I didn’t like it but Shuvvath raved about it.”
I shook my head. Foritch leaves. Premature metamorphosis. Pieces were fitting together. I turned and started down the ladder.
“Close the hatch and come with me,” I said. José did and followed as I inched along the inspection catwalk that led to the dark, narrow space between the tank and the wall. He could sense the wheels turning in my head and was wise enough not to interrupt. In the darkest, narrowest, most hard to reach part of the catwalk I turned on my flashlight and saw what I expected to find—strands of Orishen pupa anchor silk still clinging to the tank and the wall. A piece of card stock the size of a business card with a red circle-slash over a black galaxy, the symbol of the Earth First Isolationists, was pressed into one sticky strand. I took a few pictures of the scene with my phone then removed the card and put it in my pocket.
“Please tell me what’s going on, Jack.”
“It makes more sense to tell you and Ellie at the same time. Let’s go down to the first level and talk about it.”
José and I retraced our steps, got to the first floor and stood in an empty area next to the morphic silk fluid tank. Ellie saw us return and came over with a tablet and, I hoped, details about their inventory.
“How much is missing?” I asked. She gave me a look like she wondered if I was psychic but gave me an answer.
“Four bolts,” Ellie said, “about fifty thousand galcreds worth of our new light bending cloth.”
“Crap,” I said. I could say “Shit” to Ellie but wanted to stay classy.
“How did you know?” she said.
> “This was all part of something a lot bigger,” I said. “I found Shuvvath last night as a hatching pupa stuck between two dumpsters at the Zesto’s on Ponce.”
“Huh?” said José. “So what was all that stuff stuck to the walls behind the tank about?”
“That’s where Shuvvath went to pupate last night,” I said. “Columbia Brown—that’s an alias by the way—brought a salad with foritch leaves and served it to him.”
“Foritch leaves?” said Ellie.
“They’re from Orish,” I said, “and they’re banned there. They induce premature and accelerated metamorphosis.”
“Sounds painful,” said José.
“I’ve been told that it is,” I said, “very much so.”
“What’s that got to do with our invisible fabric problem?” asked Ellie.
“The fabric and all the morphic silk fluid in the tank is highly sensitive to Orishen thoughts and emotions,” I said. “You’re lucky your warehouse is far enough way so that Shuvvath’s psychic pain didn’t affect every bolt you’ve got.”
“His pain turned it all transparent?” said Ellie.
“That’s correct,” I said. “Morphic silk fluid and morphabric are alive at some level. They tried to react to Shuvvath’s pain but couldn’t handle it and shut down. They couldn’t figure out what colors to be so they just gave up.”
“How do we fix it?” said José. He had a look that made me glad I thought I had a solution.
“I think I know how,” I said. “Ellie, can you have all your employees join us here by the tank ASAP, please?”
“Sure, but what…” said Ellie.
“Just do it,” said José. Their eyes locked for a second and she nodded. Effective long time partners can work that way.
“Thanks,” I said, loud enough so that Ellie could hear as she walked away. She waved her hand in acknowledgment. “Hey José,” I added, “can you sing?” He gave me another look. I knew he was a baritone soloist with the Atlanta Gay Men’s Chorus. I don’t know if he knew I knew. I told him what I was planning.
In a few minutes Ellie was back and the empty space around the tank had filled up with close to a hundred front and back office employees. José had one of his production team members lift us both up a few feet on a pallet with a forklift so that everyone could see us.
“Hi everybody,” said José. “This is Jack Buckston from Xenotech Support and he needs our help to fix our fabric problem. Ellie and I would appreciate it if you’d all be good sports and do what he says.”
“That depends on what he wants,” said a good-hearted voice from the back of the crowd. Somebody always has to be a joker. I wanted Xenotech Support to be the kind of company where my employees felt comfortable joking around and speaking their minds, too.
“Nothing illegal,” I said. “Just like your finished products are sensitive to thoughts and emotions, so are the raw materials. Last night they got quite a shock and turned transparent because they didn’t know what colors they should be. Our mission, should you choose to accept it…” That got a few laughs. “Our mission is to make the living fabric and morphic silk fluid happy and mellow again.”
“What happened?” said the same good-hearted voice from the back.
“Ellie and José can fill you in on that later,” I said. “Just know that a potential tragedy was averted and no one was hurt.”
I pressed on. “I thought of lots of ways to de-traumatize your raw materials,” I said, “and the easiest option seemed to be singing. Please join hands and join in.”
José provided the introduction. “When I find myself in times of trouble…” A few voices joined in for “Speaking words of wisdom” then almost everyone sang “Let it be, let it be.” We sang that through twice then “Yellow Submarine” and a few more Beatles tunes before shifting to songs from Disney musicals. I added a tenor harmony line and was impressed by the number of strong voices in the crowd. When we sang The Wookie Song from last year’s animated musical version of Star Wars: A New Hope everyone was clapping along and shouting the chorus, “Wook wook wook!” Before our eyes the threads and fabric in the looms and knitting machines had changed from transparent to their usual shimmering polychromatic hues. José sent one of his team leads up to check on the fluid in the tank and he reported that it was restored to its former milky opalescence. We’d done it!
After one last mighty “Wook!” José raised his arms and lowered them, as if giving a benediction, and the singing stopped. He closed his eyes then opened them wide and shared a big smile.
“Thank you, everyone,” he said, “and thank you Jack for knowing what needed to be done.”
I have to admit, it felt good to be applauded. The forklift operator lowered us to the floor and Ellie rushed over and hugged me. José was being mobbed by employees admiring his voice.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said, giving me an enthusiastic squeeze.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “I was glad to help.”
“You must let me do something special for you,” she said, her pearls pulsing in a slow, serene rhythm.
“That’s not necessary. I’m on retainer—it’s all part of Xenotech Support’s standard services.”
“Nonsense,” she said, “this was definitely above and beyond. Why don’t I make you a custom suit so that you can impress the ladies…”
“Could you make a custom dress so that I can impress one particular lady?”
Ellie tilted her head slightly and looked at me appraisingly. “Of course, Jack. Good for you,” she said. “Just have her stop in to get her measurements and I’ll take care of it.”
“I’d like it to be a surprise and I just got all her measurements for something else last night. Could you use them to make it?”
“It would be my pleasure.” We touched phones and I shared the details on Poly.
“Thank you again.”
“No, thank you,” said Ellie, “and you must come to lunch with me soon so that I can learn more about this one particular lady.”
“That would be great.”
Ellie looked me over and shook her head at my far from haute couture corporate uniform of polo shirt and khakis.
“I can’t let you walk out empty handed,” she said, walking to a nearby clothes rack that appeared to be empty except for a dozen hangers. “Take one of these coveralls with you. We make them for stagehands. They bend light and make anyone wearing them practically unnoticeable during scene changes.”
“Are they made from the same stuff that was stolen?”
“Yes, it’s one of our best sellers.”
I allowed Ellie and two of her assistants to help me step into the invisible coverall to confirm it fit me. It was weird to wear something I couldn’t see. The outfit had feet like the pajamas I wore as a kid and integrated gloves as well. When they pulled up the hood and pulled down the facemask I could couldn’t see myself in the nearby full length mirror.
“Wow!” I said. “This is amazing. The stagehands must love them.”
“Absolutely,” said Ellie. “They’re a big moneymaker. We call them our B.I.T.S. or Blend Into The Scenery line.”
“I’m impressed—and surprised the military isn’t beating down your door to get some,” I said.
“They are,” said Ellie, “but I’m not selling to anyone but Equity theaters.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing them next time I catch a play at the Alliance,” I said, naming Atlanta’s premier theater company.
“Or rather, to not seeing them,” said Ellie.
“Exactly.”
Ellie smiled. She was justifiably proud of her creations and was pleased I was impressed. Her assistants helped me remove the coverall. Then one of them folded it carefully, put it in a Morphicouture shopping bag and handed the bag to me.
“Wash in cold water and dry on low heat,” said Ellie.
“Got it,” I said, “and thanks again. I can see having a lot of fun with this scaring trick-or-treaters at Hallowe
en.”
“You wouldn’t hide in the bushes and jump out at the kids, would you?” said Ellie, with a feigned look of shock.
“No,” I said, “but it might make a very effective Cheshire Cat costume.”
Ellie smiled again and wagged her finger at me in a “don’t be a naughty boy” gesture. Bag in hand—and pack on my back—I made my goodbyes, giving her a parting hug. As I left José saw me and walked me to the lobby.
“I really appreciate what you did,” said José.
“Glad to do it,” I said. The corners of my mouth turned up.
“You didn’t just solve a production problem,” he said. “Now half our employees want me to lead a company a cappella choir.”
I could tell by his expression that the thought of a company choir made him happy so I put my sales hat on and tried, if you’ll pardon the expression, a pitch.
“So José,” I said, “after what just happened do you think I could interest you in a security system upgrade?”
“That sounds like a smart move.”
José shook my hand at the lobby door and told me to call him next week to discuss when to start. Xenotech Support Corporation was growing!
When I got to my van I reached in my pocket and pulled out the business card with the Earth First Isolationist logo. I knew where my next stop would have to be. Someone had some explaining to do.
Chapter 14
“There’s no there there.” — Gertrude Stein
“Where’s the Earth First Isolationists’ headquarters?” I said while I pulled down my shoulder harness and buckled myself in. I was tired of hearing my van say “Seat belt” in its oh-so-polite artificial voice.
“Fort Collins, Colorado,” said my phone.
“No,” I said, “Where is the Earth First Isolationists’ Atlanta headquarters?” My phone continued to be a smart-ass but I ignored it.
“1776 Longstreet Drive, Atlanta, Georgia,” said my phone with no hint of contrition.
“That’s a residential street in Buckhead.”
“Correct,” said my phone. “Nonetheless it is the address listed for the Isolationists with the Georgia Secretary of State’s office.”
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