Xenotech What Happens: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 3)

by Dave Schroeder

  “Yes,” said Martin, “but they walk on two legs.”

  That cynical comment put a damper on our conversation for a few seconds. It was Terrhi’s turn to look puzzled and I didn’t feel like giving her a detailed explanation of just how rotten humans could be to each other. I especially didn’t want to discuss that topic, given that fact that Terrhi’s parents were likely held captive by a cabal of humans who didn’t have two scruples to rub together. We were saved from an even longer awkward silence by the arrival of Mimi, Shepherd, and the last person I expected.

  “Jean-Jacques, what are you doing here?” I said, a bit louder than I’d planned. “I thought you were taking the first star liner to Dauush five days ago.”

  “I was,” said J-J, “but a friend called me on the way to Hartsfield Port and asked for my help at GALTEX.”

  “Help with what?” asked Martin, in full interrogation mode.

  “Later, Martin,” said Shepherd, trying to catch the lieutenant’s eye and establish dominance.

  Martin ignored him and waited for J-J to answer.

  “Marketing,” said the short and usually pugnacious president of WT&F.

  He didn’t say it with his usual bravado. It came out more like a mouse’s timid squeak than a lion’s assertive growl.

  Martin really was a lion.

  “Marketing what?”

  “A web site.”

  Martin kept up the pressure. Shepherd gave up trying to convince Martin to let it go and sat down to watch.

  “What kind of web site?”

  “A social media site for Québécois youth one of my cousins started.”

  I remembered that Jean-Jacques had originally been from Montreal, even though he’d spent most of his life in northern New Jersey before moving to Atlanta. My brain pulled the handle on the inference-driven slot machine behind my eyes and I guessed the name of the site.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “They’ve named it poutine.com.”

  “How did you know?” asked J-J.

  “Because I wouldn’t expect a site called poo teen to appeal to adolescents, in Québéc or anywhere else. Which is why they need your help?”

  “Correct,” said J-J. “My cousin is an idiot and doesn’t have a clue about marketing. Or picking site names, for that matter.”

  After leading the questioning, Martin had been uncharacteristically silent. Shepherd just sat there, looking inscrutable, with perhaps a hint of a smile showing. I pressed on.

  “And is there, perhaps, another reason why you’re here in Las Vegas?”

  “Well,” said J-J, equivocating.

  “I found him leaving a poker game in Boulder City,” said Shepherd. “Or rather, Chit found him.”

  “I needed to increase my liquid assets before I left the planet,” said J-J.

  “You needed cash?” I asked.

  “That’s what I said,” muttered J-J. “If you’re going to give me the third degree, the least you can do is pay attention to my answers.”

  Whether he was in Atlanta or Las Vegas, Jean-Jacques was still an arrogant ass.

  “Were you playing against Cornell?”

  “The man in the suit? The one in the photo Shepherd showed me? Yes.”

  “How’d you do?”

  “I walked away with a hundred thousand galcreds.”

  A.J. whistled. Terrhi was coloring on a paper place mat with three of her sub-trunks while following the adult discussion.

  “Cornell was only up fifty,” said Poly.

  “And I would have taken that from him if we’d played a few more hands,” said J-J. “He was good, but I was better.”

  A.J. cleared his throat from a couple of seats away. I glanced up and saw our server was standing behind me, ready to take our orders. I knew exactly what I wanted so I was able to think about more questions for J-J while everyone else selected their breakfast or lunch items. Thanks to a second server, another Diet Starbuzz materialized next to my nearly empty glass before I resumed.

  “Do you think Cornell would be interested in a one-on-one rematch?” I said.

  “The Pâkk already asked me that,” said Jean-Jacques, indicating Shepherd. “I would be if I were him. The man you call Cornell seemed to take it as a personal affront when I beat him. I’m sure he’d be glad for a chance to get his money back—and clean me out while he was at it.”

  “Can he contact Cornell?” I asked Shepherd.

  “He’s got a number,” said the Pâkk, “for a man who can reach Cornell.”

  “The guy who set up the poker game?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Shepherd.

  I knew something about the challenges and security precautions needed to run a clandestine gambling operation from my student days on Orish. The middle man would be our only shot at getting word to Cornell and setting up the game.

  “Has anyone heard from Chit?” I asked, looking at Poly.

  “Not since early this morning,” she replied. “Cornell was sleeping a floor above where the game was held and Chit was hanging on to his collar.”

  “That means we’ll know where the rematch will be held,” I said.

  “If the location isn’t changed to somewhere else,” said Poly.

  “There are dozens of old warehouses near Hoover Dam,” said Nettie. “Some are almost a hundred years old and go back to when the dam was under construction.”

  I looked at Mimi.

  “Could we fly over the warehouse district with an infrared camera and look for heat signatures from captive CEOs?” I asked.

  “I could,” the Pyr ex-Special Ops expert said. “It would be easy to rent a dirigible and scan the area.”

  “You might not find them that way,” noted Lizzie. “I’ve been inside several of the warehouses near the dam when I was looking for storage space near Vegas for GalCon Systems and quite a few of them have been retrofitted for cold storage. Mid-altitude airborne detectors might not be able to pick up heat signatures.”

  “Crap,” I said.

  Nettie spoke up.

  “I’ll make arrangements to survey the warehouses near the dam and poker game site with low-flying drones. The son of the owner of On-and-On Corporation is a friend. I’m sure I can convince him to loan us a small armada so we can finish up our reconnaissance quickly—especially if I tell him it may help us find his parents.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  “Here you go,” said our waitress. She was balancing a heavy tray stacked with steaming plates and followed by two more servers.

  “Great timing,” said Poly, passing a plate with three red steaks to Shepherd.

  Terrhi was happily digging into a plate holding a pile of waffles that looked like a miniature Devil’s Tower. I was glad that she didn’t seem too worried about her parents, but I knew she trusted me—and Poly and Martin—to rescue them. That put a heavy burden on my shoulders.

  By unanimous unspoken agreement, we stopped talking about anything other than inconsequential matters while we ate. Poly, with my encouragement, had ordered an All-Star Breakfast and was relishing the crisp outer crust of her hash browns. Mimi ate her omelet and toast mechanically, using only one tentacle. Her eyes kept flicking back to the open kitchen where Roger Joe-Bob Bacon would have been cooking if we’d been back at his Waffle House in Atlanta.

  “What did you find out last night?” asked Shepherd, after most of our plates were cleared and our drinks refilled. “Your phone’s report was somewhat less than complete.”

  “You mean Martin didn’t fill you in?”

  “Martin was remarkably uncommunicative last night and this morning,” said Shepherd, glancing at my friend, who chose that moment to look down and stir his hot chocolate.

  “RSVP turned out to be someone I
knew as Rosalind. I’d had a run-in with her before, on Orish,” I said. “She’s the person responsible for stealing GalCon Systems’ intellectual property.”

  “I see,” said Shepherd, turning toward the Obi-Yu siblings. “You’ve taken the appropriate security countermeasures after firing this individual?”

  “In the words of the old Nigerian proverb, we’ve done a great job at locking the barn door after the horse was stolen,” said A.J.

  “Uh, I don’t think that’s an old…”

  Poly nudged me in the ribs.

  “Let it go,” she whispered. “A.J. is just being A.J.”

  I shrugged, raised my eyebrows, and reluctantly followed her recommendation.

  “Good,” said Shepherd.

  “What do we do next?” I asked.

  Terrhi spoke up from the far end of the table.

  “Since Chit knows where Cornell is, why don’t we just grab the guy and get him to tell us where he’s put my mom and dad and Diágo and everybody?”

  “Good question,” I said.

  “Because,” said Martin in a tired voice, “if we capture Cornell, the other people in his organization may either move or harm their captives.”

  “And the last time we tried to interrogate Cornell, all we got was name, rank, and a series of digits from pi,” said Poly.

  “He’s a real hard case,” I added.

  “Oh,” said Terrhi. She sounded like she wished Spike wasn’t on the other side of the restaurant’s window. If I’d been sitting closer, I would have given her a hug.

  “I have an idea,” said Poly, “if we can get Cornell and J-J to have their poker rematch at a site we choose.”

  She leaned over and whispered her idea in my ear. I grinned. It might work—and it was high time we talked to the founders of Hu Zahn Fierst again. I hoped they were enjoying Vegas, at least, since they’d shut down their booth. Knowing them, they were probably exploring other companies exhibiting at GALTEX, not hitting the casinos. Maybe at night they were catching performances of Cirque Du Soleil’s XYZZY at the Royal Dauushan or the Blue Pyr Group at the Grand Pyridian? My brain started down a maze of twisting associational passageways and I had to wrestle my attention back to the discussion at the table.

  “J-J, you set up the game and coordinate with Poly on the location and the timing,” ordered Shepherd.

  “What’s in it for me?” asked Jean-Jacques.

  “Cornell’s money,” said Poly.

  “Bragging rights,” I added.

  “Immunity from prosecution,” said Martin.

  Martin clearly won that round and J-J agreed to work with Poly and set up the game for tonight, if possible.

  “I may have a lead on how they moved all the big shots to wherever they’re holding them,” said Mimi. “I’m going to check it out and see what I learn.”

  Shepherd nodded. “Keep us posted. What’s on your plate, Jack?”

  “RSVP doesn’t live here in Vegas, so I’m sure it will be impossible to trace her, but she did have a local confederate. I’ve got a name and I’m going to see if I can find her.”

  “You think RSVP is tied to the kidnappings?” asked Nettie.

  “With steel cables,” I said. “Somehow she passed the Mark IV router specs to Cornell who gave them to Chapultepec & Castle. They’re all in this together.”

  “Good luck,” said Nettie. “Let us know if you need any help.”

  “Thanks, but I was hoping Martin could give me a hand,” I said. I looked at Shepherd. “If you don’t have anything else lined up for him?”

  “Sorry,” said Shepherd, “but I need Martin to work with local and state law enforcement so they can move fast when we’ve identified where the CEOs are being held.”

  I shrugged. That was important, too. The mass abductions were being kept very quiet. If word got out the implications for the stock markets of more than a dozen worlds would be catastrophic.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it on my own.”

  “I could help!” interjected A.J.

  “I’m going to need your help with the On-and-On drones,” said Nettie. She and Poly exchanged a glance and I was sure I’d get the rest of that story later.

  “I’m going to dig into cui bono,” said Lizzie. “Who benefits?”

  “My bet is on EUA Corporation,” I said. I filled everyone in on what my phone and I had figured out.

  “I’ll start there,” said Lizzie.

  “Great!”

  “What about me?” asked Terrhi in her piping little girl’s voice. “I want to do something, not just sit in my room and coordinate.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Poly. “You’ve got a very important role to play tonight, so be sure to get some rest this afternoon. You’ll have to be at your best when it’s late.”

  “Okay, Aunt Poly. Can Spike help, too?”

  “Not tonight, but soon, I hope,” said Poly. “He can help when we rescue your folks.”

  “Yay!” said Terrhi.

  She waved several sub-trunks at Spike. Rivulets of drool slid down the restaurant window where the tri-sabertooth cat was standing. I was reminded to catch our server and order a double-portion of country ham to go. Spike would appreciate it.

  “We should reconvene at six tonight to share what we’ve learned,” said Shepherd.

  “I’ll get us a private dining room at the SLN Capital hotel,” said Nettie. “Mom had one of the Caucus Rooms reserved for company use during the convention and with her missing, it should be free.”

  “That will be satisfactory,” said Shepherd. “You can text us the details this afternoon.”

  Once our breakfast meeting had ended and we were all outside, I had a chance to hug Terrhi, feed ham to Spike, and give the big cat a scritch behind his ears, taking care to avoid any remaining drool. I took a self-inflating tennis ball out of my pocket—one of the small items I’d taken from my backpack tool bag—and played a few rounds of catch with the tri-sabertooth.

  Those pleasant tasks completed, I said goodbye to Terrhi and Spike and watched Lohrri and Naddéo escort the girl and her pet toward the Royal Dauushan.

  Poly and I took hands and looked at each other for a few seconds, savoring each other’s presence and a few precious moments of alone time. Then we hugged—gently.

  “Good hunting, Jack. And do your best to avoid getting chilled below the waist this time.”

  “You, too,” I said. “Looks like we’re going to be too busy with J-J’s poker game to have any fun of our own tonight.”

  “Rain check?” asked Poly.

  “If we have to wait until it rains in Las Vegas our vacation will be over before anything fun happens.”

  “Then I’ll have to make my own rain by dragging you into the shower,” said Poly.

  “Works for me,” I said, smiling. “Works for me.”

  Chapter 23

  “A part-time worker is fully employed, half the time.”

  — Jarod Kintz

  Poly and I walked to the lobby of the Grand Pyridian and out to the drive in front. Poly caught the first autocab and headed north toward GALTEX and the Las Vegas Convention Center to connect with the founders of Hu Zahn Fierst. She’d give Jean-Jacques the details about where to hold the poker game by phone. I took the next cab in line and told it to drive south on the Strip while I talked to my phone.

  “Did you get any photos of Rosalind’s partner at the K Street Bar?”

  “The young woman piloting the advertising dirigible when we commandeered it yesterday?”

  “Yes. Short brown hair. Really flexible.”

  “There are seven pictures of that individual in this unit’s photo gallery and a video of her yoga routine on top of the kiosk at the Convention Center.”

  “You
videoed her yoga routine?”

  “It was aesthetically pleasing. Ooooom.”

  My phone used extra reverb on the last syllable for effect.

  “Don’t Zen out on me, buddy,” I said. “Please do a facial recognition cross-reference and see if she’s in any databases. Rosalind called her Sally.”

  The device made a series of soft clicking noises, almost as if it was talking to itself as it worked. Then it made a loud ding.

  “First hit,” it said. “Temporary Fillings Employment Service.”

  “Did they provide the pilots for the advertising dirigibles?”

  “Affirmative. The pilot’s current identity is Sally Ryde.”

  A second set of clicks, longer this time, without a ding.

  “That’s it?” I paused and contemplated my phone like Hamlet addressing Horatio’s skull. “Just one hit?”

  “With her current appearance,” it said. “Simulating different hair and eye colors wouldn’t be difficult, but would take time.”

  “What can you find about her on the web?”

  “That’s a problem,” said my phone. “There are three hundred and twenty-seven individuals named Sally Ryde in Las Vegas.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “There would be. That makes it hard to get an address. It will be faster to check with the agency. Where is Temporary Fillings located?”

  The address was a few miles west of the Strip on Flamingo. I passed it to the autocab and sat back to enjoy the ride. Traffic was light and less than ten minutes later my robo-chariot delivered me to an aging strip mall on the north side of the street. It being Vegas, there were two strip clubs, a liquor store, a payday loan place, a downscale pizza delivery chain franchise, a weed joint, and my destination. Temporary Fillings Employment Service was at the far end. Every other storefront looked tired, with peeling paint, deteriorating signage, and white lines delineating each business’s parking that had faded so much as to be almost indistinguishable from the asphalt.