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

by Dave Schroeder

Pomy tried to drag things out, but Ms. Smith wasn’t having any of it. The no-nonsense woman took Pomy’s arm and pushed her out onto the front steps. Hans locked the doors and disappeared off camera—I assumed to a parking lot in the back of the building. Ms. Smith also went out of camera range.

  “That was quite a distraction,” said the Pyr attorney.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” said my phone, sounding like Chit.

  “There’s additional footage?” asked Atticus.

  “Yes, counselor,” said my phone.

  It switched to a view from another security camera aimed at the front of Factor-E-Flor’s headquarters. Pomy removed a salami-sized metal cylinder from her purse, twisted a dial, and tossed it into a row of bushes flanking the entrance. Then she ran out into the parking lot and was off-camera. My phone shifted to yet another view and followed Pomy as she made tracks to the far side of the lot, seventy-five yards away. Then there was a huge boom and the feed stopped abruptly.

  “What was that long, round object?” asked Atticus.

  “A Macerator power pack cylinder,” said Pomy.

  “And what, perchance, is a Macerator?”

  “It’s a nickname for Mobile Armored Combat and Emergency Rescue units,” answered Poly.

  “They were developed by the United States Army before First Contact and are three generations obsolete now,” I added.

  “Ah, old-fashioned powered infantry suits,” said Atticus. “Like in Starship Troopers.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed.

  “Which leads to…” said Atticus.

  “…how I ended up with a Macerator power pack cylinder,” concluded Pomy.

  “It’s a long story,” I said, then started in on the tale of Queen Sherrhi’s Star Wars-themed banquet in our honor at the Atlanta Teleport Inn last week. Poly picked things up from when the Macerators attacked and my phone displayed a highlight reel showing how the various guests had taken down Macerators and their operators using everything from chairs to tablecloths to serving dishes.

  “Impressive,” said the Pyr. “You wouldn’t happen to have any more of these power pack cylinders, would you?”

  “There might be another one in my backpack tool bag,” I said. “I can check.”

  “You can do that later and let me know,” said Atticus. “I’m primarily interested in the firm that manufactured the cylinders.”

  “That’s easy,” said my phone. It projected a hologram of a cylinder in the air above us and rotated it until we could see the relevant details stamped on one side.

  “Made by Factor-E-Flor Corporation,” said Poly.

  “Bingo,” said Atticus.

  “Will that help my case?” asked Pomy.

  “It won’t hurt,” said the Pyr. “I can show that Factor-E-Flor bears some of the responsibility for the damage themselves.”

  Pomy started to smile—something she hadn’t done since she’d arrived.

  My phone returned to projecting video. “This is overhead footage from fire department drones that reached the scene a few minutes after the explosion,” it said.

  We saw pictures of the front of the building completely crashed in on itself. The second floor, where Agnes Spelman’s office was located, tilted at a severe angle. Smoke and dust filled the air and made the scene look hazy.

  “Had it been your intent to cause this level of destruction, Ms. Keen-Jones?” asked Atticus.

  “Of course not,” said Pomy. “I was just trying to create a small distraction. How was I to know there was a live gas main entering the building right under those bushes?”

  “How indeed,” said the Pyr.

  Poly whispered to me. “She could have checked the building’s plans before pulling that stunt.”

  “Give her a break. We were all making it up as we went along,” I replied, sotto voce.

  “To the best of your knowledge, did Factor-E-Flor have any use for a live gas feed?” asked Atticus.

  “Reports from the fire department indicate that the company did not,” said my phone. “The building was cited by the fire marshal on July 3rd, 2029, for not capping and evacuating the line.”

  “That’s good news indeed,” said Atticus. He regarded my phone with increased respect. “Well done,” he said. “Would you be interested in a job as my paralegal?”

  “Let’s discuss that later,” I said. “You can’t have my phone, but I could give you one with similar basic programming you could train to your own specifications.”

  “Excellent,” said the Pyr. “Something for another day.”

  “Is all that enough?” asked Pomy. “Will you be able to get me off without having to pay massive damages?”

  “Nothing is one hundred percent sure,” said Atticus, “but from what I’ve heard so far this evening, I would say the odds are good I can win a substantial reduction in damages, if not an outright acquittal. There’s contributory negligence, product liability issues, and more in your favor.”

  “To say nothing of the fact that EUA orchestrated the whole Macerators’ attack at the Teleport Inn and tried to kill us on several occasions,” said Poly.

  “And there’s the booby-trapped elevator with the nova bomb at Zwilniki’s hangar that EUA rigged,” I said.

  “I have more than enough information to represent you well tomorrow, Ms. Keen-Jones,” said Atticus. “And I’m afraid that if your associates continue to talk I will overhear something I will be compelled to report as an officer of the court.”

  Poly and I looked at each other and pulled virtual zippers from one side of our lips to the other.

  “Thank you for your help,” said Pomy.

  “You’re quite welcome,” said Atticus, “but now I must be going. I have to return to my office to work on my contribution.”

  “To the case?” asked Poly.

  “To the judge,” said Atticus. “But don’t worry. The Obi-Yu family trust will match whatever EUA puts up to ensure an unbiased verdict.”

  “Did something change about the American legal system while I was on Orish?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said the Pyr attorney. “There’s an app for buying judges.”

  “You mean justice,” said Pomy, hopefully.

  “Don’t inquire too closely about sausage making,” said Atticus. “The American system is famed galaxy-wide for providing the best judges money can buy.”

  “If you say so,” said Pomy.

  “And if we’ve got enough money on our side to ensure a level playing field,” said Poly.

  “Of course,” said the Pyr. “Not to mention they take PayPal.”

  Chapter 17

  “It’s nice finding that place where you can just go and relax.”

  — Moises Arias

  Poly walked Atticus out when he left to go back to his office and work on Pomy’s case. I realized I didn’t know much about Pyrs’ sleep requirements. My phone assured me that they could go for a week without rest when necessary, saying something about evolutionary stresses early in their development as a sentient species that required long periods of hypervigilance. That made me wonder what predators looked like on the Pyr homeworld. They certainly didn’t need to be built for speed, given that Pyrs’ mobility cilia’s top speed maxed out at the pace of a leisurely human stroll.

  I posed the Pyr predators question to my phone and it showed us a video of a Pyr armed with six heavy clubs in his tentacles beset by a dozen attackers that I can best describe as trilaterally symmetric shark heads with three mouths. The Pyr in the video was rotating rapidly and bashing away, keeping his opponents at bay. When the sharp-toothed predators hopped up to bite him, the Pyr landed heavy blows that knocked them unconscious. The clubs made a definitive twack when they hit and the angry, angular landsharks weren’t getting up in a hurry. I didn’t worry about Atticus burning the midnight oil after that.

  When Poly returned, she decided that it was too late for Pomy to go home. We got Pomy set up in an empty suite and Poly lent her an oversized t-shirt to sleep i
n. It had originally been mine and was white with the original green Starbucks logo. I’d bought it back before the company had been purchased by a Nicósn financial services company that offered loans and retail banking services along with even better coffee, thanks to Nicósn bioengineering. On the company’s new logo, the mermaid had beard tentacles and a galcred symbol instead of a star on her crown. I liked the old one better.

  We were in Pomy’s room ready to head back to our own. Pomy had changed into the Starbucks shirt so she could go right to bed. Unfortunately, she was quivering like a string on an electric bass that had just been strummed, though she tried to put up a brave front.

  “Good night, Sis,” said Poly, hugging Pomy tight enough to dampen most of the quivering.

  “Good night,” Pomy replied. “And thank you. I’d never survive this without you.”

  “You’ll do fine,” I said, collecting my own hug and sensing Pomy’s trembling directly. “Get some rest and try not to worry.”

  “You might as well tell me not to think of pink elephants with blue polka dots,” said Pomy.

  Poly and I laughed.

  “Don’t make fun of me,” said Pomy. “I’m so wound up, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to sleep.”

  “We’re not making fun of you,” I said. “We’re thinking of Terrhi.”

  That won us a quick, nervous smile from Pomy.

  “Would you like a drink?” asked Poly. “We can order a booze delivery with some mixers.”

  “No, I need a clear head tomorrow. Any other ideas?”

  “You could hum the Tallis Canon when your head hits the pillow and see if that helps,” suggested Poly.

  “That doesn’t work for me,” said Pomy. “My mind keeps free-associating and turns it into the 1812 Overture.”

  It made sense. She substituted cannons for canons.

  “I have a never-fail way to help you relax,” I said.

  “You do?” asked Pomy. “Please tell me.”

  “Yes, Jack,” said Poly. “Tell us.”

  From her tone, I was afraid Poly thought this was something I’d learned from Rosalind.

  “I learned this from my step-father,” I said to reassure. “It always works for me.”

  “What do I do?” asked Pomy.

  “Pull back the bedclothes so you can just fall back into bed when we’re done,” I said. “Poly can tuck you in.”

  Pomy stuck her tongue out at me to show she wasn’t five and didn’t need to be tucked in, thereby demonstrating that she did. She pulled back the coverlet, blanket and top sheet.

  “Now what?”

  “Sit on the edge of the bed. Close your eyes. Put your feet flat on the floor. Keep your back straight and your shoulders square.”

  Pomy complied. I could still see a slight tremble, but her posture was good.

  “Breathe in through your nose—use an eight count—and let the air out slowly through your mouth.”

  Poly sat down in one of the armchairs to one side and also followed my instructions.

  “This feels good,” said Pomy.

  “Don’t talk, breathe,” I said, “and listen.”

  I heard Pomy and Poly breathing together, keeping the same rhythm. It was time for the next phase. I modulated my voice to produce a soothing tone.

  “Imagine that your skull is filled with warm water. There’s an imaginary axle that runs from just in front of one ear to just in front of the other.”

  I paused to give them time to visualize.

  “Now imagine there’s an old fashioned wooden water wheel, the kind with big wide buckets, rotating around that axle. It moves from your chin to your forehead to the crown of your head, then over the top and back again in time to your breathing. It goes up when you inhale, collecting warm water, then releases that water when you exhale, sending it down your spine.”

  Both sisters were relaxing. The muscles on Pomy’s face were no longer tense and she wasn’t quivering. Poly’s face had a beatific smile. The exercise was working.

  “Feel the water flowing down your spine as you exhale. Sense the warm liquid moving down your back to your hips, then out along your legs, past your knees and along to your ankles and your feet. Feel the warmth flowing as you breathe and let the water carry waves of relaxation all the way out to the tips of your toes. Breathe. Let the water flow.”

  Pomy and Poly’s breathing was slowing. Their eyes were closed and they were focused on my words.

  “Now let the water flow along your shoulders and down your arms,” I said. “Let the warm water move down your arms, past your elbows and wrists to your hands.”

  I’d used this technique on myself several times—it was my favorite way to get to sleep when I was too keyed up. I also used it to calm myself before important client meetings when I needed to be centered and at my best. I wondered if it was a form of hypnosis—self-hypnosis in my case—and decided I wasn’t going to try issuing any hypnotic suggestions. I was sure that wouldn’t end well.

  “Sense the movement of the water down your arms,” I said. “Feel the warmth flowing out to the ends of your fingers. Feel the warmth flowing down your back, along the channels of your body. Your neck is relaxed. Your shoulders are relaxed. Your trunk is relaxed. Your arms are relaxed. Your legs are relaxed. Let the water flow and know you’re at peace.”

  That did it. Pomy was in some sort of self-induced trance. She wasn’t quivering and her body had lost all the tension that was making it impossible for her to sleep. I crossed to her and gently guided her body down to the mattress, putting her head on a pillow and covering her with the sheet, blanket and coverlet. Her breathing was easy and rhythmic and her face looked like an angel’s from a Renaissance painting. She should get a good night’s sleep.

  I walked over to Poly and helped her stand. She wasn’t really awake, but she let me guide her back to our room on autopilot. She took off her clothes without engaging the conscious part of her brain and I tucked her in much the same way I had for her sister, except Poly got a kiss on her forehead. Then I took off my own clothes, put my phone on the nightstand and climbed in with her, sliding to the center so I could feel her warmth beside me.

  “Thank you,” murmured Poly.

  “Sleep, my love,” I said.

  My own breathing became slow and regular and I was only momentarily distracted by an unfamiliar sound.

  My phone was snoring.

  Chapter 18

  “Puerto Rico is one of those places you can be

  as quiet or as crazy as you want...”

  — Bruce Forsyth

  I ordered two dozen Dauushan-hummingbird-egg-and-sausage-filled steamed buns from Take a Bao, the well-reviewed Chinese specialty restaurant on 10th Street across from Georgia Tech’s Paper Museum. I’d learned to love filled steamed buns when my mom took an assignment in Jakarta to advise the Indonesian government on the most effective way to convert their existing oil, gas and coal power plants to modern, non-polluting congruency-based systems.

  The Chinese enclaves in the multi-island nation’s capital made wonderful bao. I was just a kid and ran wild exploring the city’s nooks and crannies. There were days when I ate bao for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I loved getting them fresh out of the steamer when they were too hot to hold in your bare hands. Did I mention I learned to juggle that summer?

  Poly complimented me on the relaxation technique I’d shown her last night. She said it really helped her sleep, though I thought our other exercise earlier in the day might have made some small contribution to her peaceful slumber. Pomy slept well, too, without—I assumed—Poly’s additional exercise, so perhaps my relaxation technique was the primary factor. She didn’t seem consumed by worry the way she’d been last night. Now Pomy was confident, if not optimistic, about what the day would bring. We got her off early, after she’d had a bao and a cup of tea, so she could go back to her place and prepare. Poly and I promised we’d meet her at the courthouse an hour before the trial.

  The rest of
our somewhat merry band were on Las Vegas time physiologically and still asleep. I sent emails letting them know about Pomy’s trial this afternoon and said we’d meet and exchange notes at dinner at seven. I was trying to get us closer to dining at normal hours for Atlanta, not Sin City, and thought that time was a reasonable compromise.

  Poly and I had cleaned up the business outfits we’d worn to meet Rosalind, Cornell and Sally the morning before. Our appointment with Pablo Daniel Figueres was in just over an hour and it was important for us to look professional. Her gray business suit only needed to be brushed off to be presentable and my blue pinstripe was fine after I gave it five minutes with a hot iron to get the wrinkles out. I was glad I hadn’t had to climb the side of the butte in a suit or my ensemble would have been a total loss. We inspected each other, looking for stray bits of lint or other imperfections. I removed an auburn hair from Poly’s shoulder by flicking it with the bottom edge of my hand.

  “That should do it,” I said. “You’re perfect.”

  Poly straightened my tie and kissed my cheek.

  “There. You are, too,” she said.

  Chit popped out of her bottle to join us.

  “Watch it, sister,” said my little friend. “You’ll give ’im a big head and it’s big enough already.”

  “I love you, too,” I replied. “Coming with us?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” said Chit.

  She buzzed over to land on my shoulder. Her paint scheme matched the color of my hair and she found a spot to hang out where my hair just covered her body at the nape of my neck.

  “Careful,” I said. “That tickles!”

  “Be glad I don’t bite,” said Chit.

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the boys,” teased Poly.

  “Wouldn’t cha like t’know?”

  “If I could interrupt your badinage for a moment,” I said.

  Poly laughed. So did Chit.

  “Whadda ya want, bucko?”

  “Are you okay with hanging around in Fiqueres’ office after we leave to see what you can find out?” I asked.

  “I figured as much,” said Chit. “Ya only want me for my ears.”