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

by Dave Schroeder

  While we cheerfully chomped and guzzled, I took a few minutes to learn more about Chilly.

  “Do you know my friend Shepherd?” I asked.

  “I refuse to answer on the grounds that…” said Chilly.

  “Got it,” I said. “Nothing consequential. Where are you from?”

  “Not from a long time ago or another galaxy,” said Chilly, “but far, far away.”

  “Are you an alien?” asked Poly. “A galactic?”

  “No to the first—I’m as human as you and Jack,” said Chilly, “and yes to the second.”

  “You’re a Galactic but not an alien?” she asked. Her forehead scrunched as she tried to figure it out.

  “Are you from one of the Terran colony worlds?” Poly asked.

  “In a way,” he said.

  I could see a twinkle in his eye in the rear-view mirror. He was playing with us.

  “Where do you live now?” I asked.

  “Here in Atlanta.”

  Crap. He wouldn’t tell me more than that.

  “Have you been spying on us?” asked Poly

  Chilly just laughed. Given recent events, the question was asked and answered. Of course he’d been spying on us. I wondered if he’d been one of the people bugging my apartment at Ad Astra?

  “Why are you spying on us?” I asked, trying a different approach.

  “I’ve been following your exploits for a long time,” said Chilly.

  “Meaning Jack and me, or just me, or just Jack?” asked Poly.

  “Uh huh,” said Chilly.

  He was lucky Poly and I didn’t start throwing empty soft drink cans at him. The man was frustrating, but he seemed so full of glee as he obfuscated that I couldn’t hate him for it. I saw his face soften and he threw me a bone of information.

  “If you go back far enough I’m here because of a natural disaster, Jack,” said Chilly. “That’s all I’m saying for now, but I hope we’ll have a chance to talk more after you identify and take down The General.”

  “Great,” I said, meaning, “Crap.”

  “Approaching destination,” said the luxurious white car.

  We were downtown and coming up on the Fulton County Superior Court building. Bright lights on our left invited us to visit Underground Atlanta—restored and turned into a shopping and entertainment venue run by subterranean species like Knōmz and Sporlocks. Its enticements beckoned, but we didn’t have time to dally. I could see the courthouse down the block across an intersection.

  The place was a classical revival palace that looked like a turn of the twentieth century bank headquarters crossed with New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was built from granite and stood eight or ten stories tall with giant pillars extending over most of its height. I rolled down my window so I could stick my head out and see more of the magnificent structure. Then I heard buzzing and my phone flew through the open window to land on the seat between Poly and me. I pulled my head in and rolled up the window.

  “Where were you?” asked my phone.

  “It’s a long story,” I replied. “At least you knew you could find us here. Thanks for your quick thinking.”

  “Glad to help,” said my phone.

  It retracted its rotors and reconfigured itself into its usual cell phone-shaped form, then hopped on my belt. Its weight felt reassuring. I reminded myself to check and see if it wanted a reward for all the help it had provided—but now was not the time. The car dropped us off in front of the courthouse and Chilly stuck his head out the driver’s side window.

  “I hope everything goes well for Pomy,” he said.

  “Thanks,” said Poly.

  “We can hope,” I added, staring longingly at the white car.

  “See you later,” said Chilly as he—and his amazing vehicle—pulled away.

  Somehow I was sure we would.

  Chapter 23

  “Before anything else, preparation is the key to success.”

  — Alexander Graham Bell

  The courthouse lobby was a soaring, turn-of-the-twentieth-century Beaux Arts delight, with lots of dark wood and marble. I’d read the original 1914 lobby had been a boring box with low ceilings until a special grant from the PDF Foundation in the 2020s had funded substantial renovations and carved the current impressive lobby out of the center of the building. I loved the new design.

  They’d managed to integrate the security checkpoint with the overall architecture by crafting a pair of tasteful Nicósn bogwood arches that mimicked the shape of the ceiling. Dozens of sensors inside each arch checked us out as Poly and I walked through them.

  One of the security guards tracking readouts on a flat screen turned to stare at me.

  “Empty your pockets, please,” she said, smiling.

  “Is something the matter?” I asked.

  She didn’t reply, but kept smiling and handed me a sturdy plastic bowl with a rubber base. I dumped what I was carrying into the bowl with a clatter. The guard took the bowl and Poly and I followed her to a table against a side wall.

  “Wow!” exclaimed the guard, placing the bowl reverently on the table. “A Wenger Supertalent!”

  Wenger was one of the two companies that had made Swiss Army knives. They’d been acquired by Victorinox twenty-five years ago.

  The guard was a tall woman with dark eyes and beautifully braided black hair. I didn’t know what to make of the way she was staring at my Swiss Army knife. My multifunctioned pride and joy was over three inches wide and took up a lot of room in the bowl.

  “That’s right,” I said. “You’ve got a good eye to spot one with a basic scanner.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I didn’t know they still made Supertalents.”

  “They don’t. My stepfather gave it to me—and he got it from his father.”

  The guard’s expression was rapturous. “It’s got everything,” she gushed.

  “Not quite,” I said. “No Allen wrenches.”

  “You can fake them with the awl,” she said.

  She was correct. I’d done that several times to help disassemble fire door mechanisms when I needed to get into places before I’d made my mutakey.

  The otherwise-dignified uniformed woman looked like a small child gazing longingly at a hot fudge sundae. “May I touch it?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But just for a minute. We have to get to court.”

  “Thanks so much,” said the woman. “I won’t keep you long.”

  She picked up my knife and held it, staring at all the options. She pulled out the metal saw and the wood saw, to appreciate the difference between them, then folded them up and handed my knife back to me with two hands.

  “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in selling it?”

  “No,” I said, “but watch the on-line auctions. They show up at intervals.”

  “Rare intervals,” said Poly.

  I didn’t know she was into classic Swiss Army knives. I had a lot to learn about the woman I loved.

  “Here’s your mini-sweetener,” said our guard, handing it back to me. “Please keep all weapons securely on your person,” she continued, shifting back to her rote-memorized standard speech.

  Our delay was unusual. I’d heard that security checks were a lot easier since sweetener drones became standard equipment in courtrooms. The right to bear arms was not infringed, but if anyone tried to start something, a silently hovering sweetener-equipped drone would chill them out in a hurry. Still, I was frequently stopped going through checkpoints by weapons enthusiasts wanting to check out my knife. Thank goodness my phone wasn’t trying anything fancy and still looked like a phone.

  “Jack?” asked Poly when we’d move a dozen steps farther on.

  “Yes?”

  “If they’re not scanning for weapons, what are they scanning for?”

  I laughed.

  “Mostly they’re trying to identify high explosives, poison gas, compact congruent energy bombs, and other large-scale bad stuff,” I replied. “But they also con
tinue security scanning to ensure patronage jobs for judges’ friends and relations.”

  For some reason, my answer made my phone laugh. It had a unique perspective on the absurdity of the human condition.

  “Which way to Pomy’s courtroom?” asked Poly.

  “Take the main stairs up a floor and then turn right,” my phone answered.

  It must have taken initiative and downloaded plans for the courthouse. I was pleased to see that the lobby improvements had included faux signs of age for the main staircase. When they built it, they simulated over a century of footfalls wearing low spots into the marble treads. I fit my soles into the dips and climbed behind Poly. It was a few minutes before one o’clock—we would be on time.

  We spotted Pomy and Atticus Finch from the top of the stairs and headed in their direction. Seconds later, Poly and Pomy embraced. After the sisters’ hug, I squeezed Pomy’s hand and murmured something supportive. Pomy was trembling and appreciated our physical contact.

  Poly’s sister was wearing a white blouse, a long navy skirt, and a matching embroidered navy vest that made her look much younger than her age. To my eyes, Pomy could pass for a high school girl ready to dance at Atlanta’s Greek Festival. If I was on the jury I’d declare her innocent without waiting for any evidence to be presented.

  “Nice ensemble,” I said, softly.

  “Thanks,” Pomy whispered. “I picked it up last year on a trip to Athens. Atticus suggested it when I described what I had in my closet.”

  Then something long and flexible tugged my sleeve.

  “This way,” said our little Pyr lawyer. “There’s a conference room we can use before the trial.”

  Finch scooted off along a perpendicular corridor, carrying his old-fashioned leather briefcase in one of his tentacles. He used a second tentacle to open the conference room door and third to wave the rest of us inside. The room had a table, chairs, and a credenza with bottles of water. There was enough room for eight around the table, but Atticus had us gather near him at one end. He lowered his chair, then hopped onto it somehow and fiddled with his phone while Pomy, Poly and I took seats close to him.

  Poly sat next to Pomy so she could hold her sister’s hand and offer reassurance. Finch’s phone must have had a Cone of Silence app, because I soon sensed the sound-dampening effect of a Cone.

  “Now we can talk in private,” said Atticus. “Thank you for coming, Jack and Poly. Your presence will be quite helpful.”

  “Glad to be here,” I said.

  Pomy looked nervous and so did Poly, though she was trying hard not to show it.

  “First,” said Finch, “Pomy will sit next to me at the defense table.”

  He nodded at Pomy and she nodded back, understanding, but still uncertain.

  “I’d like the two of you to sit in the first row of seats behind the bar,” continued Atticus.

  “I’ll be right behind you, sis,” said Poly.

  “I’m counting on it,” said Pomy.

  That would put me behind Atticus, which should at least give me a good view of the proceedings, since Pyrs are only four feet tall.

  “I don’t expect to call you to the stand,” said Atticus with his mouth that faced Pomy, “and hope it won’t even get that far.”

  “Th-that’s good,” stuttered Pomy. “I’m so nervous, I’m not sure I’d make a good impression.”

  “Please remain calm,” said Atticus. “You must project an image of blameless rectitude.”

  “Isn’t that illegal in Georgia,” I joked.

  Poly rolled her eyes at me and focused on Finch. Pomy laughed, but it was short and just this side of panic.

  Atticus was wise enough to ignore me.

  “Keep in mind that you’ll be very close to the jury box,” said the little lawyer. “They’ll be watching you and you must remain centered, serene and assured. Make them love you and they’ll never convict you.”

  “Ummm… okay,” said Pomy.

  It was clearly going to take a lot of work for her to practice what her counsel advised.

  “Remember the waterwheel,” I said. “Feel the warm water inside your head.”

  “Is this some sort of Terran religious ritual?” asked Atticus. “If so, I don’t mean to interfere, but time is precious and I have a lot of details to cover.”

  “Go ahead,” said Pomy.

  I watched Pomy’s breathing change as she went through the steps of the relaxation exercise I’d taught her last night. Her breaths were slowing and becoming more measured.

  “It’s not a religious ritual, Mr. Finch,” said Poly. “Jack’s just trying to help Pomy get control of herself.”

  “An admirable goal,” said Atticus, “and one that I see is effective.”

  Pomy had lost her previous expression of panic. She was no longer a rabbit facing a wolf—she was a rabbit contemplating a field of fresh clover, contentedly chewing her latest mouthful. I hoped my exercise hadn’t been too effective.

  “Don’t worry, Jack,” said Pomy quietly. “I can hold it together.”

  “I know you can,” said Poly with more force than necessary.

  All of inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, except Atticus, and some of the oppressive fear hanging over us evaporated.

  “Please go on,” said Pomy. “I understand I need to get the jury on my side.”

  “Correct,” said Atticus, “especially since there is video evidence of Pomy committing the act that resulted in the damage specified in the complaint.”

  “Indisputable video evidence?” asked Poly.

  “I’m an attorney,” stated Atticus. “For attorneys in a court of law, nothing is indisputable.”

  “Got it,” said Poly. I even detected a hint of a smile in her expression.

  Atticus didn’t waste time bringing us back to reality. “Opposing counsel is a bulldog. She’s a local litigator who used to be an assistant Fulton county district attorney.”

  Pomy nodded.

  “How do you fight a bulldog?” asked Poly. “Once they latch on to something they never let go.”

  “By not fighting it head on,” answered Atticus. “By throwing enough things at the beast fast enough that it starts spinning around trying to bite its own tail.” He spun around on his chair to illustrate his planned approach.

  “Keeping her off-balance makes sense,” I said. “How?”

  “I have video evidence of my own that Agnes Spelman, Factor-E-Flor, and EUA might not be happy to see made public,” said Atticus. “If I show it to them before the trial officially starts, we may not have to go through the rest of the formalities.”

  “That would be great!” said Pomy.

  I mentally translated her statement into, “Whatever it takes to get me out of this—fast.”

  “What if your video evidence isn’t persuasive?” asked Poly. “This trial is as much a matter of punishing me and Jack and Xenotech Support for getting in EUA’s way as it is an attack on Pomy.”

  “Right,” I added. “And what if EUA’s increased their bid for the judge, trying to buy a favorable verdict?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” said Atticus. “I’ve know Judge Jordan for more than a decade. Once the bidding has stopped and both sides have matched their contributions, he stays impartial, without wheedling for more money from one party or the other.”

  “That’s reassuring,” I said, wishing I knew less about modern methods of jurisprudence and feeling about as innocent in my understanding of the current legal system as Pomy looked in her long skirt and vest.

  “Will you be playing the contributory negligence angle?” asked Poly.

  “And the ignorance angle?” added Pomy. “I didn’t mean to blow up the building and I had no idea there was a gas main by the front entrance.”

  “If I need to,” said Atticus. “Just remember, your intent was to create a distraction, not destroy property.”

  “That will be easy to remember,” said Pomy, “since it’s the truth.”

 
“Telling the truth is always the best way to lie,” said Poly.

  “Are you sure you haven’t gone to law school?” asked Atticus.

  We all laughed and more nervous tension dispelled.

  Atticus reached into his briefcase and removed a thick envelope. He pulled out twenty-five or thirty eight-by-ten heavily annotated color glossy photographs from the envelope and fanned them in front of us with a pair of tentacles.

  “These still photos will supplement the video evidence I plan to present and will give each juror something more immediate and tangible to hold,” said the Pyr. “Each one is a reminder of who was where, when and why.”

  “I hope one of them isn’t a picture of Pomy arming her Macerator power pack cylinder,” said Poly.

  “Have no fear of that, young lady,” said Atticus. “However, there is a close-up photo showing who manufactured the cylinder.”

  “Factor-E-Flor,” I contributed.

  “Correct,” said Atticus, grinning back with two mouths. He put the photos back in the envelope and returned them to his briefcase.

  “Can we get back to my question?” said Poly.

  “What question was that?” asked Atticus.

  “There have been so many,” said Pomy.

  “What if your video evidence isn’t persuasive?” responded Poly.

  “It will be,” said the Pyr.

  “But what if it isn’t?” persisted Poly.

  “In that case, dear lady,” said Atticus, “opposing counsel, Factor-E-Flor, and EUA Corporation are in for a very big surprise.”

  Chapter 24

  “This is a court of law, young man, not a court of justice.”

  — Oliver Wendell Holmes

  I was impressed when I stepped into the courtroom. It was huge, with thirty-foot ceilings and dark-stained oak wainscoting extending six feet up from the floor. At the far end of the room the entire wall was made of the same wood, expertly carved into borders and panels. Four tall dark-wood Doric columns stood like sentinels of justice on either side of the regal and impressively ornamented judge’s bench. The flags of Georgia and the United States stood in opposite corners of the far wall. Marble busts of Solon and Moses near the flags frowned out from atop plinths crafted as smaller versions of the Doric columns.