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

by Dave Schroeder

  We all moved a few more feet inside the room. The dozen rows of spectators’ benches on either side reminded me of church pews. I had my jaw open and was rubbernecking like a first-time tourist in New York City, taking in the portraits of famous jurists on the walls and the ceremonial blank spot reserved, I’d heard, for an incised marble version of the Ten Commandments, should the Constitution’s freedom of religion clause ever be repealed. I turned my head and looked up. There was a balcony above us, with five or six more rows of benches for overflow crowds.

  Tables for the prosecution on the left, the defense on the right, and the jury box beyond that completed the furnishings except for a wooden lectern between the tables where the attorneys could put their notes if they used them.

  The only thing that didn’t match my mental picture of an American courtroom, after watching years of Law & Order reruns, was the carpet. A beautiful Persian rug the size of my living room rested on the floor in front of the lawyers’ tables. It was woven from faded red, black and cream threads in a medallion pattern with an understated repeating border. It looked old—and expensive. I figured the judge must be a collector.

  Once I’d taken in the physical details of the space I noticed the people. There were a lot more of them than I’d expected. A disheveled man with an aisle seat in the second row behind the defense table was wearing a monocle camera that made him look like a bargain basement version of Deadshot. He had a cloud of gnat-sized audio-visual drones circling his head, marking him as a reporter.

  “Who’s that?” I asked Atticus.

  “That’s Hot Rod Rodney Random,” said the Pyr. “He’s a freelancer with connections to the big news outfits.”

  “How did you get him to show up?” asked Poly. “This trial isn’t worth a slot on the nightly news.”

  Atticus chuckled. If he didn’t seem to be such a nice guy, I would have said it was an evil chortle.

  “You’d be surprised what shows up on the nightly news,” said the Pyr. “I did what I needed to do to get him in the proper spirit.” The two of his mouths I could see smiled.

  “You appealed to his better nature?” I asked.

  “I slipped him a bottle of Jack Daniels.”

  “I guess that’s one sort of proper spirit,” said Poly.

  I wished I could roll my eyes like she does. I didn’t see what value some random reporter provided, but this wasn’t my rodeo.

  Pomy was standing close to Atticus, treating him like a security blanket. She wasn’t saying much and was turning her head this way and that in nervous paranoia, trying to figure out where future attacks would be coming from. There wasn’t much I could do to reassure her. I wasn’t feeling too comfortable myself.

  When Hot Rod shifted, I saw Martin sitting in the row ahead of him. He was turned partway around watching the entrance and spotted us. I wasn’t sure why my friend was here, but my confidence rose because of his presence. I smiled and Poly waved. Martin nodded in acknowledgment.

  I glanced to the left and spotted Ms. Smith, Agnes Spelman’s executive assistant, sitting in the first row behind the prosecutor’s table. Spelman herself was at the table, standing next to a short, almost tiny woman with her back to us.

  “Is that the bulldog?” asked Poly, indicating the tiny woman with her gaze.

  “Yes,” said Atticus. “Don’t underestimate her.”

  I didn’t understand what the little lawyer meant until she turned around. The woman was truly petite, not quite five feet tall, and wore a light blue pinstripe power-suit with a short skirt. The suit’s attempt to convey an I’m-in-charge attitude was countered, however, by a white-on-white patterned button-up blouse with an oversized bow at the neck that flopped and bounced as she moved.

  Her hair was medium brown with blonde and hot pink highlights, styled in a pixie cut. I think she had five earrings in her left ear and two in her right, but couldn’t be sure at this distance. The overall effect of her ensemble made her come across as somewhere between a sophomore in high school and a freshman in college.

  Now I understood the Pyr’s warning. Her look had to be part of a calculated strategy.

  When she noticed us, her mouth turned up in a perky smile. I immediately wanted to like her and protect her. My reflexive reaction proved the rationale behind her image. I stifled a compulsion to smile back and wave.

  “When you said she was a bulldog, you meant she graduated from the University of Georgia, right?” asked Poly. “They’re the Bulldogs. She doesn’t look old enough to vote, let alone old enough to have graduated from law school.”

  “Hey,” I protested, “I had a B.S. before most people graduate from high school. It’s possible.”

  “I know all about your B.S.,” teased Poly. “I didn’t say it was impossible, I was just surprised.”

  “Ms. Brunhilde Dagomar Kone is a graduate of the University of Georgia,” noted my phone. “At least for her undergraduate studies.”

  “Her law degree is from Harvard,” said Atticus.

  “Brunhilde?” I asked.

  “Dagomar?” asked Poly in the same, incredulous tone.

  “Traditional names in her family, I believe,” said Atticus. “That’s why she goes by Bulldog.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  With names like that, I’d opt for a nickname, too. Come to think of it, given that my name is Ajax, I had.

  “Harvard?” mused Poly. “Maybe that’s why she looks familiar.”

  I’d felt that I’d seen Ms. Kone somewhere before, too, but I didn’t have Poly’s Harvard connection. I’d figure it out later.

  As we proceeded up the aisle to our seats, a short older man with thinning hair wearing a scowl and a charcoal gray suit worth more than my van brushed by me and sat next to Ms. Smith. He made her move in instead of stepping past her.

  “Who’s Mr. Congeniality?” I asked Atticus before we sat down.

  “The head of EUA’s legal department,” said the Pyr. “He’s Adolphus T. Kone, the Bulldog’s boss—and her father.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “Boss Kone.”

  Poly poked me in the ribs. I was spared further abuse over my comment echoing the name of a famous Boston-area science fiction convention, Boskone, by Martin giving Poly a hug. He slid in and Poly and I assumed our seats behind Pomy and Atticus. To my surprise, Pomy was looking calm and controlled. I wondered if Poly or Atticus had given her some sort of tranquilizer, but knew neither of them would. Like a university president, Pomy needed to be in complete control of her faculties.

  It was two minutes until two, so we didn’t have long to wait until things got started. I noticed the court reporter, a gray-haired woman in her sixties with perfect posture. She was sitting in her own wooden enclosure in front of the prosecutor’s table. The court reporter cracked her knuckles, making me wince, then started typing on an odd, toy-sized typewriter with funny looking keys. Her fingers moved so quickly they seemed to blur. I expected she was putting in the date, time, judge’s name, courtroom, and other preliminaries.

  With one minute remaining, a pair of guards escorted the jury into the jury box. There were six women and six men, with a range of ages, apparent socio-economic statuses, and races that accurately reflected Atlanta in 2030. I was impressed by the person, persons, or A.I. who had handled the selection process.

  At the stroke of two an older man with close-cropped gray hair and a protruding belly stepped onto the carpeted area at the front. He took a deep breath and bellowed a string of rolling phrases.

  “All rise! The Superior Court of Fulton county—in the great state of Georgia—is now in session. The Honorable Henry S. Jordan, presiding.”

  I got to my feet, along with everyone else, but my mind was spinning. The judge’s name was Henry Hal Jordan? Green Lantern would be handling Pomy’s case? Then I remembered—Atticus had called him Jordy, not Hal. I soon saw why. A door opened behind the judge’s bench and a tall, broad-shouldered man in his seventies with a thick head of white hair entered. He was wea
ring long black robes and looked like someone you might hire from central casting to play a judge on television. I was shocked to see him wearing sunglasses and carrying a red and white collapsible cane.

  Musical memories of Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant flooded my brain. I thought of the annotated photographs with circles and arrows on each one in our lawyer’s briefcase. I also considered the importance of video evidence for the trial and shook my head. This could be bad. Very bad. It could be another case of American blind justice and Pomy would be doomed.

  Then the judge sat down, folded his cane, took off his sunglasses and snapped a louvered, gold-colored metallic visor over his eyes. I abruptly switched contexts—not Hal Jordan; Jordy or Geordi LaForge. The judge looked out at the courtroom and nodded at the the older man. Some obscure part of my brain dredged up the name of the older man’s office. He was the bailiff, the clerk of the court, and he issued a brief, two-word command.

  “Be seated.”

  We sat.

  The bailiff continued. “In the matter of Factor-E-Flor, an EUA Corporation company, versus Ms. Melpomene Keen-Jones, all pray heed and attend.”

  He stepped back and stood near the court reporter’s station. The judge swatted away something that looked like a mosquito and glared at me. Then I realized he wasn’t focused on me, but on Hot Rod Rodney Random, seated immediately behind me.

  “No one can say I am not a supporter of a free and independent press,” said the judge. His voice matched his looks, inspiring respect and confidence in his judgment and impartiality. “But if you can’t keep your microdrones under control, Mr. Random, I will have you ejected from my courtroom.”

  “Yes, your honor,” said Hot Rod Rodney contritely. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.”

  I’d felt as paranoid as Pomy when the judge had seemed to stare at me. Poly held my hand until my pulse rate returned to normal. I didn’t like being in situations where I didn’t know what to expect. My prior knowledge of the judicial system was limited to watching the second half of episodes of Law & Order: Luna City and Law & Order: Atlantis Dome when I felt homesick on Orish. It was odd that the ultimate punishment in both those locations involved airlocks.

  “Will counsel please approach the bench,” said Judge Jordan. It wasn’t a question. Atticus and the Bulldog stepped in front of the judge—or glided on mobility cilia in the Pyr’s case. A Cone of Silence field snapped into place and not only restricted sound, it distorted sight enough so I couldn’t read the judge’s lips. A few seconds later, the private conference was over and the lawyers returned to their tables.

  “It was just routine,” Atticus whispered to Pomy. “He asked if we’d made every effort to settle things without the court’s intervention.”

  Pomy nodded, still maintaining her iron control and keeping a pleasant, neutral expression on her face. I saw two jury members smile at her, which I took as a good sign. The judge looked at the Bulldog.

  “Are you ready to present your opening argument, Counselor?” he asked.

  “I am, Your Honor,” she said.

  She stood and approached the jury, giving a slight bow to the judge and turning her head to look at Pomy and frown as she made her way from the prosecutor’s table.

  “Gentlebeings of the jury,” the Bulldog began, “today I will present incontrovertible video evidence of Ms. Keen-Jones’ willful destruction of Factor-E-Flor’s headquarters using an improvised explosive device. Her act cost my client hundreds of thousands of galcreds in property damage and weeks of business disruption. It’s only pure luck that her actions didn’t result in the deaths of any Factor-E-Flor employees.”

  The tiny litigator paced in front of the jury box, trying to catch each juror in turn. Every few steps she would smile at one of them, then turn and frown at Pomy, as if to emphasize what a terrible person Poly’s sister was. Her tactics were working. Several jurors also frowned at Pomy and smiled back at Brunhilde Dagomar.

  “Once you have seen the video evidence,” the Bulldog continued, “your own eyes will compel you to render a unanimous verdict of guilty. Thank you.”

  The Bulldog returned to the prosecutor’s table, the back of her short skirt waggling as she moved. She returned to her chair and sat with perfect posture, her upright demeanor reflecting the merits of her position. Now it was our turn.

  Atticus hopped down from his chair and glided in front of the judge’s bench. The top of his pyramidal form bent a little, as if he was bowing slightly, and two of his eye stalks extended and dipped to acknowledge the judge. Then he spun sixty degrees, as if on an axle, and moved over to the jury box. Several jurors were smiling. One, who must not be very familiar with Pyrs and their methods of locomotion, tried to hide a laugh.

  “Good gentles,” said the Pyr, “you will see several videos today. Factor-E-Flor’s counsel will show you what they want you to see, but I intend to show you the rest of the story, demonstrating that Factor-E-Flor’s own negligence is responsible for the damage to their headquarters.”

  The little lawyer removed a white handkerchief from inside his suit coat and paused to rub his glasses with it. I wondered if he was imitating someone he’d seen in a movie or on television. The gesture did serve to focus the jury’s attention on him.

  “I will also show you that Factor-E-Flor and their parent company, EUA Corporation, are culpable for improper actions far beyond mere negligence related to their own headquarters,” said Atticus. “When you’ve seen and heard all the facts, I am confident that you will return a verdict for my client of not guilty.”

  The Pyr made a slightly tilting bow to the jury, spun around a hundred and eighty degrees on his base like someone rotating in a office chair, and glided back to his seat at the defense table. When he hopped up to sit there, more members of the jury smiled. Atticus was the perfect defense attorney to counter the coiled steel cuteness of the Bulldog. The person recommending him to Nettie Obi-Yu had given good advice.

  As expected, the Bulldog opened her presentation with the videos of Pomy arguing with the receptionist and Ms. Smith in the lobby of Factor-E-Flor’s headquarters and Pomy setting off the Macerator power pack cylinder near the entrance. Two large wooden panels on either side of the judge retracted, revealing flat screens, so jurors, counsel, and spectators could see the videos. I couldn’t tell if Judge Jordy was getting a video feed directly to his visor or looking at a screen embedded in his judicial desk, but he seemed to be following what was happening well enough.

  After seeing the power pack cylinder explode and bring the front of the building crashing down, things didn’t look good for our side. Eight out of twelve jurors were giving Pomy a stink eye.

  Then it was time for Atticus to present his case. It was three thirty, according to the analog clock my phone had decided to display on its home screen. The judge gave us a fifteen-minute break to take care of biological necessities. I was glad he wasn’t the sort of guy to knock off work early on a Friday afternoon. Atticus turned around and tugged on my sleeve with a tentacle.

  “Please ask Ms. Kone and her father to join me,” he said.

  I was interested in handling my own biological necessities, but followed his instructions. The two lawyers followed me back to the defense table. Agnes Spelman and her assistant trailed behind.

  Adolphus Kone’s face grew pinched and his nose lifted as he got closer to our table. The Bulldog’s father kept his distance from Atticus as if he could barely tolerate being near the little alien. When he stood across the table from Atticus he was ill-mannered and sniffed, as if the Pyr smelled bad. I’d always thought the three and four-sided species had a pleasant, minty scent myself.

  While I’d stepped away, Atticus had removed a large tablet computer from his briefcase and had queued up a series of videos. When the EUA and Factor-E-Flor lawyers arrived, he positioned the tablet where they both could see it. Agnes Spelman and Ms. Smith crowded in as well. Then Atticus started the first video. Smith was
talking to Spelman in Spelman’s office.

  “We’ve restored enough Macerator units for an effective attack, but have had some trouble finding enough trained operators,” said Ms. Smith.

  “How many is enough?” asked Spelman.

  “Two dozen,” said Smith.

  “That should do it,” said her boss. “Make it so.”

  Atticus paused the playback.

  “Where did you get that?” barked the Bulldog.

  “Creative use of the discovery process,” said Atticus. “I also have a video of Spelman and Smith discussing planting a nova bomb at a starship hanger near Hartsfield Port.”

  The Bulldog’s father was staring daggers at Smith and Spelman. His daughter didn’t seem too happy either.

  “If you could give us a moment,” said EUA’s top legal honcho.

  Poly, Pomy, Atticus, Martin and I headed out of the courtroom to give them space. Hot Rod Rodney Random followed us after a Cone of Silence surrounded the pairs of lawyers and clients. He went one way while the rest of us went the other. I was urgently looking for the necessarium, but overheard Poly’s question for Atticus.

  “Were the videos the big surprise you had planned?”

  The Pyr’s eyes twinkled. I didn’t know they could do that, but perhaps there was some sort of physiological system for back lighting.

  “By no means,” said Atticus. “The big surprise is still to come.”

  So long as we were winning, I was starting to like this courtroom stuff.

  Chapter 25

  “Always mystify, mislead and surprise the enemy if possible.”

  — Stonewall Jackson

  We returned to the courtroom with five minutes to spare. Both Adolphus and Brunhilde Dagomar Kone were waiting for Atticus at the defense table.

  “Your videos aren’t admissible,” said the Bulldog. “They’re not relevant to the current case and their authenticity is suspect.”

  “We’re not cutting a deal,” said her father. His face looked as long, sombre and serious as an Easter Island statue.