Ms. Smith didn’t say anything. She just returned to her seat and tried to look invisible, without benefit of B.I.T.S. cloth.
“Thank you, Officer Beatty,” said the judge. He turned to Atticus. “Do you have any further questions for this witness?”
“Not at present, Your Honor,” said the Pyr.
Clarisse stepped down and slid into the far end of the row occupied by Hot Rod Rodney Random. The Bulldog stood up.
“Your Honor,” she said, “this is most irregular.”
Her father made a loud hrrrumph sound.
“Counselors, approach the bench,” said Judge Jordan. Aldophus hrrrumphed again. “You, too, Mr. Kone, if you’re going to continue making that noise.”
The white-haired judge made a point of not turning on his Cone of Silence field.
“Don’t you think this farce has gone on long enough?” asked the judge. “It’s clear Factor-E-Flor and WT&F are having some sort of Hatfields and McCoy’s feud and you’re using the legal system as well as high explosives to harass each other. It makes me wish dueling was still legal in Georgia.”
“Your Honor!” objected the Bulldog.
“HRRRRUMPH!” said her father.
“My feelings exactly,” said Atticus. His eye facing our way winked at us.
Boss Kone exploded like a Macerator power pack cylinder going off over half a dozen gas mains.
“I won’t stand for this,” he ranted. “I’ll have this declared a mistrial and have you removed from the bench for judicial misconduct! I’ll sue the Fire Department of the City of Atlanta and WT&F and any party associated with this gross miscarriage of justice.”
The Bulldog’s father took a deep breath but didn’t seem to be winding down.
“This is not a schoolyard. You can’t get out of a lawsuit by asserting the other party did the same thing to the defendant. I’m going to speak to the district attorney and have him initiate criminal charges against Ms. Keen-Jones. WT&F, and Xenotech Support Corporation. I’ll keep them all so tied up in litigation that they’ll be spending the rest of their lives in depositions, courtrooms and jail!”
I thought he’d finished, but Boss Kone still had one more horse to flog. He turned to Atticus.
“And you, you pusillanimous little ball of alien dough and slimy tentacles,” he exclaimed, “I’ll see you disbarred. Your kind don’t belong on Earth in the first place, let alone in the legal profession.”
“That’s quite enough,” said Judge Jordan in an icy tone. Lights on the side of his visor were pulsing an angry red.
“And my tentacles are not slimy,” said the little Pyr, smiling. He waved to Hot Rod Rodney with one of the referenced tentacles. “Did you get all that?”
Rodney flashed him a thumbs up.
Boss Kone’s face turned redder than a Nicósn’s. I thought he was going to try to strangle Atticus, which would have been a challenge, since Pyrs don’t have necks. The Bulldog was easing away from her father, trying to put some distance between them. Boss Kone rushed Atticus, arms outstretched to capture and crush the Pyr, if strangling proved impractical.
“I’ll get you, you alien scum, you!” shouted the Bulldog’s father as he charged.
Then things went even more crazy. With a faint whiff of ozone and a sharp crack from the hardwood floor below the large carpet in front of the judge’s bench, Queen Sherrhiliandarianne the Second, Matriarchal Majesty of Dauush and all the Dauushan worlds, teleported into the courtroom. She snatched up Boss Kone in three sub-trunks before he could reach Atticus and held him over her head where she could stare at him eye to eye.
“You’re the top lawyer for EUA Corporation,” the queen bellowed. “You can get me The General. He kidnapped my daughter. He poisoned my people with grajja, he ruined an important state dinner party, he tried to infect us with the Compliant Plague, and he had the effrontery to try and kidnap me!” she shouted. “He even shot down my shuttles with surface to air missiles. The General must answer for his crimes against my realm. Bring him to me in twenty-four hours or you will face my wrath and the might of all Dauush.”
Kone wasn’t in a position to throw his weight around any longer. Queen Sherrhi out-massed him by several tons. He stared at the spectators, then the judge, his eyes imploring anyone to help him.
“Don’t look at me,” said Judge Jordan. “This is above my pay grade.”
“Please put my father down, Your Majesty,” said the Bulldog calmly, “Or I’ll be forced to sue you for assault.”
Queen Sherrhi squeezed Boss Kone with her sub-trunks until he squeaked. It sounded better than his hrrrumphs.
“Would you prefer to charge me with murder?” intoned the queen.
“We’ll drop the suit against Ms. Keen-Jones as a sign of good faith,” said the Bulldog. “And I will encourage my father to set up a meeting for you with the head of EUA Corporation tomorrow.”
“Very good,” said Queen Sherrhi. She put Boss Kone down—none too gently—and he collapsed on the floor. “Have The General appear at the Dauushan consulate by five.”
“We’ll do our best,” said Brunhilde Dagomar.
It was fascinating to watch a woman less than five feet tall stand up to an angry adult Dauushan.
“See that you do,” said Queen Sherrhi.
She recentered herself the carpet and disappeared with a boom-crack of in-rushing air as she teleported away. The courtroom was buzzing.
“Case dismissed,” said the judge. He banged his gavel, but the noise it made was only a faint echo of the sound of Queen Sherrhi’s departure.
Atticus gave him a friendly wave with one tentacle, then glided back to the defense table on his mobility cilia and shook Pomy’s hand with another.
“Looks like you’re in the clear,” he told her.
Pomy gave the little Pyr a hug, then sat down like a marionette with cut strings. Poly winked at me and gave me an enigmatic smile. I remembered her one-on-one conversation with Queen Sherrhi on the Charalindhri and considered that she’d had time for a private talk with Atticus when she’d walked him out after our initial meeting. Had she set this all up?
I was glad I had such a wise—and sneaky partner. Maybe direct action would help us find The General sooner, rather than later.
I still needed to congratulate our lawyer for a job well done.
“Hey, Atticus,” I said. “When you told us you had a big surprise, you weren’t kidding.”
“You weren’t the only one surprised,” said Atticus. “I was expecting Tomáso.”
Chapter 26
“Think not I am what I appear.”
— Lord Byron
“Where are you headed next?” asked Martin as the courtroom began to clear.
“I’m taking Pomy home,” answered Poly.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” I asked.
“Then I’m bringing her over to our underground research facility,” Poly continued. “I’ll help her pack first.” She stuck her tongue out at me while Martin was looking elsewhere.
“That means a long commute for her back to the Carlos Museum on Monday,” I noted.
“She said Dr. Liddell-Scott and Dr. Urradu told her to take next week off,” said Poly. “They saw how upset she was about the lawsuit.”
“Great,” I said. “Want company?”
Poly looked over at Pomy. Her sister looked ready to be poured into bed and allowed to sleep though the weekend.
“I’ve got this,” said Poly. “It will be easier on Pomy if she only has to cope with me, not both of us.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “What’s on your plate, Martin?”
“I’m going to the Alban White Foundation’s offices to see if I can talk to the man himself.”
“Want company?” I repeated. This time I got a different answer.
“That would be great,” said Martin. “With my badge and your b.s. we’ll be sure to see him.”
“Hey, I resemble that remark!” I protested.
“
It was meant as a compliment,” said Martin dryly.
“I thought Shepherd was going with you?” I remembered.
“He was,” said Martin, “until I learned Alban White is a xenophobe.”
“I hope he’s not as bad as Adolphus Kone,” said Poly.
“From what I’ve heard, White and Kone are cut from the same cloth,” said Martin.
“A sheet with holes in it?” I suggested.
“You had to go there,” said Martin, his dark brown eyes twinkling.
I shrugged. Poly gave Martin a hug and me a hug and a peck on the cheek. Then she helped Pomy up and guided her toward the exit.
“Bye, guys,” said Pomy in a low-affect sleep-deprived voice.
“Take good care of yourself,” I said.
“Right now, that’s Poly’s job,” said Pomy, momentarily sounding more coherent.
The two sisters walked away and I marveled how much I loved both of them—albeit in different ways.
“Did you drive?” I asked Martin.
“My cruiser can be out front in five minutes,” he replied.
“I call shotgun!”
“Not a good thing to say around a police officer,” teased Martin.
“The Alban White Foundation closes at five,” said my phone. “All due haste is recommended.”
“Tally-ho!” I said.
“And Mr. White is the fox,” said Martin.
“Walk, don’t talk,” said my phone.
So we did.
* * * * *
The Alban White Foundation offices were north on I-75, near the Cobb Galleria. White had purchased the Atlanta Braves shortly after taking over and renaming Home Depot, so he wanted his foundation to be close to the Braves’ stadium in Cobb county. Martin parked his police cruiser in a parking structure adjacent to the Foundation and we took an elevator up two floors to the courtyard level.
Ordinary mortals couldn’t approach the Foundation’s offices without going through the courtyard, though I suspected White and his senior executives had a way to access their space without going outside. Once I saw the exterior of the Foundation, I understood why supplicants had to approach from outside—the exterior was truly impressive. It was clearly designed to intimidate and looked like a cross between a French chateau and a rococo castle along the lines of the one built by Mad King Ludwig.
The place was tall and assembled from massive granite blocks, with crenelations for archers, should they be needed to hold off hordes of angry peasants. Windows in the upper stories were fitted into heavy metal frames and looked like they actually opened—a rare feature in these days of climate-controlled buildings. Maybe they were designed that way so occupants could poor boiling oil down on attackers more easily? The overall impression conveyed was that the lord of this castle wanted the hoi polloi to respect his power and keep their distance. We approached anyway.
“What did you tell your friend at White House & Home?” I asked Martin. “And will he use his connections with Alban White? What makes you think we won’t be turned away by the first dragon guarding the great man’s sanctum?”
In my experience, people like Alban White’s toadies had toadies, restricting access through multiple levels of functionaries.
“I told him enough to get the great man interested,” Martin answered, “and my friend gave me some magic words that should get us in the door.”
“Like open sesame?”
“No, like law enforcement consideration.”
“You’re willing to come across like a cop on the take to further this investigation?” I asked.
“If it isn’t true and it gets us in to see him,” said Martin. “A man like Alban White can appreciate the benefit of having friends in high places.”
“Uh huh,” I said. “Police lieutenants are really up there.”
“I may have also intimated that I’m an intermediary for my boss’s boss.”
I slapped my friend on the back.
“That’s more like it,” I said. “Don’t just put your own neck on the line, get the high command involved.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“I admire your chutzpah,” I said.
“Keep my parents out of this,” said Martin, a smile crossing his usually serious face.
“I didn’t think I’d brought them up,” I responded.
“Don’t you know the classic definition of chutzpah?” asked Martin. “It’s the sheer gall of a man who kills his parents, then begs the court for mercy on the grounds that he’s an orphan.”
“Right,” I said. “I’m sure your parents are wonderful people who deserve full lives. I’ll admire your moxie, instead.”
“Thank you,” said Martin, his face back to its usual deadpan.
We had arrived at the foot of the grand staircase leading up to the chateau-castle’s huge main doors. Climbing them was an effort and most people would be winded by the time they reached the top. Martin, of course, was in great shape, but I had to lump myself in with most people and needed to pause to catch my breath at the summit. There was a thick rope descending from a hole in the door frame on the left. I’d seen The Wizard of Oz. Once my breathing had returned to normal, I pulled on the rope. A bell rang.
“Go away,” said a voice from a hidden speaker. “We’re closed.”
“Stated business hours for the Alban White Foundation say you’re open until five o’clock,” said my phone authoritatively.
“Not on Friday afternoons,” said the voice.
“Mr. White will want to hear what I have to say,” asserted Martin.
“You and every other person who shows up here with their hand out,” said the voice.
I’d been looking around and had spotted the camouflaged speaker and several hidden cameras. Not only that, I’d identified a small door to the left of the large main wooden doors. It’s outline blended in with the mortar patterns of the massive stone blocks, but it was clearly visible once you knew where to look. I could see both a keyhole and a small indentation where it could be opened from this side. I picked up my phone and whispered to it. It jumped down and followed my suggestion.
“Come back on Monday,” the voice continued. “Better yet, don’t come back at all.”
While the voice was talking, my phone had opened the small stone door, revealing a young man in an alcove. He was seated in a chair watching us on a flat screen. The man was dressed in all white livery, with bits of off-white piping on the shoulders and shirt cuffs. I stepped close and did my best to loom over him. Martin would have done it better.
“Excuse me,” I said, loud enough to make the man jump. “We’re not going anywhere and you’re going to let us in. I’ve spotted eight security holes in your defensive perimeter already and they’ll be on Galnet in three minutes if you don’t.”
Martin joined me next to the young man, looming professionally.
“And you’ll be a hero for letting us in,” said my friend. “Mr. White will be very interested in my proposition.”
“I am under strict orders not to let anyone in without an appointment,” said the young man.
“You didn’t ask if we had an appointment,” I said.
“I figured you’d lead with that if you had one,” said the man.
“Send them up,” interrupted a harsh voice from a speaker on the young man’s desk. “They intrigue me.”
The young man gulped and stammered. “Y-yes, Mr. White. Immediately, Mr. White.”
He clicked a button on his screen and the large main wooden doors opened.
“You can go right in,” said the young man.
We stepped away from his alcove and he slammed the small stone door behind us. The first dragon had been a pussycat.
* * * * *
A tall, expressionless woman in a similar all white uniform met us inside the main doors. It took a lot of chutzpah to require your retainers to wear white livery—the stuff must be a real pain to keep clean. Our escort was my height and wearing white faux l
eather boots that probably cost as much as the monthly retainer I charge most of my clients. Fauxs are small, goat-like alien quadrupeds and prey animals for the feline Tigrammaths. Their hides are usually mottled with browns and tans. Finding pure white ones is a challenge. The woman had blue eyes, a pale Nordic complexion and long ash-blonde hair in a single braid that extended down to the small of her back. She looked more like a Brunhilde than the Bulldog and seemed like the reason the phrase Ice Maiden was invented. Her movements were precise and perfect.
We followed the Valkyrie through echoing corridors of polished Italian marble with walls covered in impressive and somewhat disconcerting works of art. A large painting of a division of the U.S. Cavalry defeating a band of Sioux warriors in the late nineteenth century was followed by a huge fresco of The Rape of the Sabine Women. A niche further on featured a statue of Perseus holding the head of Medusa aloft by its snakes. I was sensing a theme—brutal conquest with a heavy dose of misogyny. Alban White was looking like a very good candidate for being The General.
As we proceeded, heavy doors swung or slid open just as we reached them. I had a sense of deja vu, then remembered where I’d seen something similar. The doors’ movements reminded me of the opening credits from a spy spoof television show from more than half a century ago that I’d seen on the Ancient Gems channel. It took me a few seconds to remember the show’s name—Get Smart. I thought that name was good advice for Martin and myself as we moved forward for our meeting with Alban White. We’d need all our wits about us for that encounter. Then I remembered that the title was meant ironically. Maxwell Smart was anything but intelligent. He relied on dumb luck more than wisdom for success. I’d take that option too, if it worked.
We finally reached a pair white marble doors so ornate I knew they must lead to Alban White’s private office. They were covered in carvings that recapitulated themes from the art on the walls we’d passed earlier. Bundles of sticks around axes were prominently featured and so were angry armored angels carrying fiery swords, their flames accented with copper and gold foil. Howard Hughes had fewer screws loose than Alban White, I was sure.
Xenotech General Mayhem: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 4) Page 21
