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

by Dave Schroeder

  For all that the man’s choice in decorating motifs was off-putting, in person Alban White tried to charm.

  “Welcome, gentleman,” he said, waving us to comfortable armchairs in a sitting area in one corner of his palatial office.

  He was as pale as the Ice Maiden, but his eyes were an even more intense blue, like a pair of deep glacial lakes.

  “Contact lenses?” I whispered.

  “Shhh,” said Martin.

  The rest of White’s coloring made me think he might be an albino. His eyebrows were white and his short hair was a shade lighter than the Valkyrie’s. Even from a distance, I could see blue veins and red arteries in his neck as if his skin was translucent. He didn’t offer to shake hands and I was fine with that. Something about the man gave me the creeps.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” said Martin.

  The three of us sat down. Our host took the largest, most imposing chair.

  “An executive at White House & Home spoke highly of you,” said White. “I hope he was correct in his assessment.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find our conversation valuable,” said Martin. “This is my friend, Jack Buckston, with Xenotech Support Corporation.”

  “Ah, yes,” said White. “Your fame precedes you. I loved the video of your dirigible chase down the Strip in Las Vegas.”

  I nodded and offered a tight-lipped smile. I wasn’t thrilled that video had gone viral.

  “That will be all, Andy,” said White to the Valkyrie.

  Andy? I thought. I would have expected Ingrid or something else more Scandinavian.

  The Ice Maiden left through the marble doors, leaving the three of us alone.

  “Tell me, Lieutenant Lee,” said Alban White, “what could a respected member of the Georgia Capitol Police need from me?”

  Before Martin could tarnish his reputation, I jumped in, doing to Martin what Poly had done to me in Pablo Daniel Figueres’ office.

  “My friend doesn’t need anything from you,” I said. “I do. He pulled strings so that I could pitch you on using Xenotech Support Corporation for your companies’ toughest technical challenges.”

  White didn’t look at me—he looked at Martin.

  “I must say, Mr. Lee, I’m disappointed,” he said. “I expected better from someone with your reputation.”

  Martin didn’t reply, maintaining his default police officer’s no-nonsense face. I knew I’d hear a few choice words from him later.

  “Don’t blame Martin,” I continued. “He had a contact at White House & Home and I begged him to help me get in to see you.”

  “I’ll have a few choice words to share with the executive who recommended Lieutenant Lee,” said White, “but you’re here and White House & Home does have a difficult technical challenge. Let’s see how you’d solve it.”

  I’d been prepared to give my standard sales pitch, but this might be easier. If I could prove my technical skill, I could gain more insight into White’s business operations and redeem Martin in the process.

  “I’m glad to try,” I said. “Tell me about the challenge.”

  “It’s all about productivity,” said White. “It’s going down and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “How does that tie to information technology?” I asked.

  “I don’t think it does,” said White, “but my people insist it’s an IT issue, not a fault in their management.”

  Martin looked at White then looked at me hopefully. I could see that he thought White was setting me up with a no-win proposition.

  “How does this lack of productivity manifest?” I asked. “Are people screwing around on web sites where they shouldn’t go?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” said White. “Our systems are locked so tight and supervisors get copies of employees daily browsing history, so there’s no risk of anybody wasting time that way.”

  I was getting a better idea of White’s personality and management style. He was a control freak and reluctant to extend trust or give autonomy to the people who worked for him. He probably considered them minions, not intelligent contributors to the success of his business.

  “What do your executives say the problem is?” I asked.

  “They keep complaining about system upgrades taking too long,” said White. “They sit down at the start of the day, turn on their computers, and tell me it takes them more than an hour for everything to update. I think that’s nonsense. It never happens to me.”

  Of course it doesn’t, I thought. Your people on the night shift make sure you never have to go through that kind of pain.

  “Then they tell me there are software updates following the operating system updates, and that can take another hour.”

  I believed Alban White. I was sure White House & Home had a complex IT environment and every package must have its own patch requirements.

  “There’s an easy solution for that,” I said. “Have all your employees leave their computers on overnight so that updates to systems and software can happen then, not first thing in the morning.”

  “Wouldn’t that cost me a lot more money for power?” asked White.

  I now understood that he didn’t fully comprehend the business implications of the galactic technology revolution.

  “Have you seen any power bills lately?” I asked.

  I was sure he studied department budgets line by line.

  “I know there was something about power costs mentioned under Miscellaneous Items,” said White.

  “Exactly,” I said. “With modern galtech you could cover ten times your current power use under petty cash.”

  “Hrrrrmph,” said White, sounding just like Adolphus Kone. “But wouldn’t leaving our computers on all the time be a security risk?”

  “Not if you use Orishen mutable paranoid A.I. software,” I said. “It’s great at preventing improper access to corporate computers.”

  “No alien technology!” thundered White. “We’re a one hundred percent Terran operation.”

  “Uh huh,” I said.

  There was a lot his I.T. people weren’t telling him and I wasn’t going to spill the beans on them, especially given White’s obvious xenophobia.

  “There’s a Terran company that makes comparable software,” I said.

  I didn’t mention that they were simply marketing an Orishen company’s product under their own label.

  “Splendid,” said White. “I’m always glad to support innovative Terran companies. I’ll introduce you to my Chief Information Officer and the two of you can implement your recommendations. You can talk to my legal department about a contract and a retainer for Xenotech Support Corporation.”

  “Thank you, Mr. White,” I said with feigned enthusiasm. I was sure that working for his company would be soul-destroying.

  “And you,” said White, turning to Martin. “Thank you for bringing Mr. Buckston’s talents to my attention. I’ll have to promote your friend to show my appreciation.”

  While he talked to Martin I watched Alban White’s ear twitch in a way I didn’t know ears could move. It was like he had a tiny bug in his personal operating system, and I wasn’t talking about an entity like Chit. Martin looked pleased that his friend wouldn’t suffer for his assistance. White stood up, so we did too. Andy entered as silently as she’d left.

  “Andy will see you out,” said Mr. White. “Terra Triumphant!”

  His final comment sealed the deal. Alban White must be The General. We followed Andy back to the main doors and the staircase. Martin and I didn’t say a word until we were in his cruiser and driving south on I-75 back to the research lab near Georgia Tech.

  “We’ve found him!” I exulted.

  “Probably,” said Martin.

  For anyone else, that would have meant, “Certainly.”

  “Just one problem,” said my phone. “Alban White isn’t a human being.”

  “What!” I said.

  Martin echoed with “What?”

  “And neither is t
he chilly Ice Maiden,” my phone continued. “Why do you think her name is Andy?”

  Chapter 27

  “Conversation is food for the soul.”

  — Mexican Proverb

  Martin and I picked up some Pâkk-Mex for dinner at El Taco Lobo-Oso on Northside Drive heading south from I-75. I love their ubercow fajitas. I got one huge zoomin’ uber-onion for the table—they’re big enough to serve twelve. We also selected a range of other dishes that most people found delicious and even people not typically fond of Pâkk-Mex would eat. Pâkk-planet rice grains are the size of the last two joints on my little finger. They’re bland, but far more nutritious than grains of Oryza sativa, the most common rice on Terra. I didn’t order any Pâkk-style refried beans, though. I didn’t want to stress the ventilation system in the research complex. Martin insisted that we should pick up a small container of uber-hot Pâkk peppers. I only agreed because it gave me an excuse to add a large, creamy ubercow-milk flan—the one dish that’s sure to put out the fire caused by the peppers.

  Thus fortified with enough tasty food for a small army, Martin drove us back to the complex. When we got out of my friend’s official state bubble-top, the two of us were carrying enough sacks to play Santa Claus. Martin told his police cruiser to park a few blocks away, where it could return quickly if necessary. Shepherd or one of the other people inside must have been watching for us. The door to the research facility opened and Martin and I, our arms straining—well, my arms straining—carried our precious dinner down to the conference room. Everyone except Poly and Pomy was waiting for us there. Max rushed me before I could put anything down.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” he shouted.

  I grunted from the impact of his body with my lower torso and swung my bags of food onto the table before one or both of us ended up wearing mole poblano sauce.

  “Hiya, Sport!” I said. “Did you stay out of trouble today?”

  “Mom and Aunt Sally said I had to study my Tig-ram-math gra-phol-ogy,” piped Max. “They write everything using little pictures.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Only their formal writing system uses pictograms. For everyday communication, they use something like cuneiform, made with their claws.”

  “Like the Mes-o-po-tamians?” asked Max. “I love saying that word.”

  “Isn’t Max awfully young to be teaching him how to read and write Tigrammath?” asked Scott Winfield.

  “He’s almost five,” said Rosalind. “I was reading six languages by the time I was his age.”

  “How many can Max read?” I asked.

  “Seven,” said Sally proudly.

  “We saw cuneiform tablets at the British Museum,” said Rosalind.

  “Max loved the idea of forming words with sticks. He called it reeding and writing,” added Sally.

  Winfield groaned.

  “Smart kid,” said Poly, bustling in the door to the conference room with Pomy in tow.

  “I’m not just smart,” said Max, beaming. “My mom says I’m ingenious.”

  “You certainly are,” I said.

  Then it hit me.

  Rosalind took Max to the British Museum and I wasn’t there with them!

  I sighed on the inside so I didn’t worry Max, then picked him up and swung him three hundred and sixty degrees around before returning him to his feet.

  “Wheee!” shouted Max. “Again!”

  “Later,” I said. “It’s dinner time.”

  Shepherd moved bags of food from the table to the nearby counter and took out assorted containers to make it easier for everyone to select what they wanted.

  “We got you an ubercow rib,” I told the primarily carnivorous Pâkk.

  Shepherd gave me an ironic Mr. Spock smirk as he held up a wrapped package twice as long and half-again as wide as a baseball bat.

  “Thank you,” said Shepherd, curling back his lips to reveal extra-long incisors.

  I hoped that meant he was smiling. Martin and I looked at each other and the lieutenant winked. Ordering the rib had been his idea.

  I fixed Max a plate with some Tōdonese paralettuce salad and an ubergoat-cheese quesadilla. Rosalind saw what I was doing and nodded her approval. Kids need healthy dinners.

  “Here you go, big guy,” I said, delivering the plate to Max. He was kneeling on his chair with his elbows on the table, holding a plastic knife and fork like he couldn’t wait to tear into his meal.

  “Thank you, Daddy!”

  My son was polite, at least, though his table manners resembled a juvenile Pâkk’s once he started eating.

  I waited while the others got their food. Poly put together plates for Pomy and herself and brought them both back to the table. Pomy was slumped in her chair like someone had removed her spine. I watched Pomy perk up a little when she tasted the uberostrich steaks with chocolate-coffee mole sauce. That dish had been my idea.

  Scott Winfield and Josephine Johnson were still off their feed—or maybe they didn’t like Pâkk-Mex. They both took a little salad and some ubercow taco meat in giant tortillas made from pressed single kernels of ubercorn.

  Cornell and Sally actually smiled at me when I’d gotten into line behind them. They looked like they were in a good mood and I wondered if they’d found a particularly pleasant way to occupy their time this afternoon like Poly and I had done last night.

  When it was my turn at last, I selected a generous serving of ubercow fajitas, a few pieces of zoomin’ uber-onion, and some of the uberostrich steak with mole, plus tortilla chips and a large helping of guacamole.

  To botanists’ surprise, avocados readily took to the climate on Pâkk planets like Neuva Pâkkjuk and grew to enormous sizes. Martin and I had picked one of the big green fruits the dimensions of a honeydew melon off the counter display at El Taco Lobo-Oso. The crew there cut it in half, removed the interior, and filled both sides with tasty guacamole. I was sure we’d have some leftover, but you can never have enough guacamole.

  I took my plate and a bottle of Diet Starbuzz to the table and sat between Poly and Martin. For a few minutes we were all too busy eating, then Max hopped down and moved over to draw on the smart wall.

  “You can have some flan,” said Rosalind.

  “Thank you, Mommy,” said Max.

  He wasn’t really listening to her. I got up and brought some bowls and a box the size of a large pizza over from the counter to the table.

  “Hey, big guy,” I said to get Max’s attention.

  My son looked up. I opened the box, revealing a huge custard in caramel syrup. I opened and closed the lid as if it was a puppet’s mouth, using a high-pitched voice to say, “Hi Max! I’m one of your biggest flans.”

  Max rolled his eyes and said, “Daddy!”

  Several of the adults at the table looked away and covered their mouths. Winfield and Johnson scowled at me. Rosalind decided to wait before serving Max any flan.

  “On that note,” said Poly looking past me to get Martin’s attention, “what happened when you went to see Alban White?”

  “We were almost certain he was The General,” said Martin.

  I swallowed a bite of taco. “But it turns out he isn’t human.”

  “Huh?” said Sally.

  “Analysis determines that Alban White and his associate named Andy are both androids,” said my phone. It had jumped onto the center of the flan box on two legs. Its weight was depressing the lid far enough I was afraid it would damage the custard.

  I signaled to it to move closer to me. My phone realized where it was and seemed to notice what was happening. It extruded eight legs, distributed its weight, and carefully scuttled off the box and over to my bottle of Diet Starbuzz. Then it switched back to a form with two arms, two legs, and something vaguely resembling a head and leaned against the bottle nonchalantly.

  “Sorry about that,” it said.

  “No problemo,” I replied.

  “Who has the technology to build androids that perfectly duplicate human beings?” asked Scott Win
field.

  Poly jumped in. “EUA Corporation?”

  “Not at any of the divisions we know about,” said Johnson.

  Scott and Johnson both looked at Cornell.

  “Well…” said Rosalind’s brother, “The General kept the fully-organic, human analogue android project under tight wraps…”

  “I knew it!” said Pomy with more animation than she’d shown all day. “White House & Home is an EUA front company.”

  I hadn’t realized Pomy was that clued in about EUA, but Poly must have updated her on the details of our investigations.

  “That means EUA is even bigger than we thought,” I said. “They control their own subsidiaries and all of Alban White’s holdings.”

  I was momentarily distracted by a buzzing sound overhead. I looked up to see Chit flying down from a ventilation shaft in the ceiling. My little friend circled a few times and landed on top of my phone’s pseudo-head.

  “It’s worse than that, Bucko,” said the Murm. “The Sirocco Legislative Network and Pablo Daniel Figueres are part of EUA’s corporate empire, too!”

  Chapter 28

  “I’m a traitor, but I don’t consider myself a traitor.”

  — Aldrich Ames

  “No way!” said Poly. “Figueres is a stand-up guy.”

  “Way,” Chit responded. “I heard him on the phone with an EUA bigwig.”

  To one side, I noticed Shepherd tapping his ear a few times. The grizzled Pâkk then pushed a button on a controller embedded in the table in front of him. Suddenly, the smart wall turned into a flat screen, startling Max and most of the rest of us. The faces of Tomáso, Queen Sherrhi, and my mom appeared for a video-conference. Tomáso had Max’s line drawing of a castle guarded by a dragon superimposed on one of his massive front legs. Max recovered quickly and started adding a picture of Spike chasing a squirrel to Tomáso’s other leg.

  “What’s up, Your Matriarchal Majesty?” I asked.

  “Tomáso’s spies…” said Queen Sherrhi.

  “…report something big is in the works from EUA Corporation,” continued Tomáso. “There are plans to disrupt the upcoming G70 meetings that start on Monday.”

  “The what?” asked Pomy.