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

by Dave Schroeder

  “Okay,” said Max. He left the smart wall, hopped into my lap and pecked me on the cheek. Then he hugged my neck and jumped down to follow his mother out the conference room door.

  “Let’s call it an early night,” repeated Poly, squeezing my hand even harder.

  Her unsaid message finally percolated through my dense, foot-thick skull.

  “Yes, let’s,” I said. “See you in the morning!”

  Chapter 29

  “When things go wrong, don’t go with them.”

  — Elvis Presley

  Poly closed the door to our room and kissed me. I returned her kisses enthusiastically and managed an awkward duck walk from the entryway to our bed. It was easy to pull off because Poly had placed her shoes on top of mine. Her arms were around my neck and partially supporting her weight until we inelegantly flopped on the bed. It became a game not to breathe or break our clinch until the amount of oxygen reaching our brains was sufficiently reduced that autonomic reflexes took over.

  “Whew,” I said, inhaling deeply and leaning back to appreciate my partner. “You certainly know how to focus a guy’s attention.”

  “Thank you, good sir,” Poly replied. “You’re not so bad in that department yourself.”

  I bowed—or rather, I inclined my head and smiled. Bowing wasn’t practical when I was horizontal.

  “What do you think we’ll find at EUA headquarters tomorrow?” asked Poly between nibbles on my ear.

  “That tickles,” I said, squirming. “I don’t really know. I just want to shove a stick in the hornet’s nest and see what happens.”

  “Speaking of shoving a…”

  I kissed Poly before she could complete her sentence, though I certainly shared her sentiment. She kissed me back and my phone decided to leave my belt and scoot over to the nightstand where it wouldn’t be an impediment to the two humans in the room getting more comfortable. It was always very considerate that way.

  “You’re wearing too many clothes,” said Poly.

  She was right. I hadn’t even taken off my suit jacket and neither had she.

  “Thirty second time out?” I suggested. “We just bought these outfits and it would be a shame to get them wrinkled.”

  “Agreed,” said Poly.

  We extracted ourselves from each other’s embrace and stood up. Poly kicked off her shoes and placed them neatly on the floor of the closet. I did the same with my shoes, then took off my jacket and carefully hung it on a wooden hanger. I moved closer to Poly, helped her remove her jacket and repeated the process with another hanger. Poly grabbed my tie and pulled me close for more kisses.

  “Hey, I thought we were on a time out!”

  “You don’t always play by the rules,” Poly replied.

  “True enough,” I said, kissing her back and starting to unbutton her blouse.

  “Let me do that,” she said.

  That was fine with me. She could do it faster. I unbuckled my belt and put my pants on a hook without emptying my pockets. I’d be wearing the same outfit in the morning to visit EUA.

  Poly had taken off her blouse and skirt while I wasn’t watching. She was down to a slip and was leaning against the side of the closet door, standing on one foot while she worked on removing her pantyhose. I made a mental note to talk to one of my suppliers on Orish about developing pantyhose out of a kind of morphabric that would take itself off.

  “I’m ahead of you,” she said.

  “It looks like we’re even from here,” I said.

  “You’ve got six items left and I’ve got three,” said Poly.

  I was enjoying the playful look in her eyes and pulled off my tie, dress shirt and undershirt in one quick motion.

  “Now we’re even,” I remarked.

  I was using my toes to slide my socks off while Poly was counting. Her slip landed on my head to distract me.

  “No fair,” I said, “and I’m still ahead, two items to one. When did women start wearing slips again?”

  “Since I saw them in a display window at Neiman Macys.”

  “That’s my Poly, always keeping up with the latest fads in fashion,” I said, grinning broadly so she knew I was teasing.

  “I don’t think you understand how this game is played,” Poly teased me back.

  “Educate me…”

  Her bra soon joined the slip on my head. Now enlightened, I tossed both garments over my shoulder.

  “I think I like being educated,” I responded.

  “We’re even again,” grinning Poly. “And don’t worry, you’re in good hands for your remedial instruction.”

  She’d moved back to the bed and reclined, adopting a come-hither pose. I took three steps toward her and jumped on her like Tigger pouncing on Pooh. We rolled together like a pair of kittens wrestling, without using claws or teeth. Okay, maybe some teeth. Things were just starting to progress from kitten wrestling moves to more interesting interactions when my phone rang.

  “Who is it,” I said in a tone somewhere between distracted and annoyed.

  “Who cares?” said Poly. “Don’t answer it.”

  “It’s Mike,” said my phone.

  “Mike wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important,” I said. “It could be a client emergency.”

  “Simulate Jack,” ordered Poly. She kissed me before I could countermand.

  “Hi Mike,” said my phone using my voice. “What’s up?”

  “It’s Ellie at Morphicouture,” my phone relayed. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but her contact preferentiator is screwed up and I don’t know how to fix it. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

  I reached for my phone to take the call but Poly rolled on top of me and pinned my wrists to the bed. I might have been able to toss her off, but had no particular interest in doing so.

  Contact preferentiators are clever examples of highly adaptable Orishen software. For decades, it’s been increasingly difficult to figure out and remember individuals’ contact preferences. Some people want to be called. Some never take calls. Some want text messages. A subset of people want emails or physical letters. Others want to be contacted by Spacebook Messenger, NYTimes-Twitter, or Google SnapCat. Multiply that by a hundred more Terran communications options and tens of thousands of additional ways to connect used by the varied species of the Galactic Free Trade Association and it’s physically impossible for companies to efficiently manage contacting their clients or for individuals to figure out the best way to reach their friends. Getting someone’s preferences wrong could mean they’d never receive your message.

  I’d set Morphicouture up with top rated contact preferentiator software from Mulbiri Client Relationship Management Associates, a firm launched by fellow Mulbiri Tech grads.

  “What are the symptoms?” asked my phone, still using my voice.

  Poly was still holding me down, but I wasn’t fighting back. Her face was next to mine. I could feel her warm breath when she exhaled, but both of us were paying attention to the conversation, not each other.

  “Ellie’s team just sent out a big announcement about their fall collection…” said Mike.

  “It’s only May,” I said, softly.

  “The fashion industry follows its own calendar,” Poly whispered.

  “Is everything okay there?” asked Mike. “It sounds like someone’s with you.”

  “Everything’s fine,” said my phone. “Keep going.”

  “Her marketing people sent out the announcement late this afternoon,” Mike continued, “and tonight the client complaints have been coming in non-stop.”

  Poly rolled off me and sat up. I sat up, too. It’s not an easy thing to do when a beautiful, more than half-naked woman is cuddling next to you. I flattered myself to think that Poly might have a similar problem focusing. We both listened closely.

  “Why are they complaining?” asked my phone in its Jack voice.

  “Because their contact preferences are all screwed up,” said Mike. “People who prefer text messages are
getting tweets. Clients who want emails are getting engraved golden plates delivered by drones. Spacebook Messenger clients are receiving self-destructing SnapCat messages that fade to random pictures of felines after they’re read. It’s a mess!”

  “Can’t Shuvvath figure it out?” asked my phone.

  Shuvvath, being the only Orishen currently employed by Xenotech Support Corporation, should have a special affinity for his homeworld’s technology.

  “He’s tried,” said Mike, his voice rising in pitch and desperation, “but his last fix only served to change clients’ contact preferences to a different set of wrong options, not fix them. No matter what we do, the preferentiator stays screwed up. Help us, Obi Jack—you’re our only hope!”

  Poly leaned close to my ear and said “No, there is another.”

  I think she meant herself—and she was probably right.

  My phone got cute and started playing background music from Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope.

  “Tell your phone to stop being cute,” grumbled Mike. “It’s not funny. Ellie is frantic and we don’t know what to do.”

  I started to reach for my phone again, but Poly put her arms around me to stop me.

  “Sounds like the software may be suffering from synesthesia,” she said.

  “Hi Poly,” said Mike. “I didn’t know you were there. From what I’ve seen, that’s an accurate diagnosis.”

  Synesthesia was the name medical science gave to humans who had their senses crosswired, hearing colors, seeing tastes, and so on. It was a genetic condition present from birth and most synesthetes didn’t want to be cured. This was different. Morphicouture’s contact preferentiator software had been working correctly for a few years now. I’d installed and tested it myself.

  “Have you turned it off and…” my phone started to say.

  I reached out and grabbed my phone—this time with no interference from Poly. It wouldn’t do for Mike to believe I thought so little of his skills to suggest turning the system off and on again. I was sure he’d done that twenty steps earlier.

  “Stop clowning around, Jack,” Mike insisted. “This isn’t a laughing matter. What do we do?”

  My phone displayed Mike’s worried face on its screen.

  “Can you access the client contact preference database directly and make sure it’s not corrupted?” I asked.

  “We can try,” said Mike. “Shuvvath?”

  My phone switched its view to one of my security cams so I could see both Mike and Shuvvath bent over laptops at the dining room table in my apartment.

  “The database tables appear to be correct,” said the nymph, air rushing through his spiracles. For all that he looked like a killer praying mantis with razor sharp blades on his chitin-covered arms and legs, the Orishen was soft-spoken.

  “That means the problem must be with the data access layer or the business objects layer,” said Poly.

  “Maybe in Terran software,” I said, “but Orishen software is more complicated. It has a morphic layer.”

  “Morphic layer?” asked Mike, echoed by Poly.

  “It adapts to match shifting client requirements and new external conditions,” I explained. “That saves a lot of development time. Something must have shocked the preferentiator’s morphic layer into revising itself.”

  “I checked the morphic layer,” said Shuvvath, his mandibles clicking in exasperation. “It’s fine for a few seconds, then the next time I look it’s changed again.”

  That triggered the paranoid sensors in my brain. Poly was a step ahead of me.

  “Did anything strange happen recently?” she asked.

  “Somebody broke into Morphicouture eight or nine weeks ago,” said Mike.

  “I think we have different definitions of recent,” I said. “Did anything happen in the past week?”

  “A new intern started in I.T.,” said Shuvvath.

  “Have you been staying in touch with Ellie?” I asked.

  “With José,” answered the Orishen.

  José handled production and I.T. for Morphicouture while Ellie took care of marketing and design.

  “What’s the intern’s name?” asked Poly.

  “Julie Eastman,” said Mike.

  “Could Julie be short for Juliard?” I mused.

  “Juliard Eastman,” said Poly. “Those are two of the top music conservatories in the country. Sounds a lot like Columbia Brown.”

  “The last person spying on Morphicouture,” said Shuvvath. “She almost had me killing children when she forced me into artificially accelerated metamorphosis.”

  Poly and I exchanged a quick glance, remembering the excitement of our first date.

  “You think Julie Eastman is an EUA plant?” asked Mike.

  “Odds are good,” I said.

  My brain segued into what would have happened if Max had been listening to this conversation. He’d want to know what kind of plant Julie Eastman was. I’d tell him poison ivy or maybe deadly nightshade.

  “If you lock the new intern out of the system, then have Shuvvath work his magic to reset the morphic layer, you should be fine,” I said.

  “What do you want us to do about Eastman?” Mike asked. “I just deleted her access.”

  “I’ll have Martin…” I said.

  “Lieutenant Lee says he’s putting her under surveillance,” said my phone. Gotta love its initiative.

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Mike.

  “Morphic layer reset,” said Shuvvath. “The contact preferentiator software is now working properly.”

  “Super,” said Poly. “Time to reach out and touch someone.”

  “That was AT&T’s slogan from forty years ago,” said my phone, “it is not licensed for use by Mulbiri Client Relationship Management Associates.”

  “I wasn’t referring to a slogan,” said Poly. “I was stating my plans for the next hour.”

  “Have a great evening, Mike… Shuvvath,” I said.

  “You too,” said Mike.

  Shuvvath clicked his mandibles in a pattern I knew meant he was laughing.

  My phone ended the call.

  Chapter 30

  “And darest thou then to beard the lion in his den…”

  — Sir Walter Scott

  Poly and I were smiling as we waited in the lobby of the research facility at five minutes to nine the next morning. Then Poly saw Rosalind and her smile changed to a controlled, neutral expression. I wondered just how smart it was to have them both on this expedition. Despite Poly’s obvious reservations, I was glad to have someone familiar with EUA’s headquarters on the team.

  “Wearing your pupa silk shirt?” I asked Poly.

  “Uh huh,” she replied. “You’d better be, too.”

  “Count on it,” I said. “You made me promise never to leave home without it. I’m fond of my hide and want to keep it in one piece.”

  “I’m fond of your hide, too,” said Poly.

  She put her hand on my chest and caressed me lightly, then punched me in the solar plexus to make sure I really had it on. The shirt went rigid and I barely felt her blow.

  “Ow,” said Poly, rubbing her knuckles.

  “Told you,” I said, taking her hand and kissing the damaged digits.

  “If you two could focus for a minute,” said Rosalind, “we can try to make this happen.”

  Rosalind was wearing a short, curly brown wig and thick, oversized Ncyclopedia-brand VR glasses. Her conservative pantsuit ensemble was padded, disguising her figure and making her look ten years older. It was a well-chosen disguise—she looked like she could be some executive’s hyper-efficient assistant. Poly nodded at Rosalind, acknowledging and appreciating her look.

  I heard a high-pitched buzzing and felt Chit’s tiny weight land on my shoulder.

  “Who’s Grandma?” said my little friend.

  “Good to see you, too, bug,” said Rosalind.

  Chit sniffed.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said my little friend. “You know the terri
tory, but remember, I’ve got my eye-facets on you.”

  “I never doubted it,” Rosalind replied.

  “Where’s Max?” I asked.

  “Studying Pyr pulse codes with Cornell and Sally,” said Rosalind. “I told him we should be back in time for lunch.”

  “That would be great, if we can pull it off,” said Poly. “I’m less optimistic. If we’re going into the lion’s den, we ought to be prepared to run into a few lions.”

  “And the occasional water buffalo,” I added.

  “Don’t you start,” said Rosalind.

  I pulled myself up short, wondering how I’d inserted my foot in my mouth this time, and realized my words could be seen as a commentary on the extra padding Rosalind was wearing. It had never crossed my mind that she’d perceive it as an insult, but perhaps Poly’s proximity was increasing her sensitivity. Then I saw Rosalind’s grin and figured out she was putting me on. I decided my smartest move was to keep my mouth shut and not dig a deeper hole.

  “Ready to go?” asked Poly.

  Rosalind and I both nodded. The three of us walked out of the research facility and found the autocab Poly had ordered for us waiting at the curb. Somehow we all ended up in the back seat with me in the middle and Chit on the back of my neck. It wasn’t a comfortable ride. The cab drove us south on Marietta Street, heading for EUA’s headquarters on the east side of Centennial Olympic Park.

  EUA’s HQ always gave me the creeps. It wasn’t tall, like the SLN tower. It was broad and black and brooding. It reminded me of a gigantic version of Abraham Lincoln seated in his chair in the Lincoln Memorial, if you replaced our sixteenth president with Darth Vader and changed the color scheme to match. Two long wings flanked a central courtyard devoid of life and energy.

  In the back, the building rose in tiers, looking like simian shoulders and an ugly, squared-off head with sharply flared sides reminiscent of Vader’s helmet. Its windows were black, non-reflective, and did not allow any light from inside to escape. The place looked like a cross between the worst of Bauhaus and Soviet-era brutalist architecture. Just being in its shadow made my stomach uneasy.

  That was one reason why I had our autocab drop us off on the far side of the park. Walking along the green-flanked paths and taking in the gondolas of the slowly rotating two hundred foot SkyView ferris wheel calmed me down and strengthened my resolve to get through what was ahead. I was also feeling like a dog who hasn’t gotten enough exercise. I hadn’t hit the gym in a week and yesterday’s adrenaline spike while we were chased didn’t help.