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

by Dave Schroeder

  “Other than eliminating Queen Sherrhi so her sister could take the throne of the Dauushan empire?”

  “Oh dear,” said Emma Ann. “That means The General will have to kill Terrhi, too.”

  Spike sat up, put his massive front pair of paws on the table, and growled. I shared his concern.

  “We’ll get you back to Terrhi soon,” I told the unhappy pink-striped feline. “I’ve got a great idea on how to ensure she’s well-guarded. You’ll like it.”

  I still wasn’t sure how much Spike understood, but he stared at me with all three of his eyes for a moment, then resumed his spot under the table next to Max. Poly gave me a look and a secret smile. She could tell what I was thinking and liked it.

  “You can call Martin after dinner,” said my partner.

  “I think we can count on Martin, local law enforcement and Homeplanet Security to handle conventional challenges like nova bombs,” I said, wondering when congruency-powered nova bombs had become an everyday checklist item in my planning.

  “You’re going to focus on the stuff The General can do that’s unconventional?” asked Emma Ann.

  “That’s how it’s worked out so far,” I said.

  “Cool,” said Emma Ann.

  She got out of her chair and got down on the floor next to Spike, rubbing the fur on his back until a low-level purring hum filled the room. I could only imagine how loud the purring would be if Bavarian Kreem got her own trisabertooth. At least Spike wasn’t suffering from lack of affection away from Terrhi.

  Poly returned to her original question. I admired her focus.

  “What else could The General do?” she asked the room. “What else unconventional?” she added.

  “Giant robots?” suggested Pomy.

  “We’ve got that covered,” I said.

  Poly nodded to back me up.

  “A mercenary army?” offered Emma Ann from under the table.

  “Homeplanet Security’s problem,” said Poly.

  “From what I heard you had to handle a mercenary army yourself last First Contact Day,” said Emma Ann.

  Cornell winced.

  “Now Homeplanet Security is on alert for mercenary armies,” said Poly.

  We could hope—though I wouldn’t bet my life on it.

  Chit blew grains of Parmesan out of her spiracles and buzzed over to the side of the table in front of Cornell, Rosalind and Sally.

  “You three chumps have been awfully quiet,” she said. “You worked for th’ guy—whadda you think he’s gonna do?”

  “I’m afraid he’s got something big planned,” said Cornell.

  “Really big,” echoed Sally.

  “There were rumors floating around the company,” said Rosalind. “The General hates using non-Terran solutions, but corporate scuttlebutt indicated he might be planning to make an exception to that policy.”

  “Like he did with the Zelda Fitzgerald Pyr costume?” asked Emma Ann from the floor next to Spike.

  “Something on a larger scale than disguising himself as an alien, I think,” said Rosalind. “What I’d heard was along the lines of recruiting help from off-planet.”

  “Could they be referring to Lüzhiulterianne?” I asked. “She’d fit that description.”

  “Lüzhi seems like she’d be an off-planet resource who’d be mostly acting off-planet,” said Rosalind, “and my rumor was about outside help for The General arriving here on Earth.”

  “Can you shake the tree and find out if your contacts can provide more details?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Rosalind replied. “I’ll see if Mildred has picked up any additional information.”

  Mildred? Oh yeah. The receptionist at EUA’s headquarters who’d called Rosalind Rosey.

  “Great,” said Poly. “Sounds like we’ll have to be ready for anything.”

  “That seems to sum things up,” said Pomy. “Given your lack of actionable intelligence, what are you going to do?”

  “What we always do,” said Poly.

  I knew what came next, and completed her thought.

  “Improvise!”

  * * * * *

  Poly had encouraged me to call it an early night, since we were both short on sleep and the next day would likely be interesting in all the various senses of that term. I’d called Martin to suggest something he could do to help us deal with contingencies. The two of us conferenced in Mike and he and the rest of the Xenotech Support team said they’d help get things ready.

  Now I’d finished chewing on mints, brushing my teeth and gargling with strong mouthwash after chewing two sticks of chlorophyll gum. I was almost ready for Poly’s inspection kiss. With luck, I’d pass and wouldn’t have to request express delivery of a box of tiny Orishen arthropods to scour my mouth and eliminate any remaining hint of pepperoni. My amazing partner was already in bed, keeping it warm for my eventual, orally-sanitized arrival.

  I rinsed and swirled with water and held my hand in front of my mouth. Then I breathed out through my mouth and sucked air in through my nose, trying to detect any presence of spicy sausage. So far, so good. I stripped and hung my clothes up on the back of the bathroom door. It was time for the picosecond of truth.

  I knelt by Poly’s side of the bed and leaned forward to kiss her. She stopped me with a hand between our lips.

  “First things first, lover-boy,” she said. “Exhale.”

  I did.

  “Minty fresh,” said Poly. “You pass phase one. Now kiss me.”

  I did that, too. Thoroughly.

  “Get your butt in here,” said Poly, patting the bed next to her. “I have plans for you tonight.”

  “Whatever you’re planning, you know I’ll just improvise,” I replied, sliding under the covers and reveling in skin-to-skin contact.

  “I’m counting on it,” said Poly, “and expect to do some improvising of my own.”

  “Sounds like we’re going to play jazz on a sax,” I said, smiling.

  “I’d prefer to change one letter,” said Poly.

  “Ploy?” I asked.

  “Shut up,” said Poly.

  Soon I didn’t have any need to talk. Before we’d moved from necking to any action below the neck, a tremendous booming knock rocked the door. It swung open with a crash and Terrhi and Bavarian barged in. Poly and I reacted with aplomb and pulled the sheets up to our chins. We’d been through this before. Using only our eyebrows we exchanged the obligatory I thought you locked the door? series of questions.

  “Hi Uncle Jack, Aunt Poly,” said Terrhi. “Where’s Spike?”

  “He’s in Emma Ann’s room,” I said.

  “Three doors down on the left,” said Poly.

  “Thanks,” said Terrhi. “Bye.”

  The Dauushan girl started to leave the room.

  “Wait,” I said. “How did you get here? How did you even know where we were?”

  “We took an autocab from Lenox Square Mall and Bavarian showed me how to track the transmitter in Spike’s collar and got us out of the consulate without anybody seeing us and…”

  Bavarian interrupted her friend.

  “They don’t need all the details,” said Bavarian. “Sorry to bother you Mr. Buckston, Ms. Jones. Carry on.”

  I thought carrying on was what we’d been doing!

  Bavarian had good manners, at least. She could have easily been a spoiled little rich girl. Instead, I was impressed she was so polite. Devious, but polite.

  “Call me Mr. Jack,” I said.

  Really? said Poly’s eyebrows.

  Both girls left as quickly as they’d arrived. When I was sure they were gone, I got up and locked the door. I found a small triangular rubber doorstop and wedged it under the bottom of the door as well, just for insurance.

  “We should have expected that,” said Poly.

  “Uh huh,” I said.

  “At least now we’re alone and should stay that way,” said Poly.

  “Hold my calls,” I told my phone, “for anything short of an Extincti
on Level Event.”

  My phone beeped in a familiar pattern. It was trying to figure out whether or not it should tease me and wisely decided not to.

  I was glad I wouldn’t have to disassemble it into its component parts tonight. I had more important things to do.

  Chapter 40

  “I owe it all to little chocolate donuts.”

  — John Belushi

  I got up extra early on Sunday morning, took a shower and got dressed, being careful not to wake Poly. I timed things perfectly and could hear the whir of rotors from a small squadron of approaching drones as I entered the facility’s lobby. They were transporting eight or ten boxes and bags with different company logos holding various options for breakfast—all paid for by Bavarian Kreem’s generosity.

  My phone and I had arranged things with Atlanta Drone-Hover Delivery for them to consolidate separate orders from Dunkin’ Donuts, Krispy Kreme, Voodoo Donut, and Winchell’s. There were even two boxes of Tim Horton’s TIMBITS for me that had been teleported into the Jackson Teleport Nexus straight from the store on Queen Street in Toronto. With their usual attention to detail, AD-HD had pulled all the disparate pieces together and gotten everything right—even the special high-protein donuts with no powdered sugar for Spike.

  I’d requested most of my order to be made with the new patented Nicósn process that encapsulated donuts’ fat molecules in insoluble shells after you eat them, so you could get the wonderful mouth feel of the ring-shaped treats without gaining weight. That was both a nod to the need to set a good nutritional example for Max and an appreciation of the fact that I didn’t want to fall asleep in the middle of any adventures. Poly had reminded me of my tendency to zonk out shortly after consuming five or six conventional donuts. I didn’t want any more incriminating photos of me napping with my mouth open posted on Spacebook.

  Looking like a Sherpa hauling supplies to base camp, I carried the boxes and bags down to the conference room we’d been using for our meals and arranged all the goodies on the built-in counter. I laid out the donuts by type, not company, putting all the plain donuts on the left and the filled donuts to the right, with the frosted ones in between. It was difficult to resist sampling, so I compromised and popped a donut hole filled with galberry cream into my mouth, chewed, smiled and swallowed. Nobody would notice one missing donut hole, right?

  There were three large tubs of fresh fruit on the far right, followed by a pink plaid box holding a volleyball-sized egg from some avian Dauushan, hard boiled, wrapped in spicy ground sausage, rolled in bread crumbs, and broiled. The plaid was the same pattern as the cummerbund on the tuxedo I’d worn to the awards banquet at the Teleport Inn a little over a week ago. It seemed appropriate for the alien equivalent of a Scotch Egg and I wondered if any of my friends would find that as amusing as I did.

  Juice, milk, and soft drinks were already stocked in the conference room’s capacious refrigerators. Coffee and hot water for tea were available from spigots on the wall attached to congruencies linked to Starbucks.

  I removed a Diet Starbuzz from one of the fridges and used my phone to check the time. It was only six-thirty, so I sent a text to a friend and confirmed he’d be able to help with one of the contingency plans I’d figured out last night with Poly’s help. She’s great at brainstorming. Since I knew he was awake, I called Martin, double-checking he had everything in place to increase security for the G70 guests downtown.

  “By the way,” said Martin, “Tomáso gave me an update this morning. He said last night Terrhi and Bavarian insisted on coming on the tour today. I didn’t object, since it would simplify logistics if they were all at Centennial Olympic Park. Terrhi was also adamant about reconnecting with Spike as soon as possible.”

  “She did that last night,” I informed Martin. “Terrhi and Bavarian showed up here a few hours after dinner.”

  “What?” said Martin. “Tomáso thinks the girls are still sleeping in Terrhi’s room.”

  “I’ll let him know right away,” I said. “He and Sherrhi are probably frantic. We’ll bring them straight to the park with us.”

  “What a kid,” said Martin.

  “What kids,” I replied. “With both of them around, things get exponentially more interesting.”

  “Thanks for your help with the girls and Spike,” said Martin. “Now we won’t need the additional units from Emory to cover Ad Astra.”

  “They can be our reserves,” I said. “Was my team helpful?”

  “Incredibly helpful,” said Martin. “Mike and CiCi and Ray Ray were great at calibration and testing, Shuvvath had an innate understanding of their morphic functionality, and Hither reactivated hundreds of octovac auxiliaries.”

  “Not bad for a talent management major, is she?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Talent management?” asked Martin.

  “The latest biz-speak for human resources,” I replied.

  “Right,” said Martin. “I’d hire her any day.”

  “No poaching,” I said, feigning indignation. “She’s mine.”

  We laughed, but both of us knew good people like the ones Poly and I had hired were hard to find.

  “Where are you staging the units?” I asked.

  “Where you suggested—Mercedes-Benz Stadium.”

  “Will you keep the roof mostly open or closed?”

  “Mostly closed,” said my friend. “There will be enough room for them to move quickly if they’re needed.”

  “They’re only a hop, skip, and a jump away from the park,” I noted.

  “More like just a hop,” said Martin. “We’re talking seconds, not minutes.”

  “Great,” I said. “Let’s hope we don’t need them.”

  “Let’s hope,” repeated Martin.

  Neither one of us sounded very convinced we wouldn’t.

  “Where do you want us positioned?” I asked. “Should we meet you at the capitol building?”

  “No, that’s going to be enough of a zoo already,” said Martin. “It’s a more constrained environment and I think I have that part of things under control. I need you and your folks on the ground in the park. There’s a lot more acreage to cover.”

  “Right,” I said. “When do you expect the G70 dignitaries’ motorcade to leave the capitol?”

  “That depends on how much the top legislators want to milk their time in the spotlight.”

  “So somewhere around five in the afternoon?” I joked.

  “The official schedule says they’re supposed to leave the capitol building at ten.”

  I snorted my disbelief.

  “Really?” I said. “What kind of odds do you give that they’ll keep to that schedule?”

  “Pretty good, actually,” said Martin. “Homeplanet Security runs a tight ship.”

  “Getting hundreds of galactic bigwigs to follow a schedule will be a challenge even for them,” I remarked.

  “Less of one than you’d think,” said Martin. “Most of the dignitaries are used to following tight timetables and being told where to go.”

  “Let’s hope,” I repeated. “What’s the motorcade’s route?”

  “Mitchell Street to Central Avenue, past Underground Atlanta, up to Decatur Street, which turns into Marietta Street…” said Martin.

  “…and Marietta Street runs right by the south end of Centennial Olympic Park,” I completed. “Where are the delegates stopping first once they get there?”

  “The World of Coke,” said Martin. “Then the Georgia Aquarium—most of them, anyway. Some delegates are going to the Legislative Hall of Fame.”

  The Legislative Hall of Fame had replaced the College Football Hall of Fame when that museum had been enticed to move to Tuscaloosa, Alabama a few years back. Its building was across from the park, next to the CNN Center. I thought both museums were underwhelming, but legislators were a lot more popular with galactics than college football players, so it made sense some of the delegates would want to go there.

  “We’ll focus on the
park itself and the two biggest attractions,” I said.

  I heard loud conversations in the background under Martin’s voice.

  “Thanks,” said my friend. “Things are ramping up here. I’ve got to go. Good luck!”

  “You, too,” I said, but the line was already dead.

  It was getting close to seven—the rest of the team would be here soon and I could enjoy some of the donuts without feeling guilty. I put my Diet Starbuzz down on the counter.

  “Simon says, ‘Reflective Mode,’” I commanded.

  The smart wall changed into a mirrored surface. I didn’t tell it to trigger its electrostatic cleaning function and eliminate Max’s latest drawings—some of them were quite good and worth preserving. One resembled a circuit diagram and I resolved to talk to my son about proper electrical engineering safety practices in the near future.

  I checked myself out and thought I’d done a good job of picking things to wear that would help me blend in with the Sunday morning tourists at the park. I was wearing khakis, tan socks, white Mutaswoosh sneakers, and a dark green polo shirt with a white collar and a small embroidered red dragon on the left breast. Mom had given me the shirt for Christmas a few years ago, after she’d returned from a consulting assignment in Cardiff.

  To top off my look, I wore an aqua baseball cap with the Georgia Aquarium logo—a stylized capital G with a fish’s tail. The cap was a tchotchke I’d received from the chief information officer at the aquarium two years ago after helping her people debug enrichment software for narwhals. Before I’d arrived, the software had enraged them so much that they were trying to pierce their tank with their tusks in hopes of returning to the sea.

  Narwhals have excellent sight and hearing, so some geniuses had determined giving them a touch-based interface to pull up classic movies and music from the internet would make their highly constrained environment more tolerable. The only problem was that the developers tried to cut corners and used only ad-supported content. The constant annoying interruptions were making the narwhals so ticked off they would do anything to escape.

  It only took me a few minutes to revise the code to point to commercial-free streams. I paid for the first year of the narwhal’s subscriptions myself and signed up to keep doing it for the next several years as a tax-deductible contribution. The aquarium’s chief information officer was impressed by the simplicity of my solution. She remarked—only somewhat in jest—that it was a good thing the developers never entered the narwhal’s tank—they would have been skewered for sure.