Contents
The Man Who Sold the Earth
Copyright & Disclaimer
Xenotech Series
Xenotech Queen's Gambit
Queen's Gambit Prologue
Queen's Gambit Chapter 1
Queen's Gambit Chapter 2
About the Author
The Man Who Sold the Earth
“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.” ― William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
First contact was not made when a spaceship landed on the White House lawn, but when a three-alien delegation teleported into the office of the most powerful man in the world. The visitors had timed it well, arriving at the beginning of a half-hour block the great man had reserved for a restorative mid-day power nap.
“What can JPMorgan Chase do to help you gentlebeings?” said the chairman.
“We come in peace,” said the tallest of the visitors, a lean, tiger-striped seven foot humanoid.
“Live long and prosper,” said the shortest alien, a three-foot pyramid with an eye at the apex of each side.
“Klaatu barada…” began the third alien, a round, red-skinned being with a beard made of long, white, manipulative tentacles who looked like a caricature of Santa Claus.
“Cut the crap,” said the chairman.
“Right,” said the tallest alien. “We’re from the Galactic Free Trade Association and we want to cut you in.”
“I see,” said the chairman. “What’s in it for me?”
“Unlimited, practically free energy,” said the pyramid alien.
So much for ExxonMobil, thought the chairman.
“The cure for cancer,” said the Santa Claus alien.
Ditto for Pfizer and Hospital Corporation of America.
The tall alien spoke. “Warp drives and…” —the alien moved its hands from its head to its knees to indicate Star Trek’s transporter special effect— ”teleportation.”
Sell transportation stocks short.
“And what could you possibly want from us?”
The three aliens looked at each other and by unspoken consensus the pyramid took the lead in answering.
“We’re never exactly sure what will prove popular in Galactic markets,” it said, “but we know that free trade is always beneficial to all participants.”
“Tell it to the Native Americans,” said the chairman. “You know about them?”
“Yes,” said the Santa. “We’ve been studying Earth for a long time.”
“So you want to come to our planet and buy our valuables for twenty-four dollars in beads and trinkets?”
“The cure for cancer is hardly wampum,” said the pyramid.
“And you’d get access to our Galactic stock market databases so you could see the value of your trade goods and could bargain with us as an equal,” said the tall alien.
“It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise,” said the pyramid.
Fair. The chairman gave a mental snort. This is business.
“Don’t treat me like a child,” said the chairman.
The tall, furred, tiger-striped alien glanced at the ceiling for a moment as if to say, “That’s not what we we’re doing,” then looked directly at the chairman and gave a wry smile. It was exactly what they were doing.
“What commodities are you looking for?” said the chairman. “If you tell me, I’ll help you get them—at a good price.”
“We’re rather fond of chocolate,” said the red-skinned, white tentacle-bearded alien.
“And maple syrup,” said the pyramid.
“And Jelly Belly candies,” said the tall alien. “Yum.” The look on the alien’s face made it clear it had already sampled the flavorful confections.
The chairman made mental notes. Buy Hershey and Nestle shares. Get options on sugar maple stands in Vermont, Quebec and Ontario. Acquire the Jelly Belly Candy Company.
“Got it,” said the chairman. “You like sweets. What else?”
“We’re also rather fond of Gilbert & Sullivan,” said the Santa. It started singing. “I am the captain of the Pin-a-fore…”
The other two aliens joined in. “And a right good captain too!”
“GaFTA member species love Gilbert & Sullivan,” said the tall alien. “Almost as much as broadcasts of legisla…”
“Shush,” said the pyramid.
“What’s GaFTA?” said the chairman.
“It’s a shortened way of referring to the Galactic Free Trade Association,” the pyramid replied.
“Oh, right. We do that, too. It helps sell the politicians—like NAFTA. If we had a good acronym like that we’d have an easier time selling Congress on the Trans-Pacific Partnership Agreement.”
“Speaking of Congress,” said the tall alien.
“Don’t worry about them,” said the chairman. “They won’t be a problem. I’ll take care of it. They owe me.”
“That’s not what I meant,” answered the tall alien. “GaFTA member species are interested in following the deliberations of Earth’s legislative bodies to become better informed citizens and fully acquaint themselves with the issues important to our newest member planet.”
“That’s a pile of horse puckey, bucko,” said the chairman. “You can’t even say it with a straight face.”
Somehow, the tall alien that resembled a bipedal tiger managed to look sheepish.
“I thought so,” said the chairman, who seemed to pause and restart. “But I’m being a poor host,” he said. “Would any of you gentlebeings like some sort of refreshment? Coffee? Tea? Water? I don’t know what works with your biochemistry.”
“Hot chocolate for me,” said the pyramid.
“And for me,” said the Santa.
“I’ll take the cream you would have put in my coffee,” said the tall alien.
The chairman took note that its preference, along with its appearance, was feline. He pushed a button on the speaker phone on his desk.
“George, could you bring a couple of hot chocolates and a large cup of cream to my office for my guests, please? And an espresso for me—it’s going to be a long day.”
A medium tenor voice answered.
“Your guests, sir? I thought you were ‘researching the markets.’”
His personal secretary was using their code for “restorative mid-day power nap.”
“They must have come in while you were away from your desk,” said the chairman.
“But I never left my…”
“Just bring the drinks, George.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And keep a firm hold on the tray...”
“Whatever you say, sir. It won’t be a moment.”
The chairman pressed the button again to turn off the speaker function and focused on his guests.
“I’d appreciate a few days to keep the knowledge of your arrival and invitation to myself,” he said. “That way I can work behind the scenes to reduce potential problems for the global economy.”
“You mean you want time to conduct some discreet insider trading,” said the tall alien, looking pleased about scoring points back on the chairman.
“No, no,” said the pyramid. “That simply won’t do. It wouldn’t be fair to give you too much of a head start. The press conference needs to be held this afternoon.”
“This afternoon!” said the chairman. His expression resembled the one he’d had when an employee in the U.K. nicknamed “The Orca” had lost more than six billion dollars in unauthorized de
rivatives trading. “At least tell me we can wait until after the market closes.”
“Of course,” said the Santa. “But that only gives you a couple of hours to set things up.”
“I guess we could hold it in the lobby,” said the chairman. Oh crap, he thought. Today would have to be April first.
“We were thinking Times Square,” said the pyramid.
“The stage is still up from the America’s Got Talent special last night,” said the Santa. “I really liked the talking dog.”
A knock on the chairman’s oak-paneled door saved him from having to respond to the Santa alien’s comment.
“Come in.”
George entered, carrying a silver tray with three large bank logo mugs and a small porcelain cup. Guests didn’t get the Limoges china cups unless their net worth was known and north of five hundred million. There were also a serving spoon and a glass bowl resting in a larger silver bowl filled with ice. George gripped the tray tightly and didn’t look at his boss or his guests until he’d put the tray down on a convenient marble-topped table.
“Would you like me to serve, sir,” said George, who was a very well trained and well paid personal secretary.
Then he noticed the visitors, and bowed, thinking he’d really blown it by not using the good china.
“I didn’t know if you’d like whipped cream with your hot chocolate,” he said, “so I brought some along just in case.”
“I like mini-marshmallows,” said the Santa, sotto voce.
“Shush,” said the pyramid. “Whipped cream for both of us, thank you.”
George handed the tall alien its mug and added generous dollops of whipped cream before serving the other two their mugs. He managed to keep it together when the pyramid used a tentacle extruded from below one of its three mouths to grasp its mug. The Santa alien wasn’t so bad, except when its beard tentacles writhed, which they did when inhaling the rich, sweet, complex smell of the imported Harrod’s hot chocolate and the freshly made whipped cream.
“Ahhhh,” said the Santa, inclining its head toward George. “I’m sure this will taste as good as it smells.”
The pyramid sipped its hot chocolate.
“It’s delicious. Thank you,” it said.
“It would be even better with mini-marshmallows,” said the Santa.
“Shush,” said the pyramid, a bit more insistently.
The tall alien just smiled, showing canines that looked less threatening with a cream mustache.
“I’m glad you like your drinks, good gentles,” said George. He noted that the chairman had grabbed his cup of espresso while he was working on the whipped cream.
“I’ll leave you to your discussions. Let me know if you need anything.”
George headed for the door.
“Just a moment,” said the chairman. “Stay right here. I need your help.”
George cleared his throat and looked at the chairman expectantly. He cleared his throat again.
“Are you coming down with something, George?” said the chairman.
“No,” said the pyramid. “He’s waiting to be introduced.”
“Come to think of it, so am I,” said the chairman. “I expect you know who I am.”
“Your reputation precedes you,” said the pyramid. “I am Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary to Earth from the Galactic Free Trade Association.”
The chairman looked thoughtful. Wasn’t Talleyrand Napoleon’s chief diplomat? Is the pyramid pulling my leg?
“Very pleased to meet you,” said the chairman, extending his hand. The end of another one of the pyramid’s tentacles flattened out and gave him five, or what might, in other circumstances, have been five, since the pyramid didn’t have fingers.
George shook hands as well.
“Very pleased to meet you, too,” he said.
“I’m a Pyr,” said the pyramid.
“A Purr?” said George. “Like a cat?”
“No, like the ancient pointy things near Cairo. But it sounds like a long wooden structure extending into the ocean that you fish from—or a member of the British House of Lords.”
“Oh. A Pyr,” said George. “Got it.”
“I know my full name is a mouthful,” said the Pyr. “The custom for my species is to name themselves after beings they admire that fit with their roles and responsibilities. I understand that Talleyrand was a good diplomat, so I named myself for him.”
“Okay,” said George, who got it, but still didn’t quite get it.
“For formal occasions my full name is recommended,” said the Pyr, “but for everyday conversations, you can call me Chuck. I’m male, by the way, that’s why I chose a man’s name. Gender seems to matter a lot on Earth. Our females have four sides, not three.”
The chairman nodded and smiled on automatic pilot.
“Thanks, Chuck. Good to know,” he said. “And who are the other members of your delegation?”
“They can introduce themselves.”
The Santa alien stepped forward.
“My people are known as Nicósns, from the planet Nicós. I am also male and my name is Jannosh. Our species uses numeric identifiers rather than last names, sort of like personal IP addresses, so I’ll spare you my sixty-four character designation.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jannosh,” said the chairman and George in turn, glad that the Nicósn, at least, had human-like hands.
Now it was the tall alien’s turn. The humans watched as a long tongue circled and wiped the excess cream from around the being’s tooth-filled mouth.
“My name is Murriym, and I’m a female from the planet Tigram.” Her voice had the not unpleasant buzz of a big cat’s growl.
“So you’re Tigrams?” asked George.
“We couldn’t make it that easy,” said Murriym. “The demonym for my people is Tigrammath. That’s also the word for our language.”
“Tigrammath,” said George. “I like math.”
“I expect our two species will get along just fine,” said Murriym. “It’s the Pyrs who are the true mathematical geniuses, though.”
“You can always count on them,” said Jannosh. Chuck snapped the Nicósn’s knee with a chastising tentacle.
“Sorry,” said Jannosh.
“Settle down,” said the chairman. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. George, not a word about this to anyone else until the press conference. Call the mayor’s office and get that stage reserved for four o’clock. If there’s any problem, tell him he’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t make this happen. We’ll need major police presence as well. Tell him it will be like New Year’s Eve. If you get push back, mention the word Rosebud and that should clear any obstacles. Notify the networks and ensure there’s plenty of coverage. But no details.”
“Yes, sir,” said George, heading for his desk outside.
“Stop,” said the chairman. “Nobody enters or leaves this room until we head out for the press conference. Make all your arrangements from here. If this leaks there will hell to pay.”
“Right,” said George, locking the CEO’s office door from the inside and moving to his auxiliary workstation to the left of his boss’s desk. He put on a headset and started making calls.
“And George,” said the chairman, loud enough to be heard through the headphones. “Get me the president.”
“The White House?”
“Good God, no,” said the chairman. “The president of the Federal Reserve. She’d kill me if I didn’t at least give her some warning about what’s in store for the economy.”
While George and the chairman were busy with logistical details for the press conference, the three aliens came together and spoke quietly.
“I told you we picked the best person for first contact,” said the Pyr.
“You were right and I was wrong,” said Jannosh the Nicósn. “I wanted to tell the President.”
“But he would have had to tell the opposition and then imagin
e what sort of circus this would turn into,” said the Pyr. “Can you imagine the impact we’ll have on their immigration policy?”
“No politicians. That’s the rule,” said Murriym the Tigrammath.
“Right,” said Chuck. “And one that’s served us well.”
“Isn’t the head of the Federal Reserve a politician?” asked Jannosh.
“Only indirectly and not by training,” said Murriym. “She’s sort of halfway between a politician and a business person.”
“And that makes it okay?” said Jannosh.
“Quiet,” said the Pyr. “The chairman’s making a video call.”
George had gotten through two gatekeepers at the Fed with his usual efficiency and was ready to connect his boss with the Chairman of the Federal Reserve. He’d been told to make it a video call so that the head of the Fed could see his boss’s body language.
“You’re live, sir,” said George.
The three aliens circled around behind the JPMorgan Chase chairman so they could follow the conversation but still remain off camera. A short-haired woman’s face appeared on the screen.
“Are you sitting down?” said the bank chairman.
“Nice to see you, too,” said the Fed chairman. “Of course I’m sitting down. I have to sit down for the camera to see me, according to my IT people. To what do I owe the honor of this unscheduled conversation?”
The two leaders were old friends, but they were also busy people whose schedules were managed with the precision of lawyers allocating billable hours.
“You need to have all the exchanges in the country suspend trading after four o’clock today,” he said, “and have your counterparts do the same around the world.”
The Fed chairman saw the look on his face and didn’t say what she wanted to say—something on the order of “Have you gone mad?”
“What do you know?”
“It’s big. Second Coming big.”
“I never took you for a religious man,” she said.
“I’m not. It’s not Jesus, but it’s every bit as Earth-shattering. World markets and financial systems will go crazy after my press conference in Times Square at four o’clock.”
“Thanks for the warning, I think,” said the Fed chair. She tried to read his face on her monitor. “Can you give me a hint?”
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