Xenotech Queen's Gambit: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 2) (15 page)

Carpe diem,
as my mother used to say. It was time to seize the day before the day seized me.

Chapter 17

“It just so happens that your friend here is only MOSTLY dead.”
— William Goldman,
The Princess Bride

I walked down to my reserved spot in the underground parking garage, instead of having my van meet me on Peachtree Street, because I needed to reconfigure my van to carry passengers. Normally, there were just two bucket seats up front. The Orishen-built front seats could slide together and meld into a single bench seat to fit in an extra person, if necessary. However, I needed to pick up three people and their luggage on my airport run, and that meant major modifications to my van’s interior.

My van was neatly parked in my assigned spot, nose out for a fast departure. A row of lockers, twice as deep and three times as wide as the ones you see lining the halls in high school movies, was bolted to the wall at the back end of my parking place. I used the lockers for storage and asked my van to pull a few feet forward so I could open its back doors and remove most of the parts and equipment filling up its cargo compartment.

I like to be prepared for anything, which means I’m reluctant to throw away any surplus technology I come across that might be useful for solving clients’ problems. In practice, that means the back of my van is chock full of junk I think might come in handy, from a tiny Musan-sized Orishen scent-organ to a T
ō
don smart watch as big as a beer keg. Come to think of it, maybe it
was
a beer keg. I don’t drink, but I’ve been known to help transport supplies for clients’ parties. I like to pretend that everything in the back of my van is well organized, but I’m fooling myself. When I slide open the partition separating the driver’s area from the cargo compartment and survey the semi-structured chaos, my superego just shakes its head and makes disapproving
tsk-tsk-tsk
sounds.

I didn’t have time to sort and organize things as I removed them—I just pulled items out quickly and shoved them into
my lockers wherever they would fit. Thank goodness there was enough room. I’d dropped off several hundred kilograms of “surplus equipment” at Fry’s Galtech Salvage a couple of months ago, because I couldn’t talk the tenants holding the parking places on either side of mine into letting me install lockers in their spaces to handle my overflow. At least moving my junk was an upper body workout, so I didn’t have to feel guilty about skipping the gym.

Then I noticed the two dormant octovacs I’d stowed at the very front of the cargo compartment. They were flat round disks that looked like they’d extrude into extra pop-up seats at my command. I rolled them out the side cargo door and around to the back of my van. Unfortunately, when I tried to find space for them in my lockers, the “No Vacancy” sign was on. I really should have returned that beer keg. I sighed and realized I’d have to put them back in my van after it shifted modes. Maybe they could help carry luggage?

Once the back of my van was empty, I instructed it to reconfigure its interior to six passenger mode. After a cheerful “As you wish,” a second row bench seat flipped up from the floor and metal panels along my van’s sides descended to reveal tinted windows. It wasn’t as slick as a full-blown Orishen mutable interior, but it was Terran-made and a lot less expensive than the off-planet alternative. I’d wanted the six-passenger option in case I needed to pick up clients or take them out to dinner, but seldom used my van for anything except support calls. I was glad to give my “faithful steed” a change of pace.

“Looking good,” said my phone, back in its normal spot on my belt.

“Woo hoo hoo!” said my van, clearly pleased.

“Wasn’t that what… ?” I started to say, but my van cut me off.

“It’s what Miracle Max said to his wife.”

“How many times have you watched
The Princess Bride?”

“It’s on a continuous loop. Part of me is always watching it.”

“While you’re driving?”

“According to a 2029 report from the National Highway Safety Board, self-driving vehicles are very good at multitasking,” sniffed my van.

It was the longest sentence I’d ever heard it say.

“If you ask me, you need to go through a car wash,” said my phone.

“Look who knows so much,” said my van.

“Wasn’t that also what…” I said.

“Uh huh,” said my van.

“Time to go,” said my phone.

I looked at my van’s exterior and agreed with my phone’s assessment. I’d stop at a car wash on my way south. I’m glad I’d gotten an early start on the day—errands were piling up. I stowed my backpack tool bag between the front bucket seats, climbed in, and headed toward the airport.

* * * * *

I’d made it all the way to the interstate before everything turned upside down.

“You’ve got a call,” said my phone.

“Who’s it from?” I asked.

“CiCi, the security guard from WT&F.”

“I know who she is. Mike has a date with her on Friday. I hope she’s not asking
me
out. I’m taken.”

“I don’t think so,” said my phone. “Voice stress analysis indicates she’s really worried about something.”

“Then put her through,” I said.

My phone complied. It was right about her being worried.

“Jack! Please! Come help. There’s been an explosion and they’ve evacuated the building.”

“Is Mike okay?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said CiCi, “but I don’t think he was anywhere near the executive offices.”

“Is that where the explosion was?” I said.

“I think so. That’s where the smoke is coming from. I’m outside now. I was here covering a second shift so that I could get Friday night off.”

She was sounding slightly more calm now.

“I pulled the fire alarm and called 911,” said CiCi. “Then I watched the security monitors to confirm everyone got out. Everyone had—except Mike. I thought he must have gone out the back.”

She must have covered her phone’s microphone with her hand because I could barely make out her voice. She was saying something like “Have you seen him?”

Then she was back on with me. The stress in her voice had returned.

“Mike’s not here. He must be still inside.”

“On my way,” I said.

But I already was. My phone and van were both quick on the uptake and were shifting to the off ramp for the next exit so we could turn around and get to WT&F fast. I just hoped we’d get there soon enough to be useful.

“Step on it, please,” I told my van.

There was a lot of stress in
my
voice, too. CiCi might be overly optimistic about Mike not being affected by the explosion. The production floor was directly below the executive offices.

My van made great time. It was going so fast that there were moments when I thought it was a hovercar. I could see smoke rising as I approached WT&F’s exit on I-285.

When I pulled into the parking lot, three fire trucks and two ambulances were already on the scene. Clumps of employees were standing near the ambulances, being treated for minor injuries, mostly cuts and bruises from flying debris. Steel and glass shards had peppered the paint jobs of cars parked near the explosion, but luckily no one was in the parking lot when the bomb—if it was a bomb—went off.

A fancy red Porsche 9099 Sterne-K
ä
mpfer in a reserved spot near the front entrance was a total loss, crushed under the executive floor’s copier. The heavy office machine must have been blown into the air by the force of the blast, then landed on the sports car’s roof, crushing it before embedding itself in the expensive vehicle’s aluminum and magnesium-composite hood. I wondered if it was J-J’s car. If so, I hope he was insured.

CiCi, in uniform, was talking to one of the firefighters.

“He’s still in there,” I heard her say. “But he’s not answering his phone.”

CiCi’s face was a mass of emotions, more than half of them fear.

“We’ll have to wait for the heavy-lift jack,” said the firefighter, adjusting her broad-brimmed hat.

“No we won’t,” I said, inserting myself into the conversation.

“Who are you?” said the firefighter.

“I’m Jack,” I said. “What needs to be lifted?”

“This is no joke,” said the firefighter. “Part of the second floor slab has broken off and fallen on the first floor.”

“On the production room?” I asked. My phone made unexpected dialing noises. I’d worry about it later.

The firefighter looked at CiCi for confirmation.

“Yes,” she said, trying to hold it together. “My friend is trapped there.”

If Mike could have seen CiCi’s face at that moment he wouldn’t doubt that she cared about him.

“Did everyone else from that side get out safely?” I asked.

“My understanding is that no one else was
in
that side of the building,” said the firefighter, looking at CiCi again.

“That’s right,” said CiCi. “When the cat’s away…”

“The mice will play,” I said. “Golf?”

“That’s what the CFO told me on his way out,” said CiCi. “I’m not sure I believe him. The VP of Sales and Marketing
was
off playing golf. I saw him leave wearing a purple and orange striped polo shirt, a white belt, and lime green pants.”

I nodded. He wasn’t likely to be doing anything else wearing
that
outfit.

“What about the support staff?”

“Early lunch,” said CiCi. “From what I overheard, I don’t think any of them planned to come back.”

She held up one hand as if it was wrapped around a glass and brought it to her mouth.

Oh,
that
kind of lunch, I thought.

“So Mike was the only person working on that side when it happened.”

“Uh huh,” said CiCi. “The rest are all accounted for.”

I gave CiCi a supportive, reassuring look and decided to examine the bomb-damaged side of WT&F’s headquarters more closely. I walked to the left until the worst of the destruction was visible. A large wedge of concrete was tipped down. One end of it was still attached to the remaining second floor slab with steel reinforcing rods and the other was resting on a pile of rubble at ground level. The broken slab was blocking all access to the production room.

I walked back.

“How long until the heavy-lift jack gets here?” I asked the firefighter.

“More than an hour,” she said. “They’re using it on an overturned bus downtown.”

“The department only has one heavy-lift jack?”

“Budget cuts,” said the firefighter. “I’m Clarisse, by the way. Clarisse Beatty. CiCi says you’re resourceful.”

I skipped my usual attempt at false modesty.

“I try,” I said. “Jack Buckston, Clarisse. I may have something that can lift that slab, or at least help us get under it.”

“The City of Atlanta and the Fire Department take no responsibility,” Clarisse said with smile.

“Disclaimer noted,” I said.

“Give it your best shot,” said Clarisse.

CiCi followed me as I walked back to my van.

“Can you get Mike out, Jack?” she said.

“Count on it,” I said. I hoped I was right.

I opened the back of my van, lifted out one octovac, and handed it to CiCi.

“You take this one,” I said. “I’ll take the other.”

Octovacs weren’t light. They weighed between ten and fifteen kilos, twenty or thirty pounds, but CiCi carried hers like it was a bag of packing peanuts. She must work out. I put my octovac down on the ground near the tilted slab. I could have activated them at the van and had them walk themselves, but I didn’t want to scare the bystanders any more than they were already.

The smell of smoke filled the air, but CiCi told me the firefighters had launched a vacuum congruency bomb at the second floor that had sucked all the air away and put out the flames. We didn’t have fire or water or air to worry about, just earth, or rather, concrete.

I spoke to my phone. “Please activate the octovacs. See if they can lift the slab.”

“Will do.”

Both octovacs extended their tentacles and used them to stand and flex. They crossed to the broken slab and positioned themselves on either side of it. With four arms and legs apiece they got under the slab and tried to raise it. It didn’t move. They just weren’t strong enough. Octovacs are fast and agile, not super strong—they’re like Hermes, not Hercules.

“That’s not working,” I said. “See if they can find a way into the production room.”

“Okay,” said my phone, “but I…”

“Not right now,” I said. “I need to see what happens.”

“But, Jack,” said my phone.

“Just a second,” I said. Couldn’t it see that I was focusing on something important? Mike’s life was at stake.

While I watched the octovacs clamber around and beside the slab, looking for holes large enough for them to crawl through, I felt something crawling up my back. Before I could move my arm to slap at whatever it was, something pinched my earlobe. Hard.

“Jack,” said my phone, standing on my shoulder with its speaker half an inch from my ear. It had my attention.

“Yes?” I said, none too happy.

“Put me down by the slab. There should be holes large enough for me to fit through and I can send back videos of what I see.”

Why hadn’t I thought of that? I guess I still wasn’t used to my phone being self-mobile.

“Great idea,” I said. “CiCi, may I please have your phone?”

“Sure,” she said, pulling it from her pocket.

I touched it to my phone and CiCi gave her okay for my phone to send audio and video to hers. I put my phone down next to the tilted slab and it promptly extruded two dozen centipede-like legs from each side of its case and scuttled its way through a hole into the darkness.

Signals began streaming to CiCi’s phone. Clarisse came over to watch with us, so CiCi unfolded her phone a few times to make the screen larger. My phone was picking its way over chunks of rubble like it was crossing a lunar landscape. Then things leveled out. My phone had reached a largely undamaged section of the production room floor, partially protected by the slab. We watched it shine its light around in circles, searching for Mike. It went forward a few feet and repeated its scan. After its third advance, its light flashed across Mike’s face.

“Hey,” said Mike. “Not in the eyes. It’s too bright.”

He was okay. CiCi cheered and gave me a joyful hug that I’d never mention to Mike. Clarisse looked pleased as well, but no hug. Professionalism, and all that.

“How are you doing?” I said. My phone knew the drill and relayed my voice.

“I’m okay,” said Mike, “but my foot is caught under a feedstock tower that fell over and knocked me down. In other words, ‘help, I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up.’”

He must be doing well if he can crack jokes, I thought.

My phone’s camera pulled back to show us a wider view of Mike’s vicinity. He was trapped, but it didn’t look like the tower was crushing his foot or his leg. A protrusion from the feedstock tower had gone through the cuff of his pants and was holding him to the floor as if he’d been nailed there. A heavy service door from the Model-43 had snapped off from the feedstock tower’s impact and was restricting the movement of Mike’s arms and upper torso. Black feedstock powder was piled all around him, like drifts of negative snow. He looked like a coal miner after a cave in. A small trickle of blood from a cut on his forehead ran red in contrast to the dark powder. Thankfully, the angle between the feedstock tower and the far end of the Model-43 had protected Mike from falling debris when the slab descended.