Xenotech Queen's Gambit: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 2) (33 page)

“Ms. Jones, Mr. Buckston,” said Spelman. “Every time you answer a question honestly, I will give your little friend another air hole. Don’t try lying—my glasses can detect changes in temperature on your faces and I’ll know when you’re lying.”

“What do you want to know?” I said.

“A great deal,” said Spelman, “starting with the detailed security plan for Queen Sherrhi on Saturday.”

“I don’t know anything about her security plans,” I said. “That’s Di
á
go and Tom
á
so’s department.”

“You seem to be telling the truth,” said Spelman. “Anything to add, Ms. Jones?”

“Tomáso has an asteroid mining ship in orbit ready to blast the Emory quad if anything jeopardizes Queen Sherrhi’s safety.”

“Interesting,” said Spelman, “and also true. That earns you an air hole.”

Chit was on her back in the plastic bottle, her six legs waving feebly in the air. Agnes Spelman brought the point of the letter opener down sharply on the bottle’s lid, creating a small, rectangular hole. Chit’s legs stopped waving and she flipped herself back upright.

“Very good, Ms. Jones. Let’s try another question, shall we? Where are my two missing robots?”

This time I answered.

“They’re in the VIGorish Labs hangar near Hartsfield Port,” I said. “Under guard by a squad of Capitol police.”

Spelman picked up the bottle holding Chit and shook it vigorously. The little Murm lay stunned at the bottom of the bottle when she returned it to the top of her desk.

“That was only partly true, Mr. Buckston,” she said. “Which part was the lie?”

“The guards,” I said.

“Excellent,” said Spelman. “Are my constructors there as well?”

“The octovacs? Yes, they’re there.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it,” said Spelman.

Her voice was silky, but menacing. She lifted up the letter opener and stabbed the bottle’s lid, opening another small air hole.

“One more,” said Spelman. “What did that meddlesome P
â
kk find out at the carnival?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why we’re here.”

“He’s still unconscious at the Dauushan consulate,” added Poly.

Don’t volunteer information that wasn’t requested, I thought.

“They’re keeping him sedated until he has more time to recover from the blow to the back of his head.”

Ah, she’s telling the truth, but not all of it. Poly was a skilled liar. I filed that data point away for future reference.

“I wish they’d found a more permanent solution,” said Spelman, “but you can’t get good help these days.”

“Ms. Smith seems competent,” I said, trying to drag out the conversation.

“I should have had her take care of the P
â
kk.”

“You won’t get away with this,” said Poly.

“Don’t be melodramatic,” said Spelman. “For all intents and purposes, my sister and I already have.”

She pulled open a desk drawer and removed a polished metal sphere the size of a grapefruit. She tossed it up and caught it with one hand.

“How would the two of you like to help me test my new nanoparticles?” said Spelman. “We don’t have much use for alien species except to serve Terrans, but those ancient Nicósn scientists certainly were effective cyberorganic organism designers.”

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Your loss,” said Spelman, “but not your choice.”

She was about to throw the sphere on the floor in front of us when there was the sound of a tremendous explosion and the office tilted. The sphere slipped out of her hand, dropped a few inches onto Spelman’s desk blotter, and then rolled onto a thick Persian rug off to one side. Chit’s bottle rolled off as well and ended up under Spelman’s desk. Smoke was rising up from cracks in the floor. Spelman’s chair had toppled over backwards with her in it. She seemed stunned and wasn’t moving.

Poly’s chair and my chair had both tipped over sideways. Being tied in protected us as we fell. My phone cut my wrists and ankles free and headed over to do the same for Poly. I looked for the bottle where Chit was held captive, but couldn’t find it. Then my little friend flew out from under Spelman’s desk looking as angry as a hornet. She saw Spelman on the floor, motionless, and started to head toward her. I didn’t know what damage an inch and a half long Murm could do to a full-sized human, but I didn’t want to find out.

“Don’t damage the merchandise,” I said to my little friend. “We need her as a hostage.”

Chit’s reply was unprintable.

Poly and I were back on our feet and were getting our bearings when we heard a sound like straining metal and the floor tilted again. An eight-foot gap opened in the middle of Spelman’s office, separating Poly and me from Spelman and leaving a jagged opening in the outside wall. The building was vibrating and shaking. Three dimensional printed knickknacks, based on Factor-E-Flor designs, had fallen off shelves and were scattered around us. Poly and I were both back on the floor and sliding away from the gap toward the spot where the oak door to the CEO’s office had been. Spelman’s side of the office was tilting up in the opposite direction, so I lost sight of her.

Chit was better than either of us in operating in three dimensions. I saw her riding on top of the grapefruit-sized metal sphere, directing it toward me with her feet. I got to my hands and knees and captured the sphere before it could roll away from me, uncomfortably wedging it into a front pocket of my jeans. Chit hopped on my shoulder and Poly grabbed my backpack tool bag. We were both afraid the entire building would collapse with us in it.

Ms. Smith crawled toward us through the office door. She had a nasty looking pistol in her hand and was about to fire at us when Chit landed on the bridge of her nose and blew blasts of air in Ms. Smith’s eyes with a flurry of wing beats, distracting her. Poly knocked the gun from her hands with a well-thrown scale model of an Easter Island Moai statue. We were so focused on Ms. Smith that we didn’t notice the pair of octovacs that had come to rescue us.

The two helpful units grabbed us around our waists and pulled us out the wide crack in the side of the building and out into the bright May afternoon sunshine. They didn’t seem to understand that we wanted them to go back and get Ms. Smith and Agnes Spelman, too. Pomy was outside standing on a narrow strip of grass between the building’s sidewalk and the parking lot. The octovacs deposited us next to her.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” she said, hugging us both.

Chit landed on Pomy’s shoulder.

“Did
you
make everythin’ go boom?” said my little friend.

“I guess so,” she said.

“That was probably overkill,” said Poly. “A three or a four on the Richter scale would have been plenty.”

“Sorry about that,” said Pomy. “You said you wanted a distraction. Ms. Smith threw me out so I planted the Macerator power pack cylinder Jack gave me in the bushes near the front entrance on my way out. Then I ran for Jack’s van as fast as I could.”

A light dawned. These office buildings were over fifteen years old. They’d been constructed before First Contact and still had natural gas lines feeding into them. Pomy must have dropped her power pack cylinder right on top of the gas main. I hoped the arson investigators never figured that out.

I had my phone direct the octovacs back into the building to search for Agnes Spelman and Ms. Smith, but of course, both were gone. They did help several other people get out. We were lucky there weren’t any casualties. We got in my van and left before Clarisse Beatty and her team of firefighters could show up, heading back to Ad Astra. I’d fill Clarisse in on what happened later.

I called Tom
á
so to let him know we had a plague sphere and were bringing it to him
post haste
. Then I called Martin to let him know he needed to assign a police detail to the VIGorish Labs hangar ASAP, and maybe arrange for a company of well-armed National Guard troops to be conducting an exercise nearby. Next, I called Mike and gave him and update on what happened.

I guess we were even now. The Brown-Spelman sisters had blown up WT&F and we’d inadvertently done the same to Factor-E-Flor. I just hoped we could manage better than a draw when Queen Sherrhi spoke at Emory’s graduation.

Chapter 36

“The infectiousness of crime is like that of the plague.”
— Napoleon Bonaparte

I talked to Poly and Pomy and got their agreement to make a detour before going back to Ad Astra. Mistress Marigold’s offices were a few miles out of the way, but I really wanted a second opinion about what was inside the sphere. Since Nic
ó
sn scientists had created the Compliant Plague originally, I thought Mistress Marigold’s insights would be especially valuable. I called ahead to let her know we were coming and what I was bringing.

We were instructed to pull up to the MF&P loading dock and come up directly to the fifth floor where Mistress Marigold’s personal lab was located. Venna, the head of security, opened the loading dock door and gave Poly, Pomy and me security badges and bracelets. Then she escorted us up to the lab. I was glad we didn’t have to deal with Dree one floor up. A little of Dree goes a long way.

Mistress Marigold was waiting for us. I introduced her to Poly and Pomy.

“Pleased to meet you both,” she said, “Now let’s see this sphere.”

She got straight to the point. Sometimes she was a kindly old flower seller, sometimes a no nonsense corporate executive. Right now, she was a single-minded scientist.

I handed her the grapefruit-sized sphere. She put it in a biological containment box with Plexiglas panels, then slid her arms into the sleeves and attached gloves that allowed her to manipulate items inside the box without risk of contamination. She noticed a seam around the center of the sphere and tried twisting the hemispheres apart, first one way, then the other. After a few turns, the sphere separated, revealing six vials of lavender liquid resting in a slots in a metal framework. Thin plastic tubes in the vials’ stoppers would feed the liquid to a small fan in the center of the sphere. It was rigged to go off when the sphere hit something hard enough to trigger a pressure switch.

Her short beard tentacles writhing in concentration, Mistress Marigold disconnected the pressure switch, neutralizing the device. Then she clipped off the feeder tube on one of the vials with two tiny hemostats. She cut between them like an obstetrician cutting an umbilical cord and lifted the isolated vial out of the metal framework. The vial went into a rack in the corner of the containment box and Mistress Marigold screwed the sphere back together. She dropped it into one plastic bag and sealed it, then a second one for good measure. Finally, she put the isolated vial in its own pair of sealed plastic bags, opened the containment box, and extended her hands with the bagged sphere out to me.

“Here,” she said. “It’s not live, but it’s still dangerous. Don’t drop it.”

I took the sphere.

“I won’t,” I said.

“How long do I have?” she asked.

“If you can’t get us a detailed analysis in twelve hours the fate of the galaxy could be at stake.”

Whose says I can’t use hyperbole with the best of them?

“Or sooner,” said Poly.

“I’ll try my best,” said Mistress Marigold.

* * * * *

When we were back in my van I called Tom
á
so to let him know we’d be a few minutes late and informed him we’d left one of the vials with Mistress Marigold. Tom
á
so agreed that her input would be valuable and asked me if we’d mind dropping the sphere off with his task force contact at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, only three miles from where we were. On the drive from MF&P to the CDC we traveled through some beautiful older neighborhoods in Atlanta with tree-lined streets and charming homes. Pomy was impressed. This was her first real chance to see some of the nicer residential parts of the city and she liked them.

“How expensive are these places,” she said, pointing at a row of houses from the 1930s.

“Expensive enough to need major help from Mom to buy them,” said Poly. “You’re welcome to stay in my apartment if you want to stick around Atlanta for a while.”

“Thanks,” said Pomy.

I could see that she was thinking about it.

My van dropped us off at the Clifton Road entrance to the CDC, just north of Emory’s campus. Tom
á
so’s contact, Dr. Mohamed Sugaiguntung, was waiting in the lobby and escorted us up three floors to his equivalent of Mistress Marigold’s lab. He put the sphere in his containment box and carefully removed the remaining vials.

“Could you do me a favor?” I said, once the vials were safely stored for analysis.

“How can I help?” said Dr. Sugaiguntung, a tall, middle-aged Indonesian-American.

“Could I please have the sphere back?” I said. “I just thought of a way it might come in handy.”

“Tom
á
so didn’t say anything one way or another,” said Dr. Sugaiguntung, “so I guess it’s okay.”

He screwed the two halves back together and removed the grapefruit sized sphere from the containment box.

“Here you go,” he said. “Tom
á
so will have my report as soon as I finish my testing.”

“You’d better hurry,” said Poly. “The fate of the…”

“Thanks so much for your help,” I said, putting the sphere in my pocket. “I’m sure Tom
á
so has told you how important it is to get your results soon.”

“I’ll get right on it,” said Dr. Sugaiguntung. “It shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

Poly was ready to throttle the earnest government researcher. I was glad that I’d had the forethought to get a more timely response from private enterprise.

I took Poly’s forearm and gently pulled her toward the lab’s exit. Pomy took her other arm and the two of us guided Poly back to my van, still sputtering about the work habits of government bureaucracies. Pomy tried changing the subject.

“It’s five o’clock,” she said. “Who’s up for an early dinner? I’m starving.”

“I am,” I said. “What are you ladies hungry for?”

“What about Mom and Dad?” said Poly, temporarily off her soapbox. I hoped she wasn’t advocating cannibalism.

“I’ll text them,” said Pomy. “I’m sure they’d like a romantic dinner without the three of us around—or two dozen Macerators dropping by.”

“I’ll bet they would,” said Poly.

We’d all seen the way Perry and Barbara had been acting amorous since the adrenaline rush following Queen Sherrhi’s dinner.

“Hey,” said Pomy. “Is there anywhere in Atlanta to get good southern food?”

I smiled and had to exercise self-control not to laugh.

“Yes,” said Poly, “that sounds great.”

“With sweet tea,” said Pomy.

“Everywhere in Atlanta serves sweet tea,” said Poly.

“How was I to know?”

“We’re not too far from Mary Mac’s Tea Room on Ponce,” I said. “It’s been around for eighty-five years. Southern cooking and southern hospitality are their specialties.”

“And you can get sweet tea there,” said Poly, teasing her sister.

Pomy didn’t rise to the bait.

“It’s a Friday night,” she said. “Do you think we’ll have to wait long to get a table?”

“Not if you tell them you’re Barbara Keen’s daughters,” I said.

Maybe we’d have a few hours to enjoy ourselves without something blowing up.