Read Online Xenotech Queen's Gambit: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 2) by Dave Schroeder - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dave Schroeder
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reliable, but they needed regular preventive maintenance. Unfortunately, I’d pushed their recommended maintenance interval because of my injuries. Part of my brain was nagging me to get there today, before something bad happened, like their Nicósn moss farm drying out from too much heat or their Araqeen cacti getting the moisture level that should have been assigned to water loving float rice from Rivière Monde.
My van dropped me off at the closest corner to MF&P and went off in search of a parking place. I walked to the company’s front entrance along a flagstone path flanked by thousands of earthly and unearthly blooms. I recognized common off-planet specimens like mauve pyrimbidia and antennathuriums with their tall spiked receptors. I was impressed by the landscape gardeners’ skill at blending terrestrial varieties with non-native plants. The grounds were immaculate. All the pine straw and mulch was neatly distributed and there were hardly any candy wrappers or other pieces of litter anywhere. Then I saw why.
Three G ē nomosian garden gnomes were using their thick, muscular walking leaves to push their wagons full of dirt around the company’s grounds. Their flexible tendrils shot out to pick up discarded gum wrappers, ticket stubs and stray bits of plastic. Some of the items they collected went into their digestive orifices and some went onto spikes on their wagons for later disposal. I couldn’t figure out how they decided which went where.
I remembered that life had taken a different path on G ē nomos, a planet that wasn’t a member of the Galactic Free Trade Association, but was controlled as a protectorate of Nic ó s. Animals never developed, so plants expanded into available ecological niches. The garden gnomes were the size and shape of large Russian nesting dolls wrapped in green leaves. Manipulative tendrils sprouted an inch or so from the base of each gnome and their powerful walking leaves peeled back from their central core like a half-shucked ear of corn. Two photosensitive patches near the top of their cores served as eyes and pointed tassels at the very top looked like tiny hats. I understood that they weren’t intelligent the way GaFTA member species measure intelligence, but they were trainable and seemed quite pleased to have someone providing them with nutrients.
The security guard in the lobby checked my credentials—one of the policies I’d insisted they implement. When he saw my name he paused.
“You’re Jack Buckston?” said the guard. His name tag read “Vic.”
“That’s me.”
“Mistress Marigold told me she wanted to see you when you got in,” said Vic. “I’ll call her office and let her know you’re here.”
Vic made the call, spoke a few words, nodded, then remembered it wasn’t a video phone and said, “Understood. Will do.”
I smiled. I’ve nodded on voice calls plenty of times myself.
“She says you should just head on up.”
Vic handed me a visitor’s badge on a lanyard. I put it over my head then stuck out my hand for the tracking bracelet that mapped my every move through the complex. Every employee or visitor wore one and anyone without a bracelet would be instantly flagged by MF&P’s security system. I boarded an elevator in the lobby and rode it up to the sixth floor. Mistress Marigold reserved the seventh floor at the top for very special plants that would benefit from natural light from the glass ceiling.
When the elevator made a ding sound to announce we’d arrived on the executive level, I crouched low, held the door open with my fingertips, and peered around it carefully. One of Mistress Marigold’s prize specimens loved me—I mean really loved me, like a Great Dane who hasn’t seen her master in a month. My attempts at caution were for naught, however. Two green tendrils the size of boa constrictors whipped around the entrance to the elevator, grabbed me, and pulled me out into the hall, where they began to toss me up and down
My van dropped me off at the closest corner to MF&P and went off in search of a parking place. I walked to the company’s front entrance along a flagstone path flanked by thousands of earthly and unearthly blooms. I recognized common off-planet specimens like mauve pyrimbidia and antennathuriums with their tall spiked receptors. I was impressed by the landscape gardeners’ skill at blending terrestrial varieties with non-native plants. The grounds were immaculate. All the pine straw and mulch was neatly distributed and there were hardly any candy wrappers or other pieces of litter anywhere. Then I saw why.
Three G ē nomosian garden gnomes were using their thick, muscular walking leaves to push their wagons full of dirt around the company’s grounds. Their flexible tendrils shot out to pick up discarded gum wrappers, ticket stubs and stray bits of plastic. Some of the items they collected went into their digestive orifices and some went onto spikes on their wagons for later disposal. I couldn’t figure out how they decided which went where.
I remembered that life had taken a different path on G ē nomos, a planet that wasn’t a member of the Galactic Free Trade Association, but was controlled as a protectorate of Nic ó s. Animals never developed, so plants expanded into available ecological niches. The garden gnomes were the size and shape of large Russian nesting dolls wrapped in green leaves. Manipulative tendrils sprouted an inch or so from the base of each gnome and their powerful walking leaves peeled back from their central core like a half-shucked ear of corn. Two photosensitive patches near the top of their cores served as eyes and pointed tassels at the very top looked like tiny hats. I understood that they weren’t intelligent the way GaFTA member species measure intelligence, but they were trainable and seemed quite pleased to have someone providing them with nutrients.
The security guard in the lobby checked my credentials—one of the policies I’d insisted they implement. When he saw my name he paused.
“You’re Jack Buckston?” said the guard. His name tag read “Vic.”
“That’s me.”
“Mistress Marigold told me she wanted to see you when you got in,” said Vic. “I’ll call her office and let her know you’re here.”
Vic made the call, spoke a few words, nodded, then remembered it wasn’t a video phone and said, “Understood. Will do.”
I smiled. I’ve nodded on voice calls plenty of times myself.
“She says you should just head on up.”
Vic handed me a visitor’s badge on a lanyard. I put it over my head then stuck out my hand for the tracking bracelet that mapped my every move through the complex. Every employee or visitor wore one and anyone without a bracelet would be instantly flagged by MF&P’s security system. I boarded an elevator in the lobby and rode it up to the sixth floor. Mistress Marigold reserved the seventh floor at the top for very special plants that would benefit from natural light from the glass ceiling.
When the elevator made a ding sound to announce we’d arrived on the executive level, I crouched low, held the door open with my fingertips, and peered around it carefully. One of Mistress Marigold’s prize specimens loved me—I mean really loved me, like a Great Dane who hasn’t seen her master in a month. My attempts at caution were for naught, however. Two green tendrils the size of boa constrictors whipped around the entrance to the elevator, grabbed me, and pulled me out into the hall, where they began to toss me up and down
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