Xenotech Queen's Gambit: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 2) (13 page)

Chapter 14

“You learn a lot about someone when you share a meal together.”
— Anthony Bourdain

It was almost eleven and I was crossing the Ad Astra courtyard, half-way to my apartment, when I heard Poly’s voice from my phone.

“Oh Lover Boy…”

She’d sent me a text.

“Having a late supper with Professor Urrrson and mate at R. Thomas Deluxe Grille. Want to join us?”

By now, Poly and her adviser must have had four or five hours of sleep and would be at least somewhat coherent, and hungry.

“Sounds great,” I sent back. “When?”

“Now.”

It seemed odd that Poly and the two obligate carnivore Tigrammaths would be eating at a restaurant that I’d remembered was more into bean sprouts than beef, but maybe Poly knew something I didn’t. Scratch that. Poly knew a
lot
that I didn’t know.

“On my way.”

My phone had already summoned my van and was clapping its hands together in excitement. I hoped it would tire of playing with its new mutacase soon. I opened Chit’s bottle to see if she wanted me to take her home, but she said she’d be fine catching up on her programs and told me not to worry. I think she may have been a bit worn out from all the excitement of the last two days.

I changed direction and headed for the nearest Peachtree Street gate instead of my front door and was in my van and on my way to the restaurant in less than two minutes. This late at night, traffic was light and my van made it the three and a half miles down Peachtree to the restaurant in great time. I hopped out by the front of the building and let my van navigate its way to the steeply sloping parking lot in the rear that was more suited for mountain goats than self-driving vehicles.

R. Thomas Deluxe Grille was an incongruous addition to the Atlanta dining scene. It was as if some sort of cosmic event had plucked an eclectic hippie restaurant from San Francisco in the early 1970s and dropped it down between an old fashioned southern tea room serving chicken fried steak with sausage gravy on one side and a pretentious nouvelle southern belle establishment serving grits topped with saut
é
ed truffles and parakale on the other.

The sign above the restaurant had its name spelled out in funky red, white and yellow neon letters. Exotic birds—parrots, macaws, mynas, and pink Dauushan avians nicknamed
paracletes,
the size of great horned owls
—
were happily chatting away in large cages on the path from Peachtree Street to the main entrance on the right. Wonderful smells were wafting out the door—waffles cooking, eggs frying, and coffee brewing. From the back of the place I even thought I smelled barbecued ribs. Was I imaging things? I must be hungrier than I thought.

I stepped inside, past a beaded curtain and three rows of batik and tie-dyed hangings, and made my way to the greeter’s stand. A middle-aged man in a Grateful Dead t-shirt  asked how many were in my party. His arms were covered with Orishen animated-ink tattoos of scenes from Hayao Miyazaki movies. I craned my neck to look over his shoulder and spotted Poly at a table not far away sitting with a distinguished Tigrammath male, probably Professor Urrrson. A Tigrammath female sat across from him with her back to me—she was likely his mate. I told the Illustrated Man that I’d found my party and worked my way through the tightly packed patrons to Poly’s table. She stood up and gave me a hug. It felt like water tasted after a long walk through the desert.

“I’ve missed you,” said Poly, tightening her hug and giving me a discreet kiss just behind my ear that sent shivers down my back.

“And I’ve missed you!”

I snuggled in one last time and held her just a bit too long to be appropriate in most public places, but somehow at a 70s inspired place like this, it felt right. The Tigrammath male on Poly’s left stood up. I leaned back so I could see his head, more than a foot above mine, and shook his extended hand, pleased that Tigrammaths’ claws retracted.

“Jack, this is Professor Urrrson, my adviser, and a genius with composite A.I.s,” said Poly.

“Poly exaggerates,” said the Professor, “but my ego enjoys being stroked every now and then, so long as she doesn’t make a habit of it. She’s brilliant and very talented as well. Those are qualities I insist upon in my grad students.”

A touch of red colored Poly’s cheeks.

The professor smiled, showing teeth that weren’t as large or as sharp as Spike’s, but were definitely the dentition of a carnivore.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I said, continuing to pump the professor’s hand. “Call me Jack.”

“Call me Bartolomeww,” the professor replied. “Or if that’s too much of a mouthful”— he smiled again — “just call me Bart.”

Poly got my attention with a touch on my arm and gestured behind me.

“And this is Professor Urrrson’s mate, Professor Niaowla Murriym.”

I turned and saw the female Tigrammath who had remained sitting in the chair across from her life partner. Her short, blue and black striped fur still rippled, but she was no longer in uniform.

“We’ve met,” said the Tigrammath female, her voice still a sexy purr.

“Hello, Dox,” I said.

I sat down and hoped Poly didn’t see me blush.

“Dox?” said Bart.

“My name at Roger Joe-Bob Bacon’s restaurant,” said his mate. “I served Jack and his friends there yesterday morning.”

Poly saw my confusion and threw me a lifeline.

“Jack,” she said, “Professor
Murriym has a joint appointment at Emory in Sociology and Galactic Philology.”

“Call me impressed,” I said.

“I’ll stick with Jack,” said Niaowla. “It suits you.”

“So why did your name tag at Waffle House say ‘Dox’?” I asked.

“Niaowla is hard for Terrans to pronounce,” she said, “and once one of the other servers heard I had two doctorates, she nicknamed me Dox.”

She tilted her head.

“And I like it.”

“Works for me,” I said. “But why were you pretending to be a server at a Waffle House.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” said Niaowla. “I
am
a server, and really appreciated that twenty-five percent tip your policeman friend left, by the way.”

She smiled.

“I’ll pass the word,” I said, “but you still haven’t told me why you’re working there.”

“I’m doing participant observation research, studying Terran dining and socialization rituals. Roger Joe-Bob is a dear to let me work at his restaurant to gather data, so long as I pull my weight on the team.”

“Niaowla’s doctorates are in sociology and ancient languages,” said Poly.

“Xenosociology, from my perspective,” said the female Tigrammath, “though it’s sociology from yours. I like studying Terrans’ reactions.”

“I’ll say,” I said.

Poly gave me a sharp look, wondering why I’d said that.

“You’ll have to forgive Jack,” said Niaowla. She was talking to Poly and her wide eyes were reflecting more light than usual.
“I knew who he was when he walked in yesterday morning. You’ve got his picture as the screen saver on your GT-Net terminal.”

Niaowla and her mate smiled at Poly and me.

“Bart told me you and Jack were partners,” she said. “Terran marriage customs are so delightful.”

“We’re not married, Niaowla,” said Poly, turning slightly red again. “We’re business partners.”

“Delightfully complicated, she meant,” said Bart, covering for his mate’s
faux pas.

“I’ve always found that the more you know about Terrans, the less you
really
know,” said Niaowla.

She leaned in close and stage whispered to Poly.

“Female to female, I tried to flirt with Jack as part of one of my research protocols and he didn’t flirt back. He’s a keeper, dear.”

So much for being irresistible to women. Poly made her own attempt to change the subject.

“Niaowla and Bart both have outstanding academic reputations,” she said. “Emory was very lucky to get her, and Georgia Tech was quite pleased as well.”

“You don’t have to suck up to him now that you’ve graduated,” said Niaowla, teasing both her mate and Poly.

“It’s a challenge for faculty couples to find good positions in the same city,” said Bart.

“Or even on the same planet,” said Niaowla.

“I’m glad you both landed in Atlanta,” I said.

Poly rubbed her knee against mine under the table as a reward for saying something nice.

“Where’s our server?” said Bart. “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”

“He means that literally, dear,” said Niaowla to Poly, “but let Jack get her attention. He knows how to treat a server.”

My ears turned pink but I caught the attention of a woman wearing a restaurant logo apron who had hair so colorful that it made CiCi’s
pink, purple and lime green accent stripes
look unimaginative. She brought menus to our table and hovered while we figured out what we wanted.

I was surprised to see something new on the menu—a notice in twenty point type on page three announcing that R. Thomas Deluxe Grille had recently “added a smoker to better serve our Pâkk, Tigrammath and other carnivorous clients.” That explained the delicious smells coming from the back of the building. I flipped over to the history blurb on the back of the menu and noticed that the place had started out as a California-style hamburger joint. I guess they’d never been completely vegetarian.

“I’ll have a large order of barbecued ribs,” said Bart. “Are they horse or cow?”

“Cow,” said our server, smiling. “I hope that’s okay.”

She’d been paying more attention to the conversation at our table than I’d thought.

“He’ll be fine,” said Niaowla. “The same for me. No sides for either of us.”

“Got it,” said our server.

“I’ll have the ginger crusted wild Ahi tuna,” said Poly.

“I’d like the salmon piccata, please,” I said, smiling at our server.

Then I looked at Poly.

“Share?”

“You didn’t have to ask,” said Poly.

“Extra side plates,” said our server. “I’ll get your orders in.”

“Thanks so much,” I said.

Our server’s face brightened as she headed for the kitchen.

“See,” said Niaowla to her mate.

Professor Urrrson growled deep in his throat, but then smiled and held Niaowla’s hand across the table. Tigrammaths have long arms, and long-lasting relationships.

Our server came back and dropped off four waters, a bread basket, and a plate of cold cuts at our table. I spread almond butter on a quinoa roll and tried to get to know Bart and Niaowla better.

“What other research are you doing when you’re not observing unsuspecting Terrans eating breakfast?” I said, addressing Niaowla and keeping my tone light. I still wasn’t quite sure how I felt about her faked flirting.

“I’m working on a book on ancient Galactic inscriptions, comparing pre- and post-war styles across ten cultures.

“The
P
â
kk-Orish War?” asked Poly.

“Heaven’s no,” said Niaowla. “That would hardly count as ancient. It took place in my lifetime.”

“The young think anything older than they are is ancient,” said Professor Urrrson, “and anything older than their grandparents is the stuff of myth and legend.”

“I’m sorry,” said Poly. I liked the way her dimples appeared when she smiled. “Which war
were
you referring to?”

“The P
â
kk-Tigrammath War, of course,” said Niaowla. “It’s
the
turning point in ancient Galactic history.”

“What ten cultures are you studying?” I asked.

“P
â
kk and Tigrammath, as you might assume,” she replied, “and Dauushan and Pyr and Orishen.”

“That’s five,” said Poly.

“Murms?” I asked.

“No,” Niaowla answered. “Hive minds don’t tend to go in for inscriptions. The Quirinx fliers make fascinating letter forms on soft rock with their beaks and the Musans have the most exquisite miniatures. The level of detail they can achieve with their tiny hands takes a magnifying glass to appreciate.”

She paused to take a sip of water and spear a slice of spiced turkey from the plate of cold cuts with her fork.

I’d seen Quirinx the size of California condors soaring around my apartment complex, and smiled to think of the chipmunk-sized Musan family I’d observed dining on a cup of boiled peanuts at a Southern-themed gastropub on Piedmont Road last year. A lot of Galactic species in Atlanta like to live in Buckhead so they can be close to their consulates at Ad Astra.

“That’s seven,” said Poly. There are times when I think my partner fixates on numbers.

“The J’Vel don’t make incised inscriptions,” said Niaowla, referring to another small species like the Musans. “They create something more like mosaics using glue and colored seeds to put words and scenes on their monuments.”

“Are there a lot of problems with the seeds being eaten over the centuries?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Niaowla, “Very few of the J’Vel monuments have seeds remaining, but we can detect the patterns of the glue that was applied using UV light, and identify pigments from DNA analysis of fragments left embedded in the adhesive.”

“It’s as much physics and biology as it is philology, according to my mate,” said Bart, reaching for a thin slice of Virginia ham.

“And politics and bureaucratic maneuvering to get permission to excavate the inscriptions in the first place,” said Niaowla. “Too many species don’t want to be reminded of what happened in the P-T War.”

“That’s still only eight,” said Poly. See what I mean?

“T
ō
dons make nine,” said Niaowla. “There are remote cliff faces on T
ō
do simply covered with intaglio T
ō
don etchings made by acids released from the tips of their abdomens.”

“Very
large
etchings, I assume?” said her mate.

“Everything about the T
ō
dons is large,” said Niaowla.

“And ten?” said Poly. Have I mentioned that my partner is persistent?

“The Nic
ó
sns,” said Niaowla. “Which reminds me of the practical joke some anonymous prankster tried to play on me last summer with an obviously sham inscription in Old High Nic
ó
sn.”

I was eating the other half of my roll but stopped chewing and paid close attention.

“It came to my inbox as an anonymous email. Scans of the inscriptions and associated pictograms were attached.”

She sniffed as if detecting an odd smell.

“It was something about how to properly manage a biological super-weapon and sounded like something out of the latest Zombie Apocalypse comic book from the CDC.”

Niaowla shook her head back and forth at the very idea.

“I don’t know who was playing games with me,” she said. “But I went along with the gag, translated it, and sent it back to the sender.”

She bit off half a slice of corned beef.

“I must be hungrier than I thought.”

The other half of the slice disappeared.