Xenotech Queen's Gambit: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 2) (6 page)

Chapter 7

“Don’t feed the plants
.
”
— from
Little Shop of Horrors,
lyrics by Howard Ashman

Mistress Marigold is a florist. Her retail stores are called Little Shop of Flowers and there are two in the Ad Astra complex, plus nine more at other five star hotels around Atlanta’s upscale Buckhead neighborhood. She specializes in exotic off-planet plants and blossoms, like the Orishen orchids Terrhi had found for me to give to Poly on our first date. The orchids are sensitive to their wearers’ moods and clothing and change color to reflect one and complement the other.

It would have been a short walk across the courtyard to get to the closest Ad Astra flower shop, but getting to Mistress Marigold’s greenhouses required a vehicle. After First Contact, the city of Atlanta had bent over backwards to attract Mistress Marigold here instead of San Diego. It wasn’t because they needed more flower shops—Mistress Marigold was also a renowned xenobotanist and the CEO of a sexy new bio-pharmaceutical company, Marigold Flowers & Pharmaceuticals. Selling flowers was just a synergistic sideline.

The largest part of her enterprise developed an array of plant-based medicines that were as useful against galactic diseases as quinine was against malaria. Their top seller,
Lethe,
was a fast-acting over-the-counter euphoric and soporific used to treat post-traumatic stress disorders and sleep abnormalities.

The CDC had helped tip the balance thanks to a generous grant to MF&P from the Yu-Obi-Crispos Foundation. CDC researchers wanted to be close to Mistress Marigold so they could work with her on applications for public health. Emory University awarded her a named chair in their botany department. But what really sealed the deal for Mistress Marigold selecting my adopted home city had been proximity to the Atlanta Botanical Gardens.
Mistress Marigold loved Terran flowers and wanted to be near the exhibits and professional staff at the Gardens. That’s why the city gave her a sweetheart deal on some prime real estate.

As part of a package that included loan guarantees and tax abatements, Atlanta relocated half a dozen tennis courts to another part of Piedmont Park and granted Marigold Flowers & Pharmaceuticals a ninety-nine year lease on the land. MF&P built twenty-five thousand square feet of offices, labs and greenhouses adjacent to the Gardens’ Fuqua Orchid Center.

Mistress Marigold generously shared her expertise and resources to support the Gardens. Her displays of Nicósn paratu
lips, flowers that instinctively sang in twelve-part harmony, had been a major draw and a substantial moneymaker for the Gardens last year. I’d been to the show and it was spectacular—the paratulips’ blossoms and voices were both lovely. I looked forward to visiting again with Poly once she had free time. Beautiful things are even more beautiful when they’re shared with someone you love.

Focus, Jack. You’re getting sappy.

I’d been referred to Mistress Marigold by the Gardens’ Executive Director. He had hired me to set up security systems with enough sophistication to prevent thieves from breaking in to steal valuable flora and enough initiative to intercept wandering toddlers before they could get themselves into too much trouble.

MF&P had similar challenges, without the peripatetic preschoolers. Some of their rare plants were worth hundreds of thousands of galcreds, after all. They also needed to monitor and adjust the complex microenvironments required by individual specimens.

The systems I’d installed for MF&P were 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 like a baby. Then the tendrils wound around me and gave me a very tight, enthusiastic hug, enough for all the air to be forced out of my lungs.

“Jack! Jack Jack Jack
Jack JACK!”

The voice was low, but had a youthful cadence. I tried to summon my breath, then my dignity, but I couldn’t manage it. I inhaled deeply, then laughed.

“You can put me down now, Dree,” I said between chuckles. “I’m glad to see you, too. And watch the ribs!”

“Sorry, Jack! Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just put me down. Feet
first,
please.”

“Of course, of course,” said Dree, the corners of her primary feeding pod turning up. “But I’ve
missed
you.”

Dree was a giant carnivorous plant from a planet Nicósn explorers were rumored to have discovered, then promptly “lost.” At least it’s not listed on any contemporary star charts. Dree’s pot took up half of the floor in the executive level’s elevator lobby and her tendrils, leaves and pod mouths made her a one-plant jungle.

For a carnivore, Dree has a sweet disposition, but she’s a hugger. She’s also an effective adjunct to MF&P’s building security, but that’s another story. I’d heard that a plant from Dree’s world had somehow visited Earth before First Contact and there’d been problems with trace element levels affecting its metabolism, but Dree seemed fine. She got a side of beef twice a week and that kept her quite happy. Still, rumors of her thirst for human blood continue to circulate and enhance her undeserved mean, green reputation.

“I’ve missed you, too,” I said, rubbing my sore torso with my palms.

“She’s waiting for you,” said the plant. “She’s needs your help with a mystery.”

“I love a good mystery,” I said. “Sherlock is my middle name.”

“Really?”

“No, but it sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“You’re
funny
, Jack. You’d better go in. She’s eager to see you,” said Dree.

“I will,” I said, smiling. “
Her
hugs aren’t so enthusiastic.”

“I said I was sorry.”

I didn’t know plants could pout.

“Just kidding.”

I found two of her beach balls in a corner and tossed them Dree’s way as I headed toward Mistress Marigold’s office. A pair of Dree’s small, cloned feeding pods, growing from her largest roots, caught them and bounced them up and over her giant central feeding pod like preteens playing volleyball. Several of the cloned pods looked almost ready to break off.

Mistress Marigold smiled when she met me at the door to her office. She’s an older Nic
ó
sn and six inches shorter than my six foot two. She doesn’t look like Mrs. Santa Claus anymore, like she did in the photos I’ve seen from her youth. Her short beard tentacles have started to go gray and even black to mark her maturity. If it worked that way in humans, there’d be a major market for dyes to turn hair white.

Mistress Marigold’s smile was warm. She gave off grandmother vibes, even though her official bio didn’t mention anything about offspring. Her forehead wrinkles looked like well-tended furrows where wisdom would spring forth like Athena from the brow of Zeus.

“Thank you for seeing me, Jack,” said Mistress Marigold, shaking my hand. Her palm was warm. “When I heard you’d be here today to do routine maintenance, I asked our front desk to have you stop here first.”

“It’s always a pleasure to see you,” I said.

“And you’ve always been a charmer,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling better?”

“Much better, thanks,” I said, “though Dree’s greeting was a bit too enthusiastic for this stage in my recovery.”

“Dree’s enthusiasm is one of her virtues,” she said. “But I do apologize. Please come in and have a seat. I need your help with something.”

“I’m glad to do whatever I can,” I said, taking a seat in a comfortable overstuffed chair near several others arranged in a circle in a corner of Mistress Marigold’s CEO-sized office. Tall plants with broad leaves in a dozen verdant shades surrounded the chairs, giving the illusion of privacy and reinforcing the casual, welcoming, organic feel of the place. They smelled nice, too. Even the walls of her office were covered in some sort of short grass. I wondered how she kept it mowed. Whatever the answer, it was a delight to be somewhere that’s green.

Mistress Marigold held up a clear glass pitcher of ice water and
when I nodded she filled a tall glass for me and then one for herself. Ice water always tasted better at her place. I’d have to ask her how she did that someday. Maybe it was some sort of special filtration, or required the assistance of one or more of her exotic plants, like Dree. On second thought, maybe I didn’t want to know.

“I’m concerned…” started Mistress Marigold.

“I’m sorry,” I said, in an apologetic rush. “I meant to be here to do your preventive maintenance a few weeks ago, but what with my recovery and all, I didn’t get here. I thought about using Remote Hands, but I didn’t want to risk your more sensitive seedlings with someone who wasn’t familiar with their special requirements and…”

“Jack,” said Mistress Marigold. “It’s not about anything you’ve done or haven’t done.”

“It’s not?”

“No. I’m concerned about some very special plants from Dree’s home planet that may be highly valuable to an important client.”

“Oh.”

I keep telling myself to listen more and talk less, but find that I can’t stop myself from talking, especially when I’m feeling like I haven’t done as much as I should. I hate to let people down and had been afraid that my lack of attention had caused problems for MF&P. I tried again.

“What’s going on?”

“You know I have my experimental plants up on the seventh floor?”

“Yes,” I said, “we worked out microclimate zones that would provide ideal growing conditions for each variety. It’s all automatic and computer controlled.”

“Except it isn’t,” said Mistress Marigold. “At least not consistently. I can’t figure it out. It’s a mystery.”

“That’s strange,” I said. “Could you give me some examples?”

“Of course. You know the Rigeliotropes—the Rigelian sunflowers—need a constant supply of light, right?”

“Those florescent purple flowers on the tall stalks?”

“Yes. Something’s been cutting them off from the high energy stellar radiation they need for five to ten minutes at a time before the automated systems detect the problem and correct it.” She frowned and drank a sip of water. “They’re twenty galmils shorter than they should be at this stage in their growing cycle.”

“Ouch,” I said. I remembered that the stalks of the Rigeliotropes were very flexible and used to reinforce vaulting poles. Their dried seeds were supposed to either cure constipation or prevent the runs, I couldn’t remember which—and hoped I’d never have cause to need them in either capacity.

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Marigold. “Bags of bone meal have been moved from one microclimate zone to another. Some are missing altogether. Spades and watering cans are randomly moved around and various symbiotic insects are appearing in places they shouldn’t.”

“Got it.”

“Not to mention that the Balaam’s Asters are completely out of control.”

“I remember those. The blue ground cover that has to be cut back with a weed whacker and complains when you do,” I said.

“Well, something is interfering with their auto-pruning system and they’re taking over the adjoining zones,” said Mistress Marigold. “They’re only two zones away from some special medicinal plants from Dree’s home world—and I
can’t
risk any harm coming to them.”

“What have you done to investigate so far?” I asked.

“I put a security guard on the seventh floor two nights ago to see what she could learn, but we found her sound asleep, resting on a large bed of Wandering Judy in one of the zones closest to the entrance. She says she has no idea what happened.”

“I’ve got some guesses,” I said. “I’m going to go downstairs to the security office to review the relevant recordings.”

“My people did that,” Mistress Marigold said.