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“There are no hotels on New Verdan as of yet. There are a couple of inns, but most people stay at the temporary living quarters in Touchdown,” Olivia says.
“The temporary quarters are quite comfortable,” I say helpfully.
“No hotel?” Mylar is aghast. “How primitive.”
“Don’t worry, you can stay in my prefab house. .I have five bedrooms.”
“I have certain aesthetic needs.”
“You can decorate it any way you like. Just use my ZF account and I’ll cover the expenses.”
“That is most generous of you,” Mylar says, taking the words out of my mouth.
“Don’t worry, I can write off the whole thing as a business expense. Just include a com pad desk in your order and then we can make it a live in office and get another tax break.”
I settle back into my seat and grin. With Olivia on our side, I don’t see how we can lose.
We’re coming for you, Chadd Gordo. And the only taste testing you will be doing is the bitter nectar of defeat.
Thirty
Olivia
It takes a full two and a half days for Cam Neely to awaken. When he finally does, construction of the brewery is already well underway.
Mylar loves the idea of having a restaurant. In fact, he’s been calling places all morning looking for, as he puts it, a ‘disgruntled culinary genius who isn’t afraid of the sauce.’
He’s on the comms, while Yarvok glares at Cam ruefully. The Fratvoyan sits at the table in a bathrobe several sizes too large for him. His bleary eyes are fixed on the cup of black coffee in front of him. He has so far eschewed the varied and generous breakfast offerings. Perhaps this is a result of his hangover.
“So glad you could join us, Neely,” Yarvok rumbles. “We are eager to hear your expertise on the matters of brewing.”
Neely stares over at Yarvok as if he doesn’t comprehend what the big Vakutan is saying. Perhaps he does not. Apparently he consumed a legendary amount of libations on the way to New Verdan.
“Leave him alone until he’s had a chance to drink his coffee, dear,” I say across the table.
“But he’s supposed to be here to do a job. He’s sitting there wearing my robe, by the way, and taking up space but has yet to do anything useful. Meanwhile the Kiphian has not ceased his work since he set foot on this planet.”
If Yarvok’s words bother the fratvoyan, he gives no sign. He sips his coffee again, then licks his lips and tilts the cup all the way back, guzzling it down like a champ. I’m amazed his heart doesn’t explode.
He’s not done, either. Neely reaches over and takes the silver coffee pitcher by the handle. At first I think he’s going to refill his cup. Instead he tilts his head back and pushes the button. A stream of brown liquid pours directly down his throat.
Neely swallows, but his mouth overflows between gulps. Coffee pours onto the bathrobe and the table as well as the floor.
“Hey, stop it!” Yarvok snaps.
Neely sets the coffee pot down, gives a loud belch, and then helps himself to the sliced honey glazed ham.
“Anyway,” he says as if he has been talking to us for days. “I figure that if we’re restricted to ales and shandies, we need to use some of the local produce in their brewing. It helps to connect with the people and makes marketing easier to achieve.”
Yarvok gapes as the Fratvoyan continues to fill his plate. He shoves some things into his mouth as a pit stop, then places the half consumed morsel on his platter. Neely continues to speak even though he has food in his mouth.
“So the way I see it, the only thing worth a damn for our brewing process is the native apple, an earth/New Verdan hybrid which is widely consumed in a variety of dishes. A spiced apple ale will go over well with the local populace.”
I turn Mylar.
“How does all of that sound to you?”
“Fine, fine,” he says, his face creased with annoyance. “It’s not you, Livvy, it’s this secretary. How dare she put me on hold? Doesn’t she know who I am?”
