Xenotech Rising: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 1)

by Dave Schroeder

  “Yeah, right, sure,” I said. The odds were a lot more likely that the Dauushans would toss an asteroid into the Pacific if we tried. The ones I knew were good people, but I wouldn’t recommend making them mad.

  “Well, Jack, what’s it going to be? Earth’s glorious future, or certain death beta testing Classic Leviathan?”

  “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”

  “Enough jokes. Join or die.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Your new game has a plot, right?”

  “Yes. It’s a quest. You have to fight or think your way past challenges from classical mythology, strategy games and mathematical puzzles—with a few twists added to make things more deadly. Your demise will help fine tune the game’s lethality.”

  “Why don’t you make it interesting and put Terrhi at the end of the quest. That would really motivate me to get as far as possible.” I could see Zwilniki think it over.

  “I can do that,” he said. “In fact, I think I’d like to see you try to get all the way to the end. I’ll make the necessary modifications myself.”

  A virtual manservant appeared, carrying a steampunk ivory and brass keyboard. Zwilniki took it and typed rapidly. I could see the code in glowing letters in the air in front of his face but couldn’t make out the details. When he finished he had a particularly evil smile. I wasn’t going to like whatever he’d added.

  “So when do I start?”

  “Now,” said Zwilniki.

  The room dissolved around me.

  Chapter 29

  “Is there a way to work around the bug? If so, give exact steps how.” ― Beta Testing Guidelines

  I was in the middle of the Colosseum. The stands were full and the crowd was roaring. The sun was nearly overhead and it was hot inside my helmet. Wait! I was wearing a helmet? My vision was limited. I looked down at my shortened shadow through narrow eye slits. Eye slits? My shadow’s head was topped with some sort of broad brimmed dome with two wide wings. I took off the helmet and looked at it—it was made from bronze and the “wings” were ostrich plumes. An attached full faceplate had restricted my vision. I could still feel the shoulder straps on my backpack so this was probably all virtual, but I was pretty sure any weapons would cause real damage, at least to me.

  I continued my personal inventory and saw a round bronze shield on the ground in front of my sandal-clad feet. It was enameled in blue and white with a gold eagle embossed in the center. A thin white linen tunic covered me from shoulders to knees and padded greaves protected my shins. A long sword in a plain leather scabbard was belted to my waist. That nailed it. I was the type of gladiator called an eques. I wasn’t provided with an eques’ horse or a lance, unfortunately. Both would have been useful. Then trumpets sounded and the crowd noise increased.

  I had better vision without the helmet so I looked around and saw three tough looking centaurs trotting toward me—a palomino, a roan and a chestnut. Short, powerful recurved bows were in their hands and full quivers hung over their shoulders. They were good strategists, too, taking up three points of an equilateral triangle with yours truly in the center.

  I had to act quickly before they got set and used me for target practice. I asked myself “What would Legolas do?” and exploded into action. I threw my helmet at the chestnut. He danced back to avoid it. Then I drew my longsword and hurled it at the roan. It hit home and embedded itself in her upper chest. One down.

  I was glad I’d spent a lot of hours playing first person shooter videogames.

  I picked up my shield and held it in front of me as I charged the palomino. Even wearing my pupa silk shirt I didn’t want to risk my body becoming a pincushion. The palomino was a good shot. Three of his arrows pierced my shield before I reached him. The same couldn’t be said for the chestnut. Before the palomino could shoot again I was close enough to slide between his front legs. Two arrows the chestnut had aimed at my back hit the palomino’s forequarters instead, striking his equine heart. If you can’t be good, be lucky. Today must be my day. Two down.

  I rolled out from under the palomino’s collapsing body and took his bow from his dying hands. Without missing a beat I pulled an arrow from the blonde centaur’s quiver and released a shaft at the chestnut’s human heart from ten yards away. That should have been it, but somehow I missed. From ten yards. So much for emulating Legolas.

  I ducked behind the palomino’s body and the chestnut got off another two shafts. Luckily for me, the chestnut must have been part orc or part Imperial stormtrooper. He really couldn’t shoot. One went over my head and the other embedded itself in the palomino’s equine ribs just inches from where I was crouching. Then my luck continued. The chestnut was distracted. He’d stumbled on my helmet when he’d moved a few steps closer.

  My second shot was a lot better. Centaurs are big enough to be good targets and distracted centaurs don’t shoot back. I caught the chestnut with an arrow just below his breastbone and he fell. That was three. The crowd went wild.

  I thought they were cheering for my fast work dispatching the centaurs. I was wrong. They were screaming because they’d just seen the creatures entering the arena through a set of high arches a hundred yards behind me. When I turned and saw them I wished I hadn’t asked Zwilniki about dinosaurs, feathered or otherwise. Guess who was coming for dinner? Guess who was dinner? Three giant angry feathered therapods and me.

  I summoned my elementary school brain and did an initial identification of my adversaries. They looked like Utahraptors, the massive progenitors of the smaller, faster, and meaner velociraptors that would appear million years closer to the present. Their aggressive orange-red plumage and spiky feathered crests added to their fearsome appearance, but the giveaway for their identity was the nine inch claws on their back feet. The Utahraptors were standing near where they’d entered the Colosseum, moving their heads from side to side and sniffing the air.

  After a few seconds they spotted me and the bodies of the three centaurs. They looked at each other, then they headed for the center of the arena. I slung the palomino’s bow across my back and put his quiver over my shoulder. I stopped long enough to pull my longsword from the roan centaur’s chest and sheath it. Then I picked up my round shield and ran.

  I was grateful that the Utahraptors’ designers were sticklers for accuracy. They didn’t make them as smart and wily as the Jurassic Park raptors. Instead of ignoring the dead centaurs and chasing me, the trio of eight foot tall, twenty foot long, one ton dinosaurs followed their programmed instincts and stopped next to the dead centaurs. I watched them feed from the opposite side of the Colosseum. Each Utahraptor chose a centaur and used their giant slashing claws to slice them open and release what was inside. The crowd booed and hissed. They wanted the beasts to go after live prey—me.

  While the raptors’ snouts were buried and they were focused on feeding, I made my way closer, the sound of my steps masked by the shouts of the crowd. I walked up behind the closest raptor. Most of its head was as far inside the centaur as Luke Skywalker was inside the tauntaun in The Empire Strikes Back. The foul smell was almost as overpowering as my fear. I took a deep breath to center myself and slow my heartbeat. Then I pulled my longsword from its sheath, made my best guess at the location of the base of the raptor’s neck, and shoved the sword’s blade into its skull as far as my strength allowed. The Utahraptor’s limbs twitched once, twice, and then were still. I exhaled.

  The crowd’s feedback changed its tone. They didn’t approve of the ease of my kill, but they saluted my courage. Both raptors, surprised by the shifting sounds, popped their heads up like a pair of fierce feathered prairie dogs. I tried to dive behind the body of the raptor I’d just dispatched but tripped and sprawled there instead. I rolled over so I could track my other two opponents.

  One of the Utahraptors returned to feeding but the other had seen me and moved in my direction to investigate. The curious one tilted its head back. I heard a deep rumbling in its throat that morphed into a roar like the Darth Vader of
lions. It almost paralyzed me with fear, which I guess was the point.

  The crested carnivore came close to the dead raptor and sniffed. Then it noticed me, flat on my back on the far side of its unmoving double. The beast hopped closer and stood on one leg, ready to strike. I grabbed my round shield and held it above me with both hands, like a priest holding a bible to ward off a vampire. The raptor’s nine-inch claw struck and sliced my shield in half down the middle. Its thin bronze offered no more resistance than a sheet of paper.

  My luck continued. The attacking raptor overbalanced from the lack of resistance to its kick. It fell, bracketing me between two raptors, one living, one dead. I took the two halves of my shield, their cut edges sharp and jagged, and shoved them into the living Utahraptor’s throat. The knife-like shield edges cut through feathers, skin and muscles to sever vital arteries and the vocal chords that made the beast’s chilling, basso roar. The crowd went insane. I was still alive.

  When would I learn? The crowd wasn’t just cheering my resourcefulness and luck, they were cheering because the third Utahraptor had stopped feeding on its centaur and was headed my way. I backpedaled fast and grabbed my bow. The palomino’s was a well-made recurved bow with a heavy pull, but I don’t think it was designed to go up against a dinosaur.

  I nocked and shot three arrows in three heartbeats, aiming for the raptor’s head and neck. One stuck in the creature’s snout. Another wedged in a space above its wishbone. The third missed and skimmed along the top of its spiky crest. The last arrow proved to be the most effective, however.

  The raptor rotated its head to see what had ruffled its feathers. Thanks to that distraction I had time to drop the bow and pull my sword from the first one I’d killed. By the time the last raptor’s head turned back I had closed the distance between us. I knelt and held my longsword above my head, my grip tight and my arms rigid. The raptor’s head shot down to seize me, eager to see if humans tasted better than centaurs. Its own powerful muscles thrust my blade into its neck.

  The raptor trumpeted its death throes and the crowd screamed its approval. I stood up and stepped away from the dying therapod but wasn’t fast enough. I was struck by the tip of one of its flailing feathered arm’s claws. It tore a deep gouge down the outside of my right thigh. The beast fell. I was still standing.

  The scene dissolved.

  * * * * *

  I was wearing my own clothes and was seated on a black throne on one side of a wide gray space. Nothing was immediately trying to kill me. I was not thrilled to see the gash on my leg—I’d liked those pants, and it hurt like hell. It wasn’t bleeding too much but if I lived I’d need stitches. Lots of stitches. I used my Swiss Army knife to cut off the damaged pant leg below the knee and adapted that cloth to form a makeshift bandage, tying it in place with the plain white handkerchief I always carried in my back pocket. Then I stopped to take in my surroundings.

  On the wall opposite me, a hundred paces away, was a white door. The walls and ceiling seemed insubstantial, like fog and clouds, but the floor was a checkerboard of broad, luminous white tiles. Bright, sharp, red lines delineated the squares like laser beams. Great. Would animated chess pieces soon appear? I was ready to fight knights, storm castles and excommunicate bishops, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphor. The base of the throne disgorged a heavy black disk about the size of a curling stone. We weren’t playing chess—we were playing Go. I didn’t know much about the classic Asian strategy game except that it was also popular on Dauush.

  I slid the stone over to the board and put it on the closest intersection of the lines. Nothing happened except a black stone appeared in front of the white door on the far wall and moved itself to the closest square, not an intersection. This wasn’t Go, then. Something else.

  Another black stone appeared from under the throne. I put it on the square in front of me and moved the previous stone from the intersection to the adjacent square. I stepped on an empty square by accident and jumped back in pain—the squares were electrified. I tried stepping on a stone. Good news, no shock. A stone materialized on a square on the other side of the floor. I guess that must be the equivalent of turning a square black. After four of “my” stones had appeared I figured it out. The game wasn’t Go, it was Life.

  I’m not talking about Milton Bradley and Hasbro’s Game of Life, where players put pink and blue pegs in plastic minivans. I’m talking about the mathematical Game of Life invented by a Princeton mathematics professor named John Conway back in 1970. The game is based on cellular automata, a grid of squares or cells that turn black or white depending on a small set of rules.

  The game works by setting up an initial pattern of black and white squares then applying the rules to that pattern over a succession of turns. Skilled players found that certain patterns had special properties. Some were oscillators, switching between two or more states before returning to their original configuration. Some were guns that shot out smaller patterns that moved like bullets across the board. I’d been addicted to the game when I was seven. Now it seemed like expertise in Life was required for me to get to the other side of the board and the next stage of my search for Terrhi. Then I remembered my favorite pattern. I’d loved it because of its name, the spaceship.

  As more stones appeared I built a pattern consisting of an unbalanced right angle of black squares plus a few extra black cells. When I’d finished placing the last disk in my spaceship a buzzer sounded and the first turn began. I barely had time to hop on one of the stones before the rules were applied and my spaceship changed shape and began to advance across the board. I followed the patterns and knew where the next nearest stone would appear or disappear, stepping quickly and carefully to ensure I didn’t fall on the electrified surface below. Unfortunately, I could see that my virtual opponent on the other side of the board had constructed a gun that shot out small triangles aimed directly at my spaceship. I was halfway across the board when the first triangle intersected with my pattern, destroying my spaceship as effectively as a congruency-powered cruise missile. I was in worse trouble than a polar bear on a melting ice floe. If I fell off and landed on the board I’d be fried. I followed the line of triangles from my opponent’s gun and saw they formed a secure path, like stepping stones across a stream. I hopped from my doomed spaceship and jumped from triangle to triangle, tracing them back to the gun that created them. In seconds I was standing in front of the white door. I opened it and stepped through.

  * * * * *

  The door slammed shut behind me with a vigorous bang. It made me wonder if Anthony Zwilniki was watching and taking out his frustration over me surviving his Game of Life challenge. Ahead stretched a long, narrow corridor of one foot marble tiles. Numbers were chiseled into the marble. The first set of five across read 1, 1, 2, 3, 4 and the second 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. The next two rows were 10, 11, 12, 13, 14 and 15, 16, 17, 18, 19. I figured it out quickly. The two ones at the beginning gave it away—it was a Fibonacci sequence. I could only step on squares with Fibonacci sequence numbers. I looked up and saw that roof of the corridor was a short rounded arch with granite gargoyles and bas relief fleur-de-lys every few feet. Wait, no, they’re called grotesques if they don’t have water spouts. Either way, if I had to pull myself along the ceiling I wouldn’t need my gecko gloves. At the far end of the corridor was another door—my goal.

  The Fibonacci sequence is derived by adding the two previous numbers together to get the next. Confidently, I stepped on the first marble tile labeled 1. Then I stepped to the second 1, the 2, and the 3. I had to stretch to get from the 3-tile to the 5-tile on the far left of the next row. A jump in the opposite direction got me to 8 and I just had to step to 13, one tile away. I did a quick calculation and noted that 13 + 8 was 21, another jump, but this time on a diagonal. The next number in the sequence was 34, two rows up and three rows over. I didn’t know if I could make it that far, but I tried. I bent my knees a few times, stretched and gave it my best shot. I
was hampered by my wounded leg so instead of landing on my feet my knees hit the correct tile and my feet brushed 33 instead. I was surprised when tile 33 began to descend into the floor. I got my feet under me and added 21 to 34. The next number in the sequence was 55, five rows up and five rows over. I’d never be able to jump that.

  I was scanning the ceiling for hand holds when I heard a clunk and looked down to see tile 33 start to rise. I almost didn’t notice the foot tall gnome-like creature with an over-sized jaw and sharp looking fangs riding on top of the tile until the creature grabbed my shin and was about to bite me. I moved my leg rapidly, trying to dislodge the gnome. It fell off, screaming, and landed back on tile 33 where it had come from. I kicked it like a football and it smacked against the far wall. I hoped that would at least stun the nasty, brutish and short homunculus. No such luck.

  After it hit the wall the beastie split into two smaller versions half the height of the original and both decided that attacking me would be a great way to spend the afternoon.

  Kicking the creatures just made more of them, so evasion seemed a better option. I jumped up and grabbed two of the fleur-de-lys. They held my weight and didn’t trigger any traps as far as I could tell. I wish I’d had the same good news about escaping the gnomes. They could jump. One of them wrapped his arms around the toe of my boot and began to climb. I cautiously grabbed the six-inch gnome by the scruff of its neck and slowly inserted its head into the mouth of the nearest grotesque, a dragon with lots of chiseled granite teeth. It screamed. Its head and shoulders were stuck and its legs were kicking wildly but it wasn’t going anywhere. It did manage to distract me while its twin had reached my calf and was heading for more tender points north before I grabbed it and inserted its upper body into the beak of a grotesque gryphon. Would it have been too much to ask for their screams to harmonize?