Xenotech The Man Who Sold the Earth: A Story of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support)

by Dave Schroeder

  When I stepped into the lobby, I was irrationally disappointed that Poly wasn’t behind the receptionist’s desk. I knew she couldn’t and wouldn’t be there at 5:30 in the morning. As far as I knew, she was at Georgia Tech pulling an all-nighter to finish up final revisions for a paper on Tigrammath artificial intelligence psycho-optimization she was writing with one of her Advanced Galtech professors. Instead, a short, sleepy looking young woman with hair dyed in pink, purple and lime green accent stripes wearing a security guard’s uniform was sitting at the reception desk. I’d never seen her before.

  “I’m CiCi,” she said. “Are you Jack?”

  “That’s me,” I said. Maybe it would be smart to get employee name tags now that XSC was growing? Later.

  “Xenotech Support,” she said, reading the logo on my shirt. “Cool name.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Mike told me to look out for you and send you right back to the production floor,” she said. “You know the way?”

  “Yep,” I said, and headed past her desk toward the double doors leading into the main part of the building.

  “Has anybody ever told you you’re kind of cute?” said the young woman.

  I hated to be rude but pretended I didn’t hear her asking for my number and let the doors close behind me. I didn’t need that sort of complication in my life. Things were crazy enough already.

  Mike intercepted me just outside the production floor. We shook hands. His were trembling.

  “Thanks for getting here so fast. The octovacs forced me out and barred the door.”

  Aggressively hostile vacuum cleaners—that’s not odd at all, not the way my life has been going lately.

  “What are they doing now?” Mike motioned for me to look.

  We peered in through the narrow, reinforced windows inset into the production room’s heavy steel doors. Through the thick glass we saw the massive Dauushan Model-43 fabricator, the size of an aircraft carrier if a typical office copier was a tugboat. Dozens of octovacs were scuttling around it. Covered in highly polished chrome, they looked somewhat sinister in a daddy longlegs meets Doctor Octopus meets Terminator sort of way. Their central cores were disks the diameter of vintage Volkswagen Beetle hubcaps, and as thick as three or four stacked pizza boxes. Their bottoms were perforated so they could vacuum up anything they passed over. Manipulator tentacles were evenly spaced around the central core. They could extend from a few inches to over six feet, and were made from tiny, overlapping segments as supple as snakes.

  Octovacs used their tentacles to walk on and to carry tools as well as move household furniture. They could also climb vertical surfaces if necessary. Instead of looking cuddly, like most modern household robots, these machines looked coldly efficient and deadly serious. They made grating, chittering sounds as they worked, like dozens of disapproving, out of sync stopwatches. Angry red beams of light pulsed from the tops of their central cores in counterpoint to the noise. I could see why Mike didn’t want to confront them.

  The octovacs were building something that looked as ominous as they were. Internal sub-assemblies and curved external components were emerging from the Model-43 at high speed. Crews of octovacs were using their writhing manipulators to fit smaller components together. The element currently under construction was a concave black disk fifteen feet in diameter that looked like a wok big enough to feed an entire division of the Chinese Army. When the octovacs finished with the disk, Mike and I watched another cadre of them lift it and carry it in the direction of the loading dock, out of sight to our right.

  “What’s the fastest way out to the dock?” I thought I knew, but Mike might know better.

  “Down the corridor behind us,” he said, “but I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s head up to the roof and I’ll show you,” said Mike. “Thank goodness J-J is in New York today.”

  I nodded. If Jean-Jacques had been here he would have certainly been screaming at us to fix this instantly, even though it was his fault for using untrustworthy fabrication specifications. Then again, he might wait until nine or ten o’clock, when he typically got to the office, before he started screaming.

  We took the service elevator to the second floor in deference to my injuries and then climbed the maintenance stairs to the roof. An antique incandescent bulb in a fixture on the outer wall above the stairway door gave a dim light in the early morning darkness. When we crossed to the rear of the building and stared down at what was happening below us, I didn’t believe what I saw. It was so incongruous that I had to take a step back, shake my head to do a brain reboot, then advance for a second look. What I’d thought I’d seen was still there. In the high-intensity glow of the dock’s congruent-tech lights, we could see a gigantic humanoid robot lying flat on its back like Gulliver captured by octovac Lilliputians.

  The eight-armed assemblers were fitting the big disk over its right knee joint. This robot wasn’t a friendly, brightly colored anime-style construct—it was a seriously badass-looking combat mech with enough firepower to take down Godzilla, Mothra, Gamera and Rodan simultaneously. The massive automaton was jet black and bristled with weapons. Cannons, energy blasters and missile launchers were attached to its shoulders, forearms and torso. Whoever tricked Jean-Jacques into building this machine was serious about maximizing threat potential. Who was behind it? And more to the point, why? I found myself wishing I was back dealing with a hundred thousand hungry pink robot bunny lawn mowers.

  The robot took up most of the building’s rear loading and parking area. I tried to estimate how big it was, but that was difficult because its matte black finish seemed to absorb light. Its shins and thighs were each the size of shipping containers, so that made eighty to one hundred feet just for its legs. The whole thing would be two hundred and fifty feet tall once it stood up. If it stood up—and I wondered what I could do to stop it. It looked like it was almost completely assembled—only the left kneecap remained and that was ready to install. I should have gotten here faster.

  “Where are the loading dock workers?” I asked. Wait, would they even be on duty this early? Maybe if J-J had a rush order to fill.

  “They split as soon as the octovacs took over the dock,” said Mike. “I’d walked out there before it was completely overrun and overheard one of them say something about having a bottle of tequila at home. He left and the others drove off after him.”

  I envied them—and I don’t even drink.

  I pulled out my phone and asked it to zoom in on the robot so I could get a more detailed view. Many of the robot’s components had the rounded, organic look common to Orishen technology. I wondered if it could change shape and function, like so many other types of Orishen-designed equipment.

  The Orish are an insect-like Galactic species that morph through several different forms over their lives—egg, larva, nymph, adult and supra-adult. Their technology is highly flexible and adaptable as well. I’d earned the equivalent of a Ph.D. at Mulbiri Tech on Orish so I knew my way around Orishen technology. I’d recently been successful in thwarting a villain’s evil plan by transforming Orishen-built troop ships into casinos, for example. Yeah, that long story.

  The attached weapons didn’t look Orishen. They were bolted on and had a sharp, angular design that I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Long Pâkk or Short Pâkk—two of the more belligerent GaFTA member species—though it did seem to have Japanese influences. I leaned over the edge of the roof to get a better look at the weapons systems. That turned out to be a bad idea. Two octovacs on the loading dock spotted me and sprang up the concrete and glass rear wall of the building, heading my way. I’d have to think fast.

  I stowed my phone and reached behind me to open the compartment on my backpack tool bag that held my friend Chit’s bottle. I uncapped the bottle and shouted for help. A small, buzzing creature flew out just as the two shiny octovacs arrived on the roof. Mike ran for the maintenance stairs and was able to get behind a closed d
oor. At least he was safe. I was left to confront the two mechanical spiders without his assistance. They weren’t happy to see me. Two tentacles shot out from the first octovac and grabbed my ankles. Two more shot out from the other octovac and encircled my wrists. The two spider-mechs backed away from each other, pulling me off my feet and holding me face up, spread-eagled. I was being stretched out like I was strapped to a rack.

  All things considered, I’d rather be back in bed.

  Chapter 2

  “When you reach the top, that's when the climb begins.” — Michael Caine

  “Hey, big guy, how’s it hangin’?” said Chit’s low-pitched voice an inch from my right ear. I could hear her clearly even over the buzz from her wings. Chit was a Murm, a ladybug-shaped alien with a head the size of a dime and a body the size of a quarter. She was wearing a colorful inkjet printer paint job on her wing-cases that looked like a miniature version of Monet’s Water Lilies. Chit has her feminine side—on rare occasions. I’d met her when I was in graduate school on Orish and she’d decided to hitch a ride with me back to Earth to see more of the galaxy.

  “A little help would be appreciated.”

  “No pro-blé-mo.”

  The two octovacs backed farther away from each other, further stretching my joints and tendons. My chest, still recovering from being shot, burned as my abs and intercostals started to separate. The dinosaur-inflicted scar on my leg hurt as much as it did when I’d first received it.

  “Now would be good,” I said. I heard a sound something like a Bronx cheer. Chit flitted.

  I tilted my head back so I could see my little friend fly underneath the octovac holding my arms. She found an opening on the lower part of its central core and disappeared inside. A few seconds later, that octovac moved a foot forward and just hung there, releasing the stress on my wrists and elbows. I came within a few inches of smacking my head on the building’s tar and gravel roof, but was left loosely suspended. My blood began pooling in my upper torso and points north.

  “Thanks,” I said. I heard another raspberry sound, amplified by the interior of the octovac’s central core, then Chit popped out of the hole she’d entered and repeated what she’d just done with the other chrome plated unit.

  “What did you just do?” I asked.

  “I put ’em in standby mode,” said Chit. “It’s just one switch on their primary circuit boards. They can’t be operated remotely now.”

  “You’re a life saver!”

  “It was easier than havin’ to deal wit’ Poly if you’d been drawn and quartered.”

  It’s good to have a friend. Make that friends. I shouted toward the maintenance stairs.

  “Mike, it’s safe to come out now!” Mike cracked the door and looked around warily. “Could you give me a hand?”

  He opened the door the rest of the way and looked at me. I was six inches above the roof held in place by tentacles from two octovacs. When the units went into standby mode they just hovered once they’d reached equilibrium.

  “Uhmmm, sure,” said Mike. I think he was trying to keep from laughing.

  He walked over and pushed the octovac holding my feet toward me until my lower body touched the gravel. Then he helped me unwind the tentacles from my wrists and ankles. I rubbed my extremities and slowly got up. I needed Mike’s support to get myself vertical.

  “Now I understand why you didn’t want to go out to the loading dock.”

  “Ten points for Capt’n Obvious,” said Chit, who was basking in the warmth of one of the red lights on top of an octovac.

  “It was easier to show than to tell,” said Mike.

  “Maybe for you,” I said, rubbing my wrists and ankles.

  “Now what?” said Mike.

  “Did you follow Rule #2 when you started fabbing octovacs?”

  Mike had been taught this lesson the hard way during the robot rabbit incident.

  “Sure,” he said. “I printed six octovac controllers before queuing up the octovacs themselves. I left the controllers on top of the Model-43’s operator’s console.”

  “And the octovacs herded you off the production floor before you could grab one?”

  “Uh huh.” Mike’s shoulders slumped. He looked like a puppy waiting to be kicked. Working for Jean-Jacques can do that to a person.

  “It happens.” I patted him on the back reassuringly. “We’ll figure things out.” Mike stood a little straighter after my encouragement. I was glad to see he hadn’t been completely beaten down by his abusive boss.

  “If you say so,” he said, “I’ll do whatever I can to help.” Now there was a moderately upbeat, conditionally optimistic tone in his voice.

  “Are the plans for the octovacs still available?”

  “Sure,” said Mike, his face brightening. He could sense the gears turning in my brain. “They’re on the main server.” I handed him my phone.

  “Log my phone in and locate the octovac controller plans, please.”

  Mike tapped keys and then handed my phone back. “Done.”

  I addressed my phone. “Please simulate an octovac controller.”

  “Programming now… simulation complete,” it said. My phone is a sharp piece of circuitry.

  “Chit, quit snoozing on top of that octovac and move your carapace. I need you to shift the command channel on these two units.”

  “Whatta slave driver,” said Chit. “You’d think savin’ your life once t’day would be enough.”

  “Please?”

  “Okay, since you asked nicely.” She opened her wing cases, stretched her wings, and flew underneath one of the octovacs to make the adjustments I’d requested. I had my doubts about the actual octovac controllers working on the rest of the shiny chrome spiders. I was betting that the black hats responsible for the bad fabrication plans had preset the octovacs to only follow remote commands they issued and ignore the standard controllers. To confirm that, I looked over the edge of the roof above the loading dock. Only my head was visible—I didn’t want more octovacs coming after me on the roof. I moved my phone to the ledge next to me.

  “Shut down all the octovacs, please.” My phone chirped and beeped as it sent out the shutdown signal. Thanks to the loading dock lights we could see the octovacs behind the WT&F office clearly. None of them deactivated. My phone made a grumpy noise and sulked. That confirmed it. Only a factory reset would give me a chance of regaining control.

  Three of the octovacs on the dock had just finished attaching the giant robot’s left kneecap. Half a dozen were skittering across the robot’s matte black surface, making final pre-operational adjustments. I crawled back out of line-of-sight from the loading dock and stood up near the maintenance stairs. Before I could think of what to do next I was distracted by Chit and her water lilies paint job hovering in front of my eyes.

  “Command channels are shifted on these two, Jack.” She pointed at the octovacs on the roof with a foreleg and gave me the new command channel settings.

  “Thanks. Did you spot anything on the inside of the units about the code needed to perform a factory reset on these things?”

  “Yeah. I saw a sticker with the first six characters but the rest are hidden under a circuit board.”

  “Excellent. That will make a brute force search for the factory reset code much faster.”

  Chit recited the part of the code she’d seen and my phone started trying out options. If we were lucky it would find the right sequence early in its search.

  “The plans indicate the code length is twenty characters, so it will require thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds to try all remaining reset codes,” said my phone, anticipating my next question.

  “So, on average, about fifteen minutes?” I said.

  “If we’re lucky,” said my phone.

  “I don’t think we can wait that long,” said Mike. He had taken up my previous vantage point looking down at the loading dock. I joined him. He was right. Time was running out. The giant robot was standing up. It was alrea
dy on one knee. I heard lots of muffled clacks that sounded like it was booting its weapons systems and racking ammunition. This was not good.

  “Take control of the two octovacs on the roof and have them carry me down to the loading dock,” I said. My phone promptly complied, and in seconds I was hanging from a pair of octovac tentacles like a sack of L5 hydroponic potatoes. The pair of spiders descended quickly and reached ground level. I instructed them to drag me over to the robot and start hauling me up its nearest leg. They reached the knee that was still on the ground and jumped, carrying me with them to a spot half way up the robot’s thigh where a missile launcher provided good hand holds. Other octovacs grooming and prepping the giant robot finally realized the two holding me were no longer part of the black hat team. They swarmed after me while my octovacs scrambled to carry me higher up the leg to the torso.

  “How are you doing on figuring out that factory reset code?” I asked my phone.

  “Still processing.”

  Then the robot shifted from kneeling on one knee to standing upright. I went from dangling fifty feet in the air to a hundred feet in five, make that three, rapid heartbeats. I know it shouldn’t matter—a fall from either distance would kill me—but try telling that to my hind-brain. I heard a low rumbling below me. The giant robot was warming up the rocket engines in its boots. I had a feeling I’d be a lot higher soon. Five of the black hat octovacs were just inches below me, and I didn’t want to repeat the experience I’d had on the roof. I had my phone instruct one of my white hat octovacs to slow down the black hats while the other kept carrying me farther up the robot. One of the black hat unit’s tentacles grabbed my shoe and tugged, but my defender white hat vac took advantage of it being off balance to dislodged it and send it down into two other black hat vacs, slowing all three in a tangle of waving tentacles. My defender was locked in a multi-armed struggle with the remaining nearby black hat while the octovac holding me finally ascended all the way to the robot’s shoulder. The rumbles were getting louder and the robot’s body was beginning to vibrate. It would lift off any second.