CU: "A" Game

Arjun watched the final game play out with a sinking feeling. He didn't need Jaine to break down the position for him. The artifact had systematically built up a solid core surrounded by multiple defense lines, following a fundamental principle to not rely on a single pattern that could be flipped in a turn.

Even with Sanjay's gamemaster playing at its highest level with the full computation of the ship and its crew behind it, it still couldn't hold a candle to the artifact in a fair fight. Going into the final moves, the CU's win percentage was hovering just below three percent. On the next move, it slipped even lower.

"What happened to a twelve percent chance of winning?" Arjun said in frustration.

"The artifact's level of play has far exceeded my estimates," Jaine said matter-of-factly. "It appears to be using its secondary computation regions in combination with the original game core."

Arjun looked at the thermal map with dread. Even without the solar sail creating a heat lamp effect, the entire area was bathed in magenta, trending white. It was playing all out. "Two-point-three percent. That's the best move we've got?" But something puzzled him. He had played enough ultra-chess to know that there were some positions from which there was no way out. Forced mate. Yet in this game he had never seen the win probability dip below two percent. "Tell me this, Jaine. If we're getting beat so badly, how is it that we even have any chance at all of winning?"

"If we could anticipate the artifact's next move, we could select the perfect counter, which would result in a tie or narrow margin of victory."

"Is there any way to predict what it'll do next?"

"Not without a quantum supercomputer. That would require insight into its mental architecture or deep analysis of its past game play, neither of which we have access to."

"So it just comes down to a lucky guess." Arjun rubbed the ancient bones between his palms. Over time, the corners had worn smooth as knuckles. "It's just a roll of the dice then. Show me the best eleven moves." He flipped the dice so they spun in the zero g then caught and pressed them to the back of his hand. They showed seven dots.

"This method of generating randomness is not ideal," Jaine chastened. "A seven is six times more likely to be rolled than a two."

"You're right." Arjun placed the dice back into the velvet pouch he wore around his neck. "The outcome of such an important match shouldn't be left up to chance."

"Shall I play the move with the highest win percentage?" Jaine asked.

"Not so fast. We need to play the move that gives us the highest probability of survival."

Xemesh: Xeel

The Xemesh had a unique dilemma. Unlike humans, where mental capacity was roughly equivalent across individuals, the intellectual abilities of Xemesh could vary by orders of magnitude. When disputes or matters of leadership arose, they needed a way to establish who was the more capable. At first, the physical size of the Xemesh could be used as a proxy for intelligence, but as more efficient architectures emerged, this rule held less weight. A better mental yardstick was needed.

Xeel started as a hundred-by-hundred cellular automata challenge that could be efficiently played with trail-mesh and Xants. With the intelligence explosion, the play expanded to three-dimensions, becoming exponentially more complex. By that time, the goal of Xeel was no longer just to win a short-term advantage but to establish a social contract. Because Xeel could be played among many different partners, it formed the underpinnings of a complex and interconnected power hierarchy.

Up to twenty-one games were played in a match. Each side could earn up to ten wins, or feats. The side with the least feats could quit at any time, cutting its losses, but the winning side must allow its opponent the opportunity to match feat for feat. If one side won the first ten, the other side must be given ten opportunities to win their own. Ties earned a feat for each side.

Feats were not merely symbolic. Each feat was a work obligation corresponding to four days of servitude. A careful tally of all feats was maintained between opponents, creating an inter-connected network of obligations. The system was not monogamous; feats could be owed to many different Xemesh at once. Since Xemesh did not age, a feat might be called in thousands of years after being scored. A set of laws governed the exchange and satisfaction of feats. Early feats took precedence over later ones, and a feat could only be deferred or interrupted at the cost of penalty feats.

Why would an inferior Xemesh engage in a game of Xeel it knew it was going to lose? Because owing a feat offered protection. The winning Xemesh was bound to safeguard the loser until all feats owed to it were fulfilled. An attack on a feat-bearer was considered high treason punishable by dissolution. For this reason, inferior Xemesh would re-engage in Xeel before the balance of their remaining feats ran out.

The final and twenty-first game, the Xest, did not award a feat. It only occurred in the case of a ten-to-ten tie and was the only one that played for keeps. It worked on a simple principle: in order to resolve a power struggle among equals, it was necessary to give one side a permanent advantage. The stakes of the Xest were so high, Xemesh would often lose the penultimate game on purpose to avoid it.

The loser of the Xest had to sacrifice a mind-core to the winning Xemesh. For smaller Xemesh, this could be devastating. Even for larger Xemesh, which might contain hundreds of mind-cores, the loss was sorely felt. Some clever and ambitious Xemesh would resort to subterfuge, intentionally throwing the early games in order to force their opponent into the Xest where they would unleash their true skill.

Whereas feats were an alternative to violence, the Xest was the perfect substitute. A part of the loser was claimed as conquest by the victor, making them even stronger. While Xemesh might only devote a portion of their mental energy to the early games, when it came to the Xest, they could not afford to hold anything back.

There was one rare situation where a Xemesh might forfeit a Xest. Occasionally, a rebellious mind-core would volunteer to be the sacrifice.