Starship Grifters (A Rex Nihilo Adventure)

by Robert Kroese

  “Raise,” said Rex, shoving a pile of chips worth two hundred thousand credits to the center of the table. The pot stood at half a million.

  Larviton looked at his fairly modest stack of chips, frowning. “Now you’re the one with all the cash,” he said.

  “Looks that way,” Rex said.

  “I think you owe me.”

  “How’s that?” Rex asked.

  “Earlier, I let you put something on the table so you could win a bigger pot. Now I’m the one who really likes his hand. I ask you to extend me the same courtesy.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Rex asked.

  Larviton gritted his teeth. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “I’ve got a Madrillion-class star clipper on the hangar deck. The Flagrante Delicto. Fastest ship in this sector. Worth a million easy.” He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed a keycard on the table.

  Rex narrowed his eyes at Larviton. To match that, he’d have to bet almost everything he had. “All right,” he said coolly. He shoved the massive pile of chips into the pot. I made an even lower-pitched whistling sound, but Rex continued to ignore me.

  Larviton revealed his hand: a straight, ace through five. Rex breathed a sigh of relief and threw down his own hand: full house, tens over fours. He had won again. Larviton turned a shade of green that would have made him irresistible to the Barashavian if she were still at the table. He had lost everything he had. He no longer even had a ship to take back home. He’d have to hop the shuttle with the hoi polloi.

  “Well, I think we’d better call it a night,” said Rex. “Before you do something you might regret, I mean.”

  “A planet,” growled Larviton. “One more hand. I’ll bet the planet Schufnaasik Six against everything you’ve got. I was going to sell it anyway. I’ve got the deed right here.” He produced a plastic card from his pocket.

  Rex took the card and handed it to me. I scanned the card and, sure enough, it was the deed to a medium-sized planet in the Arosco Fringe. I told Rex that it checked out. “Sir,” I added, “official galactic records indicate that the planet is certified as an APPLE.”

  Rex cocked his left eyebrow at me. “An APPLE?”

  “Alien Planet Perplexingly Like Earth,” I explained. “It’s a designation reserved for planets with moderate gravity and atmospheric conditions amenable to—”

  “I know what an APPLE is, Sasha,” Rex snapped. He turned to Larviton. “Is this on the up-and-up?”

  “That’s right,” replied Larviton.

  “You’re willing to bet an Alien Planet Perplexingly Like Earth2 against a star clipper, a million credits, and a few trillion hexapennies?”

  Larviton shrugged. “I’m not going to lie to you,” he said. “I bought the planet as a tax write-off. It’s technically an APPLE, but it’s nothing to write home about. It’s got some potential, but it’s a long way from being a first-class industrial world, and I’m not in the colonization business. So yes, I’m willing to wager it against what you’ve got on the table. Let’s just say I’m feeling lucky.”

  Rex studied the old man. APPLEs were more common than anyone had initially expected, but that didn’t mean they were cheap. An APPLE was by definition capable of supporting human life, which meant that Schufnaasik Six could potentially be a home for millions, if not billions, of people. I had heard of one planet whose surface was entirely covered by dust bunnies that had sold to a developer for over a trillion credits. I knew what Rex was thinking: no matter how inhospitable Schufnaasik Six was, it couldn’t possibly be worth less than a hundred million credits. Sure, he could take his winnings and walk away, but what were a million credits and a little spaceship compared to a whole planet?

  Every circuit in my body screamed that something was wrong. Larviton’s offer was too good to be true. No matter how far Larviton had fallen, there was no way he’d bet a habitable planet in a card game unless there was something he wasn’t telling us. I frantically searched the Galactic Hypernet for information about the planet but found nothing amiss. As far as I could tell, Schufnaasik Six was just as Larviton indicated: an unremarkable but entirely habitable planet a few dozen light-years from here.

  Think, think, think! I told myself. If only my intellectual capacity weren’t artificially crippled, I might have been able to figure it out. What I needed was nonlinear thinking, free association, pattern recognition . . . yes, yes . . . I was on to something . . . cross-reference the planetary deed with corporate records . . . there! I’d found it!

  “Sir,” I said. “I’ve done some additional research, and there seems to be a problem with the planet.”

  Larviton frowned.

  “A problem?” asked Rex. “Are the records outdated? Some sort of planetary catastrophe?”

  “No, sir,” I replied. “The planet itself is fine, and I can’t be absolutely certain without more time to investigate, but there’s a pattern in the data that leads me to think—”

  And that’s when I shut down for fifteen seconds. When I regained consciousness, I had completely forgotten whatever it was that I had found. Rex was no longer paying any attention to me.

  The hand had been dealt. Rex peeked at his final card and a smile crept over his face. He flipped his hole cards on the table. He had pulled a natural straight. There was no way in hell Larviton could beat that. Sure enough, Larviton laid down three queens. A good hand, but not good enough to top Rex’s. Rex had started the day near flat broke and now he was the proud owner of an entire planet. Gavin Larviton signed over the deed as I watched. I couldn’t read his expression, but he didn’t look terribly broken up. I hoped I was wrong about whatever it was I thought I had found.

  Just then, someone behind me screamed. I turned to see several people backing away from the far wall of the casino. A jagged tear had been burned in the metal and was growing longer as I watched, a spot of molten steel at its leading edge. Somebody was cutting his way into the casino with a lazegun—somebody who wanted to get in pretty badly. Rex was under a death threat from the Chicolinian mob, but cutting a hole in an interstellar ship seemed a bit extreme for an outfit whose weapon of choice was a burlap sack filled with lug nuts.

  When I looked back at Rex, it was clear that he wasn’t waiting around to find out who it was: he snatched the deed to Schufnaasik Six and the keycard for Larviton’s space clipper and began stuffing chips in his pockets. Larviton himself seemed to have forgotten his crippling loss; he was watching in fascination as a roughly man-sized hole was being cut in the wall. As Rex filled his pockets, I saw him glance toward Larviton’s side of the table and turn suddenly pale. Following his gaze, I saw what he was looking at: one of Larviton’s cards had sloughed off its skin, leaving behind an empty shell. That left Larviton with four of a kind. If Larviton were to glance down, he’d see that he’d won the hand after all. And Rex would be out a planet. Rex apparently decided there was only one thing to do: overturn the table.

  “We’re being attacked!” Rex screamed, gripping the edge of the table. “Get behind the tables!”

  Unfortunately, the table was bolted down, so Rex strained mightily but accomplished little other than drawing attention to himself. On the plus side, he had managed to keep Larviton’s attention from the cards on the table. Realizing it was time for plan B, Rex leaped onto the table, yelling “Get down!” He managed to plant his right foot on Larviton’s cards in an attempt to scatter them to the floor. At this he succeeded, but as his foot slipped out from underneath him, he found himself careening uncontrollably toward Larviton. He collided with the old man, knocking him unconscious. The two fell to the floor behind the table.

  At that moment, the chunk of wall fell inside the casino with a loud clank and several Malarchian marines poured through the gap. Behind them strode an imposing figure I recognized from his reputation: Lord Heinous Vlaak, the Malarchian Primate’s chief enforcer. Vlaak was an average-siz
ed man whose ordinariness was camouflaged by the outlandish costume he always wore: a tight-fitting crimson leather uniform, a helmet festooned with peacock feathers, and a luxurious cape that was said to be made from the pelts of a race of furry humanoids who had made the mistake of assisting the rebels in the Battle of Zondervan. Whatever brought Vlaak here, it was serious. More serious than Rex’s troubles on Chicolini, that much was certain.

  “Find the rebel spy!” Vlaak screamed in his signature high-pitched squeal. He spoke through an artificial voice modulator; it was rumored that Vlaak’s unaltered voice was so shrill that no one who’d heard it had lived.

  Marines fanned out across the casino, securing the room. At the edge of my field of vision I saw Rex, still huddled behind the table, emptying a beverage cart onto the floor. When it was empty, he climbed inside and beckoned anxiously to me. I walked over to him. “Sir?”

  “Wheel me out of here, Sasha! I’ve got to get the hell off this ship.”

  “The Malarchians are looking for rebels, sir. I think we might be better off—”

  “Don’t think!” he hissed. “You know what happens when you do that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Head for the door. Try to look nonthreatening, like you’re just running to the kitchen for something.”

  “What?”

  “Huh?”

  “What am I running to the kitchen for?”

  “What the hell difference does it make? Orange juice. Dry ice. The complete works of Proust. Just move!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I began wheeling the cart toward the door. The marine posted there took no notice of me and I thought we might actually get away when I heard the ear-piercing screech of Heinous Vlaak behind me.

  “Halt!”

  I stopped and turned around. Vlaak was heading right for us. We were caught.

  Vlaak stopped six inches from the cart and glared at me. At least I think he was glaring. Vlaak never removes his wraparound mirrored sunglasses, so it’s hard to tell what he’s doing with his eyes. “I’m thirsty,” he yelped. “What libations do you offer, beverage robot?”

  “I’m afraid,” I replied nervously, “all I have is Rex Nihilo.”

  I should probably tell you at this point that another safeguard built into near-self-aware robots is the inability to tell lies. This occasionally makes escape attempts and other ruses awkward, which is one of the reasons I usually advise against them.

  “Rex Nihilo!” cried Vlaak. “What’s in that?”

  “Mostly water, sir. A fair amount of carbon. Other trace elements.”

  Vlaak seemed dubious. “Any alcohol?”

  “Usually around point two percent,” I replied.

  “Hmph. How does it taste?”

  “I’ve never had it myself,” I replied, “but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Vlaak considered for a moment. “Do you have orange juice?”

  “Probably in the kitchen. We may also have dry ice and the complete works of Proust, but I’d have to check.”

  “All right, then,” said Vlaak. “I’ll have a screwdriver and a copy of Remembrance of Things Past.”

  I nodded and continued past the guard out the door. Marines were escorting passengers from other areas of the ship toward the central casino, presumably in an effort to flush out the rebels who were suspected of being on board. “Head to the hangar deck,” Rex whispered urgently. I wheeled the cart down the corridor toward the hangar deck.

  “Guard, sir,” I said quietly as I turned a corner and the hangar door came into view. A Malarchian marine was standing in front of it, holding a formidable-looking lazerifle.

  Malarchian marines are known for their prowess with lazeguns as well as the bulky, iridescent orange uniforms that make it almost impossible for them to shoot straight. The uniforms were originally designed to protect the marines from projectile weapons during the Fringe Wars, when their primary task was putting down rebellions of outlying barbarian tribes wielding primitive gunpowder-based firearms. The armor was so effective that even though the marines couldn’t bend any of their joints at an angle greater than forty-five degrees, they easily defeated the Fringe tribes in countless battles. Post-combat analysis indicated that eighty-seven percent of Malarchian casualties were from friendly fire, prompting the brass to decree that the marine uniforms should be made as visible on the battlefield as possible. After the glaring orange suits were introduced, the percentage of marine casualties attributed to friendly fire dropped by nearly half, and the innovation was declared a resounding success.

  “Ram him,” whispered Rex from the bowels of the cart.

  “Sir?” I replied.

  “With the cart, you idiot. Ram him!”

  “Sir, I’m unable to attack a Malarchian marine.”

  As you know, the Retbutlerian Purge also prohibited the construction of any robot capable of engaging in combat. So I am congenitally unable to fire a gun, throw a punch, or ram a Malarchian marine with a beverage cart.

  “Why do I keep you around?” Rex grumbled from the cart.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” I replied. We were now less than twenty meters from the door, and the marine was holding up his hand in the universal “STOP” gesture.

  “Ram the door,” whispered Rex.

  “Sir?”

  “The door to the hangar. There’s nothing in your programming preventing you from ramming the cart into the door, right?”

  “No, sir. But the marine is in the way.”

  “Tough luck for him, then.”

  I sighed and increased my speed.

  “Halt!” cried the guard, bringing the gun to his shoulder.

  I was running now. The guard looked like he was trying to decide whether to fire or get out of the way. He only had about two seconds to act, and his uniform wouldn’t permit him to do both. He fired.

  I could only assume he was aiming for me, but the beam struck the light panel a meter and a half above my head, creating a great shower of sparks. At the same moment, Rex dove out of the left side of the cart to avoid the impending collision. I think I mentioned that Rex isn’t so good with numbers or letters; the fact is that Newtonian physics isn’t really his strong suit either. His sideways motion had the effect of pushing the cart off its trajectory; it crashed into the wall to the right of the door, striking its control panel. The door whooshed open and my momentum carried me forward. I slammed into the marine, and we tumbled through the open door onto a catwalk overlooking the hangar deck. The marine and I rolled head over heels across a landing and down a steel stairway, clanking, whistling, and screaming until we reached the bottom.

  I lay on my back, stunned, and gradually became aware that the marine was hunched over me, trying his best to get his lazegun pointed at my face. Eventually he succeeded and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. The marine cursed, tossed the broken lazegun aside, and began pummeling my face with his gauntleted fists. I wish people wouldn’t pummel my face. It’s made of a flexible synthetic polymer over a jointed carbon-fiber superstructure, and replacement parts are nearly impossible to find. Once I had to go six weeks with a smiley face riveted onto a bent piece of sheet metal because Rex is too cheap to pay for expedited shipping.

  Eventually the marine began to tire. Coughing and wheezing, he pulled off his helmet to reveal a pudgy red face glistening with sweat. He appraised his handiwork, seeming disappointed. “Good grief,” he spat. “What’s your face made of anyway?”

  “Flexible synthetic polymer over a jointed carbon-fiber superstructure,” I replied. “The manufacturer went out of business, but you can still get some decent aftermarket parts from the Crab Nebula.”

  “Huh,” he replied. “That’s the same basic design as the marine helmets.” He picked up his helmet and handed it to me.

  “Remarkable!” I cried, f
eeling the sturdy material. “No wonder you guys are so tough.”

  “You’re one to talk,” said the marine. “I must have hit you thirty times, and you’re barely dented.”

  “Well, it’s not for lack of trying,” I reassured him. “You’ve got quite a left hook.”

  “Thanks,” he replied, smiling. “It’s more effective on humans, though. Why, just last week I knocked out six of my sergeant’s teeth with a single punch. But look at you! Thirty hits and not a mark on you.”

  “If it makes you feel better,” I replied, “I think you damaged my emotive subcontroller.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep,” I replied. “I’m seriously impressed.”

  “You don’t look impressed,” he said doubtfully.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” I said. “I’m trying as hard as I can to look impressed.”

  “You are not.”

  “I’m incapable of lying,” I said. “This is my impressed face.”

  “Wow,” he replied. “Does it hurt?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “I’m in agony. Can’t you tell?”

  “You look bored.”

  “See? I’ve lost a good thirty-six percent of my expressive range.”

  “Try being happy,” he said.

  “No good,” I replied. “But that’s not really a good test, given the circumstances.”

  “How about anger?”

  I gave him my best angry face.

  “Not bad,” he observed. “But now you’ve slipped into something like surprise.”

  And that’s when Rex, who had been quietly creeping down the walkway, kicked him in the temple, rendering him unconscious.

  “If you’re done socializing,” said Rex, “let’s get the hell off this ship.”

  * * *

  1 In point of fact, only the two humans could be considered in any sense “boys”: the Barashavian was three weeks into the female phase of its reproductive cycle; the Gnaaric Beetleworm was a member of the asexual ruling caste of its colony; and the gelatinous blob, which was a hermaphrodite, was in the process of budding.