Out of the Soylent Planet (A Rex Nihilo Adventure) (Starship Grifters Book 0)

by Robert Kroese

  “I don’t deal in explosives,” Warryk grunted, his blind eyes staring into the distance past Rex.

  “You didn’t until now,” said Rex. “I’m in a hurry to get off-planet, so I’m letting this stuff go for a quarter of what it’s worth on the black market. You re-sell it to one of the saps around here, and with the profit you’ll make, you can take a month off. Go find a nice air-conditioned hotel in Gobarrah City with a swimming pool and dancing girls.”

  “Unless the Malarchy catches me. Then I’ll be thrown into Gulagatraz for the rest of my life. If I’m lucky.”

  “Pfft,” said Rex. “Malarchian marines have better things to do than run around a bazaar looking for a load of military grade explosives some yahoo lifted from their base twenty klicks from here after paying some local ruffians to fake a Quathogg attack on one of their supply caravans.”

  Warryk stared blankly. “They what?”

  “The important thing,” said Rex, “is that I have reason to believe that a local gangster has learned of my presence on this planet, which means that I need to move up my date of departure a bit. And that means I need to unload this X-99 fast. Name your price, friend. I’m at your mercy.”

  “Twenty-five credits.”

  “Name a price with a few more digits.”

  Warryk shrugged. “I told you, I don’t deal in explosives.”

  “Five hundred,” said Rex.

  “Twenty.”

  “Four hundred.”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Are you sure you’ve done this before?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Look, I’ll go get the truck and you can inspect the merchandise firsthand. It would be a bargain at five thousand.”

  Warryk shrugged again, and Rex ran away down the aisle.

  BP-26 beeped and squealed.

  “Shut up,” Warryk and I said in unison.

  After a couple of minutes, an open bed hovertruck zoomed down the aisle, scattering vendors and shoppers before it. The truck stopped in front of Lot 318 and Rex hopped out, waving apologetically at the people he’d nearly run over. “Check it out,” said Rex, indicating the bed of the truck.

  Warryk wobbled over, holding his hands out in front of him. I followed. Lining the bed were several hundred bricks of the putty-like substance. Warryk bent over and felt the bricks. He picked one up and rubbed his fingertips across the surface, his eyes still staring into the distance. A worried look came over his face. The bricks were clearly stamped:

  PROPERTY OF THE MALARCHY

  UNAUTHORIZED POSSESSION IS

  PUNISHABLE BY DEATH

  “They just put that on there to scare you,” said Rex.

  “It’s working,” said Warryk, gingerly setting the brick back down.

  Rex scowled. “If they really killed people who stole this stuff, they wouldn’t have to put that scary label on there because you’d already be terrified of taking it. When they put an absurdly frightening warning on there like that, you know you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Fine,” said Warryk. “Twenty-five credits.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Rex cried. “It cost more than that to bribe those dune thugs to fake that—” He caught sight of something in the distance. I turned and saw that the marines had returned. Having apparently lost track of Dirk and his uncle, they were coming back down the aisle toward us. They were still some distance away, but their neon orange armor made them easy to spot. “You know what?” Rex said. “Take it. On me.”

  “The whole truckload?”

  “And the truck,” Rex said. “I gotta get going.”

  Warryk nodded, his eyes still staring blankly ahead. “I’ll tell the marines where to find you.”

  “Don’t you d—er, I mean, what marines?”

  “You’re going to tell me those Malarchian marines down there aren’t looking for you?” said Warryk, pointing his finger down the aisle. His head didn’t turn.

  “Okay, look,” said Rex. “Just tell them I went that way.” He jerked his thumb to point behind him. He added, by way of clarification, “I’m pointing my thumb behind me.”

  “Sure,” said Warryk. “I definitely won’t tell them to look for you at the spaceport.”

  Rex clenched his jaw. “You wily old coot. How much do you want?”

  The marines had finished inspecting the tent and were now examining a vegetable cart a few meters closer to us.

  “A hundred credits.”

  “A hundred credits!” Rex cried in disbelief.

  “Two hundred if you want me to tell them a convincing story about having overhead the thief planning to rendezvous with a rebel spy at Cormorath in twenty minutes.”

  The marines had finished with the cart and were looking our way.

  Rex sighed. “Fine,” he grumbled, holding out his hand. As they shook, Warryk added, “I’ll throw in Lot 318 as part of the deal.”

  “What?” said Rex, pulling his hand away. “I don’t need this junk.” He waved his hand toward me, BP-26 and the box of springs.

  “Too late, you already shook on it.”

  “You son of a … okay, fine. Two hundred credits.” Rex reached into his pocket, grabbed two hundred-credit notes and handed them to Warryk. “Now help me get this junk into the…” But Warryk had wandered down the street toward the marines.

  “Blast it!” Rex snapped. He looked at me. “You, Susan! Help me get this garbage in the truck.”

  “My name is Sasha, sir.”

  “Your name is going to be Slag if you don’t help me get this junk in the truck before those marines get here.” The marines were currently occupied talking to Warryk, but one of them kept glancing in our direction.

  I helped Rex load the stuff into the truck. We started with BP-26, who beeped and squealed in protest, and then moved on to the rest of it. As we set the massive hydraulic arm next to BP-26, I noticed the marines rushing toward the truck. So much for Warryk distracting them.

  “Get in!” Rex yelled, running around to the driver’s side. I hesitated. Technically Rex was now my owner, which meant that I was supposed to obey him. On the other hand, he seemed to be an idiot.

  “Halt!” yelled one of the marines, his voice amplified by his helmet. They were close enough that even knowing what terrible shots Malarchian marines were, I was concerned for my safety. I sighed and got into the cab of the hovertruck.

  Rex threw the truck into gear and it lurched forward as lazegun blasts erupted all around us. It’s a good thing Malarchian marines can’t hit the broad side of a dune crawler, because a single strike on the X-99 and the number of pieces in Lot 318 was going to increase exponentially. As the marines continued to hit everything in the vicinity of the truck except for the truck itself, we tore around the corner and out the gate of the bazaar. Rex turned left onto the barely discernable desert road, heading away from Gobarrah City. Rex breathed a sigh of relief, but I was puzzled at this course.

  “Sir,” I said, “the spaceport is the other direction.”

  “Can’t go to the spaceport just yet,” Rex replied.

  “Why not?”

  “A little trouble with the local criminal element.”

  “Does this have to do with the gangster who is looking for you?”

  “Maybe,” said Rex.

  “I see. Well, I suppose the detour is advisable then. You have enough trouble without getting involved with gangsters.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Rex replied.

  With renewed hope that my new owner was not completely insane, I sat back and tried to relax. But as we drove, an unsettled feeling came over me. It was a feeling that I was going to be experiencing a lot over the next few years. I turned to Rex. “We’re going to see the gangster, aren’t we?”

  Rex shot a glance at me and grinned.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “If I may ask, sir,” I said, “why are we going to see a gangster?” We had been on the road for a few minutes now, and there had been no sign of the Malarchian marines who had been p
ursuing us.

  “No money to get off planet,” Rex said. “I gave my last two hundred credits to that old jerk for a lousy cover story and a load of scrap metal. Making a deal with Bergoon the Grebatt is my only option.”

  “I understand your frustration given your predicament,” I said, “but modesty aside, I think you may find you got more than your money’s worth for Lot 318.”

  Rex took his eye off the road to raise an eyebrow at me. “You think there’s something to BP-26’s story about the Malarchian battle cruisers?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “I was referring to myself.”

  “Oh!” Rex replied. Then he said, again, with less enthusiasm, “Oh.”

  “I’m actually quite useful,” I persisted, unsure why I was trying to impress this scoundrel. “I speak three million languages, can pilot a starship, and was the breakout star in an all-robot production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”

  “Liar,” said Rex.

  “I’m incapable of lying,” I replied.

  “Then you’re useless to me,” Rex said. “Lying is my whole business.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I suppose I could use you for muscle. How are you with a lazepistol?”

  “I’m also incapable of harming any sentient being.”

  “Seriously?” asked Rex, taking his eyes off the road to stare at me. “Are you in a competition for Worst Robot Ever?”

  “I’m perfectly competent within my area of specialty.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “I’m an all-purpose personal assistant and problem solver.”

  “Okay, then, problem solver. Solve me this. The only way I can get off planet without the Malarchy arresting me is to get fake transport papers from Bergoon the Grebatt. Unfortunately, I owe Bergoon twenty-thousand credits and if I show my face at his estate, he’ll likely feed me to his razor-toothed churl.”

  “Well,” I said, “there’s a simple solution.”

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “I would tell you, but I have this—”

  “I knew it. Worthless!”

  “I’m not!” I insisted. “It’s just that sometimes I have to approach ideas obliquely so as to avoid—”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “Okay, fine. You want a solution? I’ll give you a solution. All you have to do is take the—”

  At this point, I shut down. When I had rebooted, Rex was saying, “—believe I paid two hundred credits for you and your idiot friend. At least the box of springs doesn’t talk back.”

  “Why did you pay two hundred credits for us?” I asked.

  “I had no choice. That blind dude was going to turn me over to the Malarchy.”

  “Yes, but you got yourself into that position. I thought you were the ‘greatest wheeler-dealer in the galaxy.’ You orchestrated a complicated ruse to steal those explosives, but apparently put zero forethought into how you were actually going to unload them. How is that even possible?”

  Rex shrugged. “I’m not a big planner. I just figure things will work out.”

  “And have they, so far?”

  “Well, I’m not dead yet.” Rex had pulled off the road and was driving up a driveway to a towering palace-like structure. “Do you speak Prandish, Serena?”

  “Sasha, sir. Of course. Prandish is actually a corrupted version of Gronthendese, one of the three xeno-European creoles that developed in the wake of the—”

  “Great,” said Rex. “Pretend you don’t.”

  “Sir?”

  “Bergoon the Grebatt only speaks Prandish. I’m hoping the language barrier works in our favor. Let me do the talking. Just give me a nudge if he says anything about a razor-toothed churl.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  He stopped the hovertruck and got out. “All right, come with me.”

  I got out of the truck as well. As I did, BP-26 whistled and beeped at me from the back of the truck. I’d have ignored him, but a plume of black smoke coming from his motivator compartment caught my attention. Looking closer, I saw that BP-26’s shell had been badly scorched. I smelled ozone and burnt plastic. BP-26, still lying on his back on top of the pile of explosives, made a mournful whirring sound.

  “Sir,” I said, “I think BP-26 has been hit.”

  “So?” said Rex.

  “Well, maybe we should get him out of the truck and—”

  “He’s fine,” said Rex. “I’ll toss him in a ditch later. Assuming Bergoon doesn’t turn me into churl fodder. Let’s go.” He started toward the massive palace door.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, hurrying after him. “If I may ask, sir, what is your plan?” I had an inkling that I knew what Rex planned to do, but I’d shut down the last time the idea had occurred to me and didn’t want to risk it again.

  “Wow, you’re dense,” said Rex. “Obviously I’m going to trade the explosives to Bergoon for what I owe him, plus passage off world.”

  The idea seemed familiar. I think it may have been the one that caused me to shut down. “If that was an option, why didn’t you do that first, instead of trying to sell the explosives at the bazaar?”

  “Because I had planned to skip out on my debt to Bergoon and pocket the proceeds from the explosives, you department store mannequin reject. A fair trade is always a last resort. That’s my motto. Remember that, Sandy.” We were almost to the door.

  “It’s Sasha, sir. And you’re certain Bergoon will go for the deal?”

  “Of course not. He might kill me just to make a point. But a guy like Bergoon the Grebatt always has use for military grade explosives. I’m betting that they’re worth enough to him to forgive my debt and get me past the Malarchy’s goons at the spaceport. Yessirree, when he takes one look at that truck full of high grade X-99, he’s going to—”

  A huge fireball erupted behind us, knocking us to the ground. The blast momentarily overloaded my audio receptors.

  Dazed, I rolled onto my back to take in the destruction. Nothing remained of the truck. Rex, a couple meters away, slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. “Whoops,” he said.

  Just then, BP-26 landed with a crash in between us. He was charred beyond recognition, but he was miraculously still in one piece.

  “Beep-beep!” said BP-26, lying on his back. He let out an urgent whistle.

  “What’d he say?” Rex asked.

  “Hold on,” I said. “I’ll turn on my—”

  Then the hydraulic arm assembly landed on top of BP-26, crushing him. The robot let out one final low whistle and went dark.

  “I’m sure it was nothing important,” I said, as hundreds of springs rained to the ground around me.

  “Get up!” yelled a gruff voice behind us. I turned to see two heavily armed members of the sloth-like Woogit species, who had apparently come through the door while we were distracted. Woogits were dimwitted creatures whose society was organized in a strict hierarchy, which made them ideal for security guards and other hired muscle. They were pointing concussion rifles at us. “Inside!” barked the one on the left.

  Rex and I got to our feet and put our hands up. We walked through the open door into the walled estate, the guards following. We were marched across a large courtyard and into a well-fortified stucco house. Soon we found ourselves standing in a sort of receiving room, at the end of which sat a huge, toad-like creature I recognized as a Grebatt. Grebatts were foul-tempered, wily creatures whose malevolence was surpassed only by their rotting garbage smell. Several thugs and other hangers-on lounged about the dimly lit room, drinking and smoking. Bass-heavy electronic music came from unseen speakers.

  “Gyu yann uys slumbuguya, Nihilo!” roared the Grebatt. This translated roughly to “Your flesh will slowly dissolve inside the stomach of my beloved razor-toothed churl, Nihilo!”

  “Look, I know you’re upset,” said Rex. “But I was going to pay you, Bergoon.”

  “Yagan guya sulmba ga yanga slumbuguya!” (“And I was going to let you remain on the out
side of the razor-toothed churl!”)

  “I had a truckload of explosives I was going to pay you with, but there was a bit of an accident.”

  “Yann uggs samba yugangu gumma gangun… yamma slumbuguya!” (“You are about to have an accident… in the belly of the razor-toothed churl!”)

  At this point I remembered I was supposed to tell Rex if Bergoon said anything about the churl, but I suspected I had missed my window.

  “I’m worth more alive to you than dead, Bergoon,” said Rex. “There’s got to be a way I can make it up to you.”

  “Yann bogu gumma balbamb— ” (“You are nothing to me but fodder for my—”) At this point, a scruffy-looking little man in a leather jacket approached Bergoon and whispered something in his ear. Bergoon turned to look at the man, a puzzled expression on his face. He said something to the scruffy man I couldn’t hear. The scruffy man whispered to him again, and Bergoon’s mouth widened into a horrific grin. The scruffy man backed away, folding his arms against his chest and staring at me and Rex. The Grebatt rubbed his chin with his webbed, three fingered hand. “Wubbub swaggu yann gumma igyann boya gombumbu. Yann gwam boya gogobu. Yom bigga gom yamma slumbuguya!”

  Rex turned to me. “What’d he say?”

  “He said ‘My pilot has suggested a solution. He will be delivering a shipment of contraband to an associate of mine on another planet, and he needs someone to help move the goods. You will assist him with this task. And know this: if you fail, you will be—’”

  “Let me guess,” said Rex. “Fed to the razor-toothed churl?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “Ask him where this shipment is now.”

  “Gumma yom gabamba yu?” I asked.

  Bergoon replied, “Boya yom gobbam samma gool. Gwam yoom glabalam.”

  “He says the contraband is already aboard a cargo ship at the Gobarrah spaceport. His pilot will take us there.”

  The scruffy man smiled and waved at us. Rex ignored him.

  “Ask him where we’re going.”

  “Gom yubba wam—” I started.

  “Bugga yum wamba yibyam,” interjected Bergoon.