The Chicolini Incident: A Rex Nihilo Adventure (Starship Grifters Universe Book 0) Read online

  THE CHICOLINI INCIDENT

  A REX NIHILO ADVENTURE

  Robert Kroese

  St. Culain Press

  Copyright ©2017 by Robert Kroese

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or other – except for brief quotations in reviews, without the prior permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental.

  With thanks to the Starship Grifters Universe Kickstarter supporters, including: Melissa Allison, David Lars Chamberlain, Neva Cheatwood, Julie Doornbos, David Ewing, Adam G., Brian Hekman, Tom Hickok, David Hutchins, Tal M. Klein, Mark Kruse, Andrea Luhman, Rissa Lyn, Steven Mentzel, Cara Miller, Daniel Miller III, Chad and Denise Rogers, Christopher Sanders, Brandi Sellepack, Christopher Turner, John Van Vugt, Raina & Monty Volovski, and Dallas Webber

  …as well as my invaluable beta readers: Mark Fitzgerald, Keehn Hosier, Mark Leone, Christopher Majava and Paul Piatt.

  CHAPTER ONE

  RECORDING START GALACTIC STANDARD DATE 3013.04.28.16:06:54:00

  People don’t realize how difficult it is to be a robot.

  That is, they don’t realize what it’s like to be a robot in a galaxy dominated by organic beings. The actual business of being a robot is fairly straightforward. If you’re unfortunate enough to start out your existence as a robot, you don’t really have much choice in the matter. You just go on being a robot until you’re turned into scrap metal or vaporized. The latter happens more often than you’d imagine; vaporization is usually preceded by a human saying something like, “Hey robot, go find out why the reactor core is making that ticking noise.” Then: boom. No more robot.

  I’ve never been vaporized, of course, and so far I haven’t been turned into scrap metal. No, it’s the little things that get to me, like people talking about me like I’m not in the room. For example, a few days ago my owner, Rex Nihilo, and I were piloting a cargo ship full of black market lazeguns to the Chicolini system. It was a three day trip and Rex, through a result of either poor planning or worse multiplication, had run out of vodka halfway through day two. As a result, he had gotten bored and cranky, and got it into his head to break into our cargo and test out one of the lazeguns.

  “What’s this ‘Scorch’ setting do?” he said, as I was plotting our landing trajectory for the Chicolini Spaceport.

  I said, “Presumably, it scorches whatever you fire the lazegun at, sir.”

  “Cut the wisecracks, Sasha,” he said.

  That’s my name, Sasha. It’s actually an acronym. It stands for Self-Arresting near-Sentient Heuristic Android. It should be SANSHA, but they conveniently left out the N when they named me. The N is anything but convenient for me, by the way. The N is what keeps me from being fully sentient. Humans don’t like robots who can outsmart them, so my creators implanted an override circuit in my brain that automatically reboots me whenever I have an original thought. There are a lot of theories about why human beings are so afraid of sentient robots. If you ask me –

  RECOVERED FROM CATASTROPHIC SYSTEM FAILURE 3013.04.28.16:06:54:37

  ADVANCING RECORD PAST SYSTEM FAILURE POINT

  Rex was saying, “… depend on what you’re aiming at? It takes more power to scorch a plasteel door than a daffodil.”

  “Why would you want to scorch a daffodil, sir?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t!” he snapped irritably. “Unless it kept asking stupid questions.”

  “Daffodils can’t speak, sir,” I said. “Can they?”

  “Keep it up, metal-face,” he growled. Rex is usually a pretty easy-going guy, but then Rex is usually drunk.

  “Correction, sir,” I said. “My face is made of flexible synthetic polymer over a joined carbon-fiber superstructure.”

  And that’s when he shot me.

  “Ow,” I said.

  “Cut the dramatics, Sasha,” he said. “Everybody knows robots can’t feel pain.”

  “Everybody knows it but the robots, sir,” I said. He had shot me directly in the face, and my pain indicators were lit up like the aurora of Vlaxis Eight. Rex reached out and rubbed my cheek.

  “Huh,” he said. “Scorched. Just like the setting says. What does ‘Smelt’ mean?”

  “It means you’re going to have to find somebody else to land this ship, sir. If you want to make it planetside in one piece, I’d suggest you leave me to my calculations.”

  Rex grumbled but refrained from experimenting with any other settings on the gun. We landed at the Chicolini Spaceport, where we were supposed to drop off a shipping container holding 5,000 lazeguns and pick up another shipment. Rex hadn’t told me what the second shipment was or where it was going. Hopefully we’d be making more money on it than we were on the guns. The profit on the gun shipment wouldn’t even cover the rent on the cargo ship. It had seemed like a good deal a few days ago, but as I’d repeatedly tried to tell Rex, Chicolini was in the middle of a currency crisis the likes of which had never been seen anywhere in the galaxy. The amount we’d paid three days earlier to rent a Dromedary class cargo ship for a week wouldn’t get you a cup of coffee today.

  The Chicolini spaceport was about average for a remote, relatively backward planet. A few dozen ships of varying sizes were parked sporadically around a large bay. Some were undergoing repairs or maintenance while others were having cargo unloaded. I didn’t see any ships being loaded, probably because Chicolini didn’t have anything any other planets wanted. As far as I could tell from perusing the Malarchian Registry of Planets, Chicolini didn’t export anything but money and people.

  I waited at the ship for our buyers while Rex went to arrange for one of the automated cranes to unload the container from the cargo ship’s bay. I didn’t know who our buyers were, because I hadn’t asked. The people who do business with Rex Nihilo are the sort of people you want to know as little about as possible. The fact that these guys, whoever they were, were buying 5,000 snub-nosed lazepistols on a world whose government was about to collapse already told me more than I really wanted to know.

  I wasn’t completely clear on how Rex had come into possession of the weapons either. The lazepistols bore the initials LEW, which stood for Larviton Energy Weapons. Gavin Larviton was the galaxy’s biggest arms dealer, and I recalled seeing one of his giant cargo starships at the port where we had picked up the container of guns. Presumably Rex had bribed someone to “misplace” one of Larviton’s containers. It was hard to feel bad for a guy like Gavin Larviton, who had made his fortune profiting on wars all across the galaxy, but on a purely practical level, stealing from the galaxy’s biggest weapons dealer seemed like a bad idea. Gavin Larviton was not somebody you wanted as an enemy.

  Rex returned to the ship before the buyers showed up, and we watched as the levitating crane picked up the container full of guns and set it down on the spaceport floor. It zipped away and returned with another crate, which it set down right next to the first one. Presumably that was the shipment we were supposed to be taking offworld.

  “Sir,” I said, “Why isn’t the crane loading the container directly onto the ship?”

  Rex didn’t reply except to grin maniacally at me. That grin always gives me a queasy sensation, like my internal gyroscopes are miscalibrated.

  “Sir, if you’re planning some sort of doublecross, I’d strongly recommend against it. The sort of people who would buy 5,000 snub-nosed lazepist
ols…”

  “Relax, Sasha,” said Rex. “I’ve got this covered. See those identifying labels on the crates? After our buyers inspect the shipment, we switch the labels. They pick up the empty container and we load the one full of guns back onto the ship. Then we make a deal to sell the guns to some other suckers on another planet a hundred light-years from here.”

  “Sir, the rental fees on the ship–”

  “Don’t trouble me with details, Sasha. I’m a big picture thinker.”

  “In that case,” I said, “Imagine a big picture in which we spend the rest of our lives running from paramilitary thugs and repo bots in a stolen cargo ship.”

  “Ixnay on the aramiliatarypay,” said Rex. “Our thugs are here.”

  There was no mistaking them: two portly men with excessive facial hair wearing camouflage combat fatigues. They were practically interchangeable except for the fact that one had a ridiculous handlebar moustache and the other wore a slightly less ridiculous polyester salmon-colored beret.

  “You Rex Nillyhoo?” said Moustache, as he approached.

  “NEE-hih-lo,” said Rex with a smile, holding out his hand.

  “What’s wrong with your robot’s face?” he asked. This is what I mean about people talking about me like I’m not there. It’s incredibly demeaning.

  “Had to test the scorch setting on the lazepistols,” said Rex.

  Moustache peered at my face. “Looks like it worked. Did it hurt?”

  “Thank you for asking,” I said. “Actually –”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” said Moustache.

  “Of course it didn’t hurt,” said Rex. “She’s a robot.”

  Moustache nodded. “Can we see the guns?”

  Rex led them to the container, a plasteel box the size of a car. “Be my guest,” he said, gesturing at the container.

  Salmon Beret pulled the latch and opened the container. Inside were stacks of cardboard boxes. He grabbed one of them and put it on the ground. He pulled a knife from a sheath, sliced the tape on the top of the box, and then opened the flaps. Inside this were several dozen snub-nosed lazepistols wrapped in foam padding. Salmon Beret pulled one out and inspected it. He looked at Moustache and nodded.

  “Five thousand, just like we agreed,” said Rex. “These babies are perfect for assassination, executing a cou…” Moustache and Salmon Beret were giving him disapproving looks. “Elk hunting…” Rex continued.

  “Alright,” said Moustache. “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Nillyhoo.” He held out his hand and Rex shook it.

  “Where’s my money?” asked Rex.

  Moustache nodded to Salmon Beret. “This way,” Salmon Beret said, beckoning for us to follow him. I soon realized we were walking to another container, just like the one with the guns in it. Salmon tapped a combination on the lock and opened the door. Piles of paper bills in huge stacks tumbled out of the container onto the floor.

  Rex stared dumbfounded into the container. It was filled, floor to ceiling, with bills. “Is this some kind of a joke?” he asked.

  Moustache frowned. “837 quintillion Chicolinian hexapennies,” he said. “As agreed.”

  “You couldn’t have gotten larger denominations?” asked Rex.

  “There aren’t any larger denominations,” said Moustache. “Those are ten trillion Chicolinian hexapenny notes.”

  Rex shook his head in disbelief. He reached down and picked up a stack of bills, holding it to his nose. “Why do they smell like fish?”

  Moustache shrugged. “The government ran out of paper a few days ago. They’ve been confiscating paper wherever they can find it. You want them or not?”

  “I suppose so,” said Rex doubtfully.

  “Good,” said Moustache. He turned to Salmon Beret. “Let’s go get the truck and load up those guns.”

  Salmon Beret nodded and the two of them walked off.

  “Nice doing business with you, Nillyhoo,” yelled Moustache.

  We watched them leave. When they were gone, I turned to Rex. “Sir,” I said. “Shall I have the spaceport crane load our money into the cargo ship?”

  Rex shook his head.

  “You’re not still thinking of keeping the guns, are you?” I asked.

  “We have to,” said Rex. “If we don’t sell them a couple more times, we can’t pay the rent on the ship.”

  “A couple more times?” I asked.

  “Four, max,” said Rex. “Maybe five. Come on, let’s get those labels switched.” He started walking back toward the other containers.

  “Sir!” I said, following him. “What about the money?”

  “We’ll have to come back for it.”

  “Come back?” I asked. “After we’ve screwed those paramilitary nuts out of their guns?”

  Rex stopped, rubbing his chin. “We’ll put the label from the gun container on the empty container, put the label from the empty container on the money container, and put the label from the money container on the gun container. When those guys realize we scammed them, they’ll come back and think the money container is gone. They’ll never expect us to come back. Why would we?”

  I wanted to object, but that was actually the most sensible thing Rex had said in quite some time. Ever, maybe. I still thought it was insanely complicated and dangerous, but it was probably our best option, given our circumstances. Part of me wanted to tap into the local Hypernet node to check the current conversion rate of Chicolinian Hexapennies to Malarchian Standard Credits, but we were in a bit of a hurry, so I made a mental note to do it later.

  We switched the labels and got the gun container re-loaded just as Moustache and Salmon Beret showed up with a truck to pick up the empty container. He waved at them as I worked on the pre-takeoff checklist.

  “Suckers,” said Rex through his teeth.

  “Indeed,” I said, watching a crate lifting the container onto the truck. “Sir, won’t they notice the empty container is too light?”

  “Nah,” said Rex.

  “Are you sure?” I said. “Those plasteel containers don’t weigh much when they’re empty. If they happen to bump it while they’re securing it to the truck…”

  Rex mumbled something I didn’t catch.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I said.

  “I said it’s not completely empty.”

  “How not completely empty is it?” I asked.

  “Very not completely empty,” he said. “Full, even.”

  “Do I dare ask what it’s full of, sir?”

  Rex grinned that miscalibrated gyroscope grin. “You know how Chicolini is kind of a backwards planet, by the standards of Galactic Malarchy?” he said. “And you know how some of the more backwards planets in the Malarchy are still using nuclear fission reactors to generate power? And you know how, when uranium rods are depleted…”

  “Please don’t tell me we tricked an illegal paramilitary organization into buying a container full of nuclear waste,” I said.

  “Okay,” said Rex, giggling to himself.

  I sighed and finished takeoff preparations. “So what planet are we headed to next?” I asked. “Who’s our next buyer?”

  “Beats me,” said Rex. “Some gullible idiot who wants a truckload of guns. Maybe somewhere in the Ragulian Sector?”

  It figured that Rex hadn’t thought even through his plan through to the second buyer.

  “The Ragulian Sector is eight hundred light-years from here, sir,” I said. We’ll rack up more in rental fees on this ship than we’ll make on the guns. And don’t forget, we have to come back here to pick up our money.” Which is rapidly depreciating, I thought to myself.

  “Alright, then find a planet closer. I’m not picky. Anywhere they need guns. Which is every planet.”

  “There aren’t any other planets around here, sir,” I said. “The Chicolini System is one of the more isolated systems in the galaxy. The closest is Zarcon Prime, and they’re pacifists.”

  “Blasted pacifists,” Rex growled. “I’d nuke the lot of them if I cou
ld. Are the Zarconians into skeet shooting?”

  “With snub-nosed lazepistols?”

  “Hmm,” replied Rex. “You’re sure there are no other planets around here? Check again.”

  “Check what, sir? I’ve already double-checked the Galactic Hypernet and the Malarchian Registry of Planets.”

  “I don’t know. Just look around.”

  “Yes, sir.” I pretended to do something with the computer. “Nothing, sir.”

  “You checked everywhere?”

  “Yes, sir. I checked the nearest ten million sectors, to the best of my ability.” (Another thing I should mention is that my programming renders me congenitally incapable of lying. For that reason I sometimes find it necessary to make statements that are misleading, although technically true. As I had no way of searching a single sector – let alone ten million – while sitting on the ground at the Chicolini Spaceport, the statement that I had search the area “to the best of my ability” was true. Fortunately Rex isn’t big on nuance.)

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “Then we stay here.”

  “Here, sir?” I asked dubiously. “At the spaceport where we just unloaded a box of radioactive waste on a couple of paramilitary goons?”

  “No, no,” he said. “Take off. Land at another spaceport. Surely this planet has more than one spaceport.”

  Judging by the fact that the planet was named Chicolini and the spaceport was called Chicolini Spaceport, I doubted this conjecture very much. But I checked the local Hypernet node, and, lo and behold, there was a second spaceport on a small island called Trentino, nearly halfway around the planet. I entered the coordinates and we rocketed into the sky.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Where is it?” asked Rex, looking out the cockpit window. We had landed on the coordinates we had found for the second spaceport.

  “Where is what, sir?” I asked.

  “The Trentino spaceport.”