The Chicolini Incident (Rex Nihilo, Book 0.5)
Robert Kroese
Language: English
Pages: 28
ISBN: 2:00316633
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
"Interstellar con artist Rex Nihilo has just hijacked a shipment of five thousand lazepistols, and he needs to unload them fast. When Rex encounters a band of stick-wielding separatists on the planet Chicolini, he thinks he’s found the buyers he’s been looking for. But Rex’s greed knows no bounds, and he’s determined to scam the separatists out of their cargo so that he can re-sell his black-market booty a few more times before leaving the planet. As the complications in Rex’s plan multiply, he becomes a target of not only the separatists, but also of paramilitary thugs, the local cops, and even the Ursa Minor mafia. Will Rex’s long-suffering robot companion talk some sense into him before he gets them both killed? Or will Rex, the self-described “greatest wheeler-dealer in the galaxy,” finally succeed in outsmarting himself?
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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 five thousand snub-nosed lazepistols on
casino floor, which was filled with rich vacationers trying their luck at blackjack, roulette, craps, and other games of chance. Rex’s eyes lit up. Rich people trying to beat the house was one of the few sights more beautiful to him than people trying to kill each other with sticks. Rex slipped a twenty-credit note to an attendant. “Any high-stakes games going on?” he asked. The attendant frowned. “There is one,” he said, “but it’s invitation only.” “How do you know I haven’t been invited?”
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 were several dozen snub-nosed lazepistols
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
ship. “Sir,” I said. “I’m not sure I—” “Shut up, you idiot,” Rex snapped. “In about five seconds we’re going to make a run for it.” “Sir?” I asked. Behind me I heard Salmon Beret’s voice. “Hey, this container is empty!” “Run!” Rex shouted. We ran. Lazegun blasts erupted around us as we flung ourselves into the cockpit of Serendipity. “Get us out of here!” Rex yelled. I skipped the preflight checklist and engaged the thrusters. Serendipity lifted off the ground and shot into the sky. Down