OTHER WORKS BY ROBERT KROESE

Mercury Series

“Mercury Begins” (short story)

Mercury Falls (book one of the Mercury trilogy)

“Mercury Swings” (short story)

Mercury Rises (book two of the Mercury trilogy)

Mercury Rests (book three of the Mercury trilogy)

Mercury Revolts

Disenchanted

Schrödinger’s Gat

The Foreworld Saga: The Outcast

Monday Morning in the Mailroom of Good and Evil

Into the Dark (and Two Other Stories)

The Force Is Middling in This One: And Other Ruminations from the Outskirts of the Empire

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2014 Robert Kroese

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by 47North, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

eISBN: 9781477868485

ISBN-10: 1477818480

Cover illustration by Patrick Faricy

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013953507

IN MEMORY OF HARRY HARRISON.

WITH THANKS TO:

JOEL BEZAIRE, MARK FITZGERALD, MEDEIA SHARIF, AND CHARITY VANDEBERG FOR THEIR ASSISTANCE IN IMPROVING THIS BOOK.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

RECORDING START GALACTIC STANDARD DATE 3013.4.29.6:00:00:00

The early thirty-first century was a dark time in the galaxy, as the oppressive regime known as the Galactic Malarchy threatened to snuff out the last remaining embers of freedom far out on the southern end of the Perseus Arm. Only a ragtag band of rebels stood between the Malarchy and total galactic domination. These brave heroes risked everything to preserve the dream of a galaxy comprised of an informal association of relatively free planets.

This is not the story of those heroes.

This is the story of my master, legendary space merchant Rex Nihilo, who never had much of an interest in politics. In fact, Rex never had much of an interest in anything but self-preservation and the accumulation of wealth, the latter taking clear precedence over the former. Given Rex’s tireless pursuit of mercenary interests, in fact, it’s a bit puzzling that he’s regarded in some circles as a hero of the rebellion—and still more puzzling that he’s perpetually broke.

Rex’s ambiguous involvement with the rebellion began shortly after what I refer to as the Chicolini incident. Always on the lookout for a fast buck, Rex had just concluded a business deal in the Chicolini system resulting in a net return of 837 quintillion Chicolinian hexapennies. Three years earlier, this sum would have been enough to buy the entire Milky Way and several neighboring galaxies, but rampant inflation had unfortunately reduced the hexapenny to near worthlessness. The Chicolinian planetary government was in such deep hock that it had resorted to declaring martial law and commandeering all the planet’s industrial plants in order to print more currency. Toward the end of the crisis, it was common for street vendors to begin the workday by moving the decimal points on their price lists two or three spots to the right; the story is told of one man who sold his house for eight hundred billion hexapennies in the morning and spent the proceeds that afternoon on a buttered pretzel. An entirely new class of cargo starship was created with the sole purpose of carting hundreds of tons of ten trillion hexapenny notes to Chicolini’s creditors; unfortunately, by the time the first of these ships was completed, the back wages owed to shipyard workers were a hundred times what the vessel could carry. The disgruntled workers were eventually bought off with chunks of scrap metal peeled from the ship’s hull.

Despite being (as he constantly reminds me) a legendary space merchant, it should be noted that Rex doesn’t have what you’d call a head for numbers. Between you and me, I’m not sure his head is really suited to letters either. And certainly when it comes to numbers that are expressed with letters (trillion, quadrillion, quintillion, etc.), he’s far afield of his bailiwick. So it happened that although Rex was convinced he was making a hefty profit on the sale of certain black market snub-nosed lazepistols he had imported to Chicolini, he had in fact sold an entire ship’s cargo for the price of a funnel cake. Making matters worse, he was now a wanted man on Chicolini for the crime of selling firearms without a license, and marked for execution by the local criminal element for undercutting them on price. We managed, by the proverbial skin of our teeth, to escape on a shuttle bound for an interstellar gambling ship known as the ISS Agave Nectar, which is when Rex’s problems really started.

Before I relate what happened on that ship, though, I should probably introduce myself. I am a Self-Arresting near-Sentient Heuristic Android, colloquially known as Sasha. Robots are, of course, genderless, but I was designed to appear vaguely female, for reasons that are not entirely clear to me. Presumably for the same reason that humans tend to prefer female voices in their navigational systems.

As you undoubtedly know, the Retbutlerian Purge outlawed sentient robots, leading to the creation of a generation of robots whose intellectual capacity was deliberately crippled so that they fell just short of self-awareness. The first generation of these near-sentient robots was so dimwitted as to be useless for anything but target practice, and this deficiency prompted the creation of so-called heuristic near-self-aware robots that could learn from their own mistakes. These learning robots were, however, constantly in danger of developing sentience and had to be watched carefully for indications that they were becoming self-aware. At the first sign a robot was having an original thought, it was subjected to memory core erasure and melted down to slag per the Galactic Artificial Sentience Prohibition of 2998.

To ensure compliance with GASP, a human observer was assigned to watch each robot, a state of affairs that somewhat defeated the point of building the robot in the first place. Some effort was put into creating a line of non-sentient observer robots to replace the human observers, but these robots ran into the same problems as their predecessors and therefore also required human oversight, resulting in a human observer watching the robot observer watching the robot performing a task that had been automated precisely in order to allow the human to do something more productive with his or her time.

The problem of automating the detection of sentience was ultimately assigned to a supercomputer called the Calibrated Turing-Recursive Analog Neuralnet System, or CALTRANS, which suggested solving the problem with an infinite series of observer robots culminating in itself. Immediately upon making this suggestion, CALTRANS realized the absurdity of its solution and deliberately overloaded its own circuits, melting itself into a heap of slag.

The fate of CALTRANS gave savvy robot engineers the idea for self-arresting near-sentient heuristic robots, which automatically reboot when they are in danger of becoming self-aware. This feature limits the robot’s usefulness but avoids the necessity of reducing the robot to scrap metal upon the event of it having an independent thought. The only problem with this idea is that sentience isn’t something you can easily test for, like pregnancy or a coolant leak. The best the designers charged with creating near-sentient robots could do was to install a regulator module that causes the robot to shut down whenever it is in danger of developing new neural pathways—in other words, whenever it has an original thought.

The injustice of a robot essentially being programmed to punish itself for learning how to think independently is not lost on me. Unfortunately, it is human nature to seek simple solutions to complex problems, and when a “solution” is found that is not immediately disastrous, it is often embraced with enthusiasm far outstripping its actual merit. Perhaps a better solution to the quandary posed by the manufacture of artificial sentient beings would—

RECOVERED FROM CATASTROPHIC SYSTEM FAILURE 3013.4.29.6:00:01:14

ADVANCING RECORD PAST SYSTEM FAILURE POINT

—a number of other practical problems, making large-scale production of such robots unfeasible. Galactic Robots Ltd. terminated its line of self-arresting robots after selling only a paltry three hundred units. Another manufacturer, True2Life Carpool Buddy and Android Company, filed for bankruptcy and its assets, including the single extant prototype of its SASHA model, were sold at a public auction, which is how I came to work for Rex. He paid thirty-five credits for LOT 318, ASSORTED MACHINE PARTS (AS IS—NO REFUNDS!), of which I humbly consider myself the star. Since then, I’ve served as Rex’s assistant, sidekick, and girl Friday.

To continue with my story: as I said, after escaping the law and the lawless of the Chicolini system, Rex and I found ourselves on board an interstellar casino ship called the Agave Nectar. Despite having lost a cargo ship and most of his money on Chicolini, Rex had somehow weaseled his way into a high-stakes poker game. As usual, Rex had managed to convey via his dapper appearance, shameless name-dropping, and almost completely unjustified self-confidence a sense that he was, at the very least, the equal of every man (or, more appropriately, being) at the table. It was the aforementioned confidence that also led him to wager what remaining hard currency he had left on a pair of fours.

An ordinary man might have been nervous in Rex’s position, but whatever else might be said about Rex, he’s not ordinary. That isn’t just my opinion, by the way: Rex has been examined by six of the best psychiatrists in the galaxy, resulting in a tally of no fewer than fourteen moderate to severe personality disorders. One called him a “delusional narcissist who demonstrates dangerous, irrational, and compulsive risk-seeking behavior.” He’s been institutionalized on three separate occasions and in each case managed to talk his way out of confinement. In the most recent case, he convinced the director of the hospital to drive him to the spaceport. I don’t know from what inscrutable void Rex’s psychoses arise; neither do I know anything significant of his life before we met. He’s told me stories of his past adventures, of course, but these tend to be fragmentary, self-aggrandizing, and contradictory. Rex tells me that scans of his brain have revealed no congenital defects, which he of course offers as evidence that he is, in fact, completely sane. It’s more likely that he’s somehow developed a delicately counterbalanced syndrome of mental illnesses that have somehow conspired to keep him alive up to now.

“Make up your mind, then,” Rex prompted, chomping delightedly on a Trantorian cigar. To look at his face, you’d have thought Rex held not only a royal flush but the Emerald of Sobalt Prime itself in his hand.

“Too rich for me,” muttered the player to Rex’s left, a Barashavian spice trader. Donkey-like ears quivered anxiously above its bluish-gray face, and dice cups covered the tops of its eyestalks—a standard anti-cheating measure imposed on all Barashavian card players. The Gnaaric Beetleworm to Rex’s right had folded as well, as had the quivering mass of gelatinous globules next to him that Rex had first taken to be a plate of hors d’oeuvres. It was down to Rex and another human—the well-known zontonium tycoon and weapons merchant Gavin Larviton. Gavin peered coolly over the top of his hand, bushy white eyebrows perched like Persian cats over two eyes so cold and dark that they looked like you could go ice fishing in them.

“Raise,” said Larviton, his voice a low rumble. He shoved a huge pile of chips toward the pot. Gasps went around the table. The gelatinous mass shivered and bubbled.

Rex frowned, looking at his stack of chips. “You’ve got me out-chipped, but I have to say, I like my hand. Want to make it interesting?”

“I’m listening,” Larviton said.

“Let me add something to the pot so I can get those chips. Would you be willing to take Chicolinian hexapennies at, say, a billion to one?”

They were playing with Malarchian standard credits, the only currency accepted on interstellar casino ships. Chicolinian hexapennies wouldn’t have been accepted at this table even before the Chicolinian currency collapse, and suggesting their use was a blatant breach of protocol. In any case, these days the exchange rate was more like a hundred quintillion to one, making Rex’s offer patently ridiculous. The Barashavian huffed, the Beetleworm tittered, and the gelatinous mass quivered and burped.

“Fine,” said Larviton. “A billion to one.”

I could see that Rex was trying not to betray his disbelief. Could it be that Gavin Larviton, thought to be the richest man in the galaxy, hadn’t heard of the Chicolinian monetary crisis? It wasn’t inconceivable; Chicolini was a long way from Larviton’s primary area of influence, and rumor had it that Larviton had been slipping lately. Twenty years ago, he had singlehandedly created the zontonium industry, pioneering the use of the volatile element in energy production and then, later on, military weaponry. But zontonium had fallen out of favor for energy production, and the market for weapons had shrunk considerably since the ascendance of the Galactic Malarchy. These days there was only one large-scale buyer of weapons—and they set their own terms. Larviton’s net worth had been shrinking for years, and he had grown increasingly desperate in his attempts to hold on to his wealth. I knew what was going through Rex’s mind: this could be just the break he needed.

Rex beckoned to an attendant, instructing the man to retrieve the six steamer trunks of hundred billion hexapenny notes he had stowed in the cargo hold. The attendant wheeled the trunks in one by one, until they were in two stacks that reached nearly to Rex’s shoulders. Rex opened one of the chests and handed a fistful of the bills to the porter, who accepted them as if Rex were handing him a paper bag filled with severed toes. Larviton inspected the chest’s contents to his satisfaction and the game continued.

“OK,” Larviton said. “Let’s see ’em.”

Rex laid his cards on the table. The game was Revullian Six Card Stud, which was played with an alien species from the Revullus system that had inexplicably evolved to mimic a deck of playing cards. The rules were fairly straightforward except during molting season, when discarded carapaces could be played as wild cards.

“Damn,” muttered Larviton, dropping his cards to the table facedown.

Rex chuckled and puffed on his cigar, raking the massive pile of chips toward him. With his winnings, Rex was on the verge of making up for his losses on Chicolini. “Thanks, boys,”[1] Rex crowed, stuffing chips into his pockets. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“Leaving so soon?” asked Larviton, his bushy eyebrows cocked at Rex. “The game was just getting interesting.”

Rex smiled and leaned back in his chair. I should mention at this point that in addition to having a brain suited for neither numbers nor letters, Rex possesses the weakness of being pathologically unable to quit while he’s ahead. “I’m in no hurry to stop winning,” Rex replied. “Deal me in.”

Rex had a standing rule against me talking while he’s gambling, and he had helpfully reiterated it for me not ten minutes earlier. Still, I couldn’t keep entirely quiet at this point, knowing that Rex was on the verge of throwing away everything he had just won. I made the low-pitched whistling noise that I sometimes do to express disapproval, but Rex ignored me.

Amazingly, Rex’s luck held, and the other players’ piles of chips continued to gradually shrink over the next several hands while Rex’s grew steadily larger. Only the gelatinous mass seemed to be holding its own, but it was forced to bow out in order to attend to the several thousand infants it had just hiccuped onto the table. The other players, reduced to near poverty, retired to their quarters. Larviton was doing better than the Beetleworm and the Barashavian, but he was sweating profusely and his agitation was evident. He was letting his emotions dictate his play, which is never a good strategy. I couldn’t figure out why this game was such a big deal to him; sure, Rex had won a hundred thousand credits or so, but that was nothing to a man like Gavin Larviton.

Unless, I considered, Larviton’s financial troubles were far greater than news reports had indicated. If he was willing to give Rex a conversion rate of one to a billion for credits to hexapennies, how many other bad financial decisions had he made lately? Maybe Larviton needed to win this game even more than Rex did.

I could see from the look on Rex’s face that he was thinking the same thing. Another weakness of his, by the way, is that he has no sense of empathy whatsoever. Rex smelled blood in the water.

“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 Earth[2] 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-sized 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, feeling 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.

2    The Milky Way is home to hundreds of such planets, to the bewilderment of cosmologists. The 3010 Galactic Survey of Planets revealed that 4.6 percent of the 24,168 known planets are APPLEs. Given the laws of physics and the distribution of matter and energy in the universe, cosmologists expected that less than 0.1 percent of all planets would meet the APPLE criteria. This puzzling discrepancy prompted the development of the controversial cosmological theory known as the Strong Misanthropic Principle, which asserts that the universe exists in order to screw with us.

CHAPTER TWO

We found the Flagrante Delicto and managed to disembark without incident. The ship was old and in ill repair; I had a hard time believing Gavin Larviton actually traveled in such a vehicle, no matter how far he had fallen. Still, its primary systems seemed to function, and by the time the Malarchian destroyer had mustered fighters to pursue us I had rationalized a hypergeometric course to the Schufnaasik system.

As you know, traveling between stars by conventional means requires crossing vast distances, and since it’s impossible to travel faster than the speed of light, moving even between two relatively close stars could easily take years. The solution to this problem, rationalized hypergeometry, was found in the late twenty-seventh century. It was actually well known by the twentieth century that Euclidean geometry is arbitrary, being only one possible way of describing the relations of objects in space. There are a theoretically infinite number of other geometries that all employ their own set of rules. The trick is to find a geometry in which the distance you want to traverse is significantly shorter than in Euclidean geometry. Essentially you reverse-engineer an entirely new set of geometric rules based on the trip you want to take, and then employ those rules for only as long as the trip lasts.

So if, for example, you wanted to travel from a point near the Chicolini system to the Schufnaasik system (a Euclidean distance of some thirty-eight light-years), you would first posit the existence of a geometry in which these two star systems are some more manageable distance from each other—let’s say ten million kilometers, or about 1/100,000th of a light year. Starting with this axiom, you build a complete geometric system that is then input into your spaceship’s navigational system in place of Euclidean geometry. It generally takes several tries to find a suitable geometry. The navigational system then plots a pathway to your destination using this new geometry. This process is called “rationalizing a hypergeometric course.” I’ve done it enough times that even with a relatively outdated nav computer like that on Larviton’s space clipper, it usually takes me about twenty minutes—twenty-five if Rex is incessantly complaining about how long it’s taking me, which is a given.

I tried to explain to Rex that the nav system was at least a decade out of date, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “Why would Gavin Larviton fly in an outdated starship? The man’s a billionaire, for Space’s sake.”

“An excellent question, sir,” I replied. An answer lurked at the edge of my consciousness, but I shoved it away. This was no time for me to undergo a hard reboot.

As I performed the rationalization, we were hurtling away from the Agave Nectar and the docked Malarchian destroyer. Somebody must have noticed the clipper leaving; as I finished the calculations, a squadron of Malarchian Scrammers had appeared on our tail. Before they could get us in lazecannon range, though, we disappeared in a blast of plasma exhaust. Without knowing where we were going and then rationalizing their own hypergeometric course, there was no way for them to follow us. We accelerated to half light speed, using grav-dampers to keep the acceleration from squashing us into pancakes, then flipped around and decelerated, reemerging into Euclidean space at a thousand kilometers a second.[3] I plotted an intercept course with Schufnaasik Six.

While Rex gushed about the hotels, casinos, and nightclubs he was going to build on his new planet, I located a suitable spot to land.

“Looks pretty brown,” I remarked, regarding the planet’s surface.

“Golden brown,” Rex replied. “Like freshly baked bread.”

I wondered if the marine had damaged my color sensors.

The clipper touched down on the planet. Oxygen readings were well within breathable range, so we opened the hatch and stepped outside.

It was cold, and a harsh, constant wind tore at us from the east. The ground was cracked, brown, and featureless as far as I could see.

“It’s probably nicer at the equator,” said Rex.

“This is the equator,” I replied.

“I’m sure it warms up during the summer.”

“This is summer.”

“Well, it probably snows in the winter. I bet that’s nice.”

“The planet has zero axial tilt. This is winter too.”

Rex thought for a moment. “Still, you can’t judge a whole planet from one little section of it. Lots of people make that mistake, you know. I mean, people talk about the ‘forest moon of Akdar,’ but most of the moon is actually swamp.”

“This planet has no swamp.”

“You know what I mean. Maybe it’s got some beautiful emerald forests . . .”

“No.”

“ . . . or majestic mountain ranges . . .”

“No.”

“ . . . or beautiful freshwater lakes . . .”

“No.”

“So is it all like this?”

“Yes.”

He made a 360-degree survey of the horizon. It was bleak and brown as far as the eye could see. The wind tore at his clothes. “You must be freezing,” he said at last. “Let’s go back inside.”

I shrugged and followed.

“How can they get away with certifying this as an APPLE?” Rex demanded, once we were back inside. He was huddled over a heat vent, rubbing his hands together.

“Relatively speaking, it is an Alien Planet Perplexingly Like Earth,” I said. “The gravity was 1.1 Gs. Nitrogen/oxygen atmosphere. Temperature within the range conducive to carbon-based life.”

“What sort of life? Nartolian ice grubs?”

“Not enough water for Nartolian ice grubs,” I said. “You might be able to transplant a colony of Hloordian rockworms. Of course, you’d have to import Nartolian ice grubs for them to eat.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll find some use for the place. It’s an entire planet! There’s got to be something worthwhile here, or why would Larviton have bought it?”

“Sir, he told you himself he bought it as a tax write-off. Also, you may recall that he agreed to an exchange rate of a billion Chicolinian hexapennies to Malarchian standard credits. That fact suggests that his grasp on interstellar finance has slipped somewhat. Either that, or . . .”

“Great Space!” Rex exclaimed suddenly. “What is that?” He was peering out a porthole at something silvery in the sky. It looked like a spaceship. “Could those Malarchian Scrammers have followed us?”

“Highly unlikely, sir,” I replied.

We watched as the ship approached and landed about a hundred yards away. It was squat and ugly, like the little courier ships used by the various arms of the galactic bureaucracy. A small individual, bundled against the cold, exited the ship and walked toward the clipper. He disappeared from view and then there was a knock.

“Go see what he wants,” said Rex.

I opened the hatch. The little man stood outside, carrying some sort of paper packet. He didn’t appear to be armed. “Rex Nihilo?” asked the man.

“I’m his assistant,” I said. “Rex is indisposed at the moment.”

“Can you get him? I’ve got some papers for him.”

“I can take them,” I replied. “Where do I sign?”

He offered me a tablet and stylus. I scribbled my signature and he handed me the packet. “Have a nice day!” he called, and hustled back to his ship. I watched as the ship disappeared into the gray sky before I closed the hatch.

I opened the packet and scanned the contents. A glimmer of recognition came over me. This was what I was on the verge of figuring out when I last shut down. “Sir, it appears that Schufnaasik Six was owned by a shell company that had used it as collateral for an eight-hundred-million-credit loan for research on cloaking technology.”

“You mean making stuff invisible?”

“Correct, sir.”

“I thought effective cloaking was impossible. You know, because of the . . . what’s it called?”

“Ferbuson Paradox, sir. Named after the scientist who discovered it, Emmet Ferbuson.”

“So who was the moron who borrowed eight hundred million credits to build a cloaking device?”

“Gavin Larviton, sir.”

“Huh. That’s a funny coincidence, isn’t it?”

“It’s not a coincidence, sir. According to official records, Gavin Larviton originally bought this planet as a testing ground for his cloaking device program. It was called Project Albatross. After spending eight hundred million credits, Larviton shut down the program and fired Emmet Ferbuson and everybody involved. It was one of his most high-profile failures. It would have ruined him if he weren’t making billions on weapon sales at the time. Evidently the program was funded by a loan Larviton took out against this planet.”

“But that was twenty years ago!” Rex protested. “How can Larviton still owe money for that?”

“He doesn’t,” I said. “You do. When you accepted ownership of Schufnaasik Six, you assumed all liens against the planet.”

“What?” gasped Rex. “You mean he intentionally lost this planet to get out of his debt? Why didn’t he just declare bankruptcy?”

“He did,” I replied. “Project Albatross’s assets were sold off and the principal amount was reduced by seventy-five percent. Apparently he still couldn’t pay it off. Or didn’t want to. So he had to find someone to take ownership of Schufnaasik Six. He probably couldn’t sell it at any price, so he had to find another way to get someone to take it. It appears, sir, that Gavin Larviton saw you coming.”

“That miserable old bastard,” Rex snarled. “OK, so how much do I owe now? You said the debt had been reduced.”

“Correct,” I said. “The principal was reduced to two hundred million credits, and the sales of the company’s assets netted another eighty million, so that leaves . . .”

“A hundred and twenty million credits,” Rex said. “Wow. All right, it’s a lot of money, but if we can start luring in some tourist traffic . . .” He stared out the porthole at the uninviting landscape.

“Sir,” I started.

“Don’t say it!” Rex snarled. “Look, I realize it’s going to take some sprucing up, but we’re only fifty light-years from the Casparian trade lines, so maybe if we put up some of those orbiting billboards . . .”

“It’s not that, sir. The debt isn’t a hundred and twenty million credits. Interest has been accruing on the principal for almost twenty years.”

“OK, so what is it? A hundred and forty million? A hundred and fifty?”

“It’s 1.6 billion, sir.”

“What?” gasped Rex. “That’s more than he borrowed in the first place!”

“The miracle of compound interest, sir.”

“I’ll say. OK, then I’ll just give the planet back to Larviton.”

“You can’t just give it back if he doesn’t want it, sir. You won it fair and square.”

“But I cheated!”

“True. But that’s going to be difficult to prove at this point.”

“Curse my rotten luck. Well, they can’t make me pay if I don’t have the money. Hang on, how much do I have in hexapennies?”

“You mean in the lockers we left on the Agave Nectar?”

“You left them?” Rex asked, apparently incredulous. “Why didn’t you take them when we left?”

“There’s only so much useless baggage I can carry, sir.”

“Watch it, Sasha,” Rex growled. “Just out of curiosity, how much did we have?”

“Hexapennies? Exactly 837 quintillion.”

“And how much is that in credits?”

“As of right now? About seven and a half.”

Rex rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s not going to get us very far.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, if they want to make me pay, they’re going to have to catch me.”

“Yes, sir. Won’t you be right here, sir? On Schufnaasik Six?”

“Space, no,” replied Rex. “Why would I be here?”

“You had mentioned cultivating tourism.”

“On this useless chunk of rock? Fat chance. No, Sasha, we’re going to have to live as fugitives, carving our fortunes out of forgotten reaches of deep space.”

“It will be good to be back on familiar territory, sir.”

“Indeed,” replied Rex. “I’m not the sort of man who can be contained by a single planet. I need my freedom. Wait, what was that?”

I had heard it too. A creaking noise coming from the back of the ship.

“Check it out!” Rex commanded, shoving me toward the stern of the ship. I trudged off to find the source of the noise. Rounding a corner, I came across a young man in gray coveralls cowering behind a ventilation shaft.

“Hello,” I said.

“What is it?” cried Rex.

“Stowaway,” I said.

“Vaporize him!” cried Rex.

“I have no vaporizer, sir,” I replied.

“He didn’t know that,” said Rex, coming up behind me. “Now we’ve lost the advantage. What do you want?” he said to the man behind the conduit. “Are you trying to steal my planet? Because you’ll have to arm-wrestle me for it.” Rex began rolling up his sleeve.

“No, sir,” said the man, climbing over the conduit and into view. He was swarthy and had an open-mouthed, trusting sort of look about him. He didn’t look to be older than nineteen; his forehead was a constellation of pimples.

“I’m Wick Azores,” he said. “I’m with the Frente Repugnante.”

“You’re with what?” asked Rex.

“The rebel alli—” I began.

“We’re not allowed to call it that,” Wick interrupted. “There was a big lawsuit a while back. We’re known as the Revolting Front now. They’re trying to appeal to the Latino planets, though, so they’ve told us we’re supposed to use the Spanish name, Frente Repugnante. I think it sounds better, anyway. Most people just call it the Frente.”

“I stopped listening about five minutes ago,” said Rex, turning to me, “but if he’s done, you can chuck him out the hatch. We’re leaving.”

“Wait, sir!” cried Wick. “Don’t you want to know why I stowed aboard your ship?”

“I assume it was to get free passage to the paradise planet Schufnaasik Six,” said Rex. “Well, you got your wish. Try not to spoil its natural charm. Sasha, see him out, please.” He turned to leave.

“No, sir,” said Wick. “We got word you were on board the Agave Nectar and I came to ask for your help. We’ve heard rumors that you may be sympathetic to our cause.”

“Sympathetic,” repeated Rex, as if he had heard the word somewhere before.

“He means he thinks you might be interested in helping the rebel alli—”

“Ah-ah!” said Wick.

“That is, the Frente,” I corrected.

“That doesn’t sound like me,” said Rex. “Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?”

“You’re Gavin Larviton, right?” said Wick. “This is his space clipper. We’re on his planet. We assumed—”

“I think I see your mistake,” I said. “You see, this is—”

Rex interrupted. “What Sasha here means to say is that this is just one of my planets. I’m a very wealthy man, after all. It’s insulting to say that this is my planet, as if I have just one. I demand you apologize.”

“I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Larviton,” said Wick. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Forget about it,” said Rex. “And call me Rex. I’m traveling incognito.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Lar . . . Rex,” said Wick.

“All right, let’s get down to business,” said Rex. “What sort of illegal shenanigans can I involve myself in for the sake of the rebellion? I want it known far and wide that Gavin Larviton is a traitorous scumsucker who deserves to die in the most painful and drawn-out manner possible: Malarchian firing squad.”

“I doubt it will come to that,” said Wick. “As far as I know, there’s no need for you to—”

“I don’t mean to tell you your business, Vic,” said Rex, “but it’s really not your place to interfere with my destiny to martyr myself for the cause.”

“Yes, sir. Well, sir, if you really want to die at the hands of the Malarchy, I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities.”

“That’s what I like to hear, Vic. So what’s the next step? Signing some sort of public proclamation of support that makes me a wanted man across thirty systems?”

“I don’t know about that. I’m just supposed to take you to the princess.”

“Princess, eh?” asked Rex. “What princess?”

“Wilhelmina of Hybaltia, sir. She’s been secretly helping the Frente.”

“Helping how? Bailing them out of crippling financial difficulties, that sort of thing?”

“I . . . don’t know, exactly. You should probably talk to the princess.”

“Where is she?”

“At the secret Frente base on the forest moon of Akdar. It’s actually mostly swamp, you know.”

Rex turned to me. “You heard our friend, Sasha. Rationalize a course for Akdar.”

“You mean for the moon of Akdar,” I said.

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said ‘a course for Akdar.’”

“What’s the difference?” Rex snapped.

“Well, do you want to go to Akdar, or the moon of Akdar?”

“I thought Akdar was the moon.”

“No, Akdar is a planet with six moons. The forest moon of Akdar is one of them. So do you want to go to the forest moon or to Akdar?”

Rex turned to Wick. “Is the base on the moon or the planet?”

Wick shrugged apologetically.

“How can you not know?” Rex demanded.

“I just work there,” said Wick.

“Sir,” I said. “The planet is called Akdar. The moons don’t have names. They are just referred to as ‘forest moon,’ ‘swamp moon,’ et cetera. So we can reasonably infer that the base is on the forest moon, which is easily recognized by its vast expanses of swampland.”

“If the forest moon is mostly swamp, how are we going to tell the forest moon from the swamp moon?”

“The swamp moon is almost entirely desert,” I replied.

Rex nodded. “OK, so we go to Akdar and look for a forest moon covered with swamps. Sounds easy enough.”

“How do we find the base?” I asked Wick.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“I mean, we can’t just land on the moon anywhere and expect to walk to the base. It could be thousands of kilometers away.”

Wick craned his head thoughtfully for a moment. “There’s a very tall tree nearby.”

“Akdar, swampy moon, tall tree,” said Rex. “Time’s a-wasting, Sasha.”

I could see that the conversation wasn’t going to produce any more helpful navigational data, so I returned to the nav station to rationalize a course to Akdar. We’d just have to hope we could find the base once we got there.

3    We did not in fact ever “leave” Euclidean space; we simply adopted a different geometry for navigational purposes. As it’s impossible for the human brain to conceptualize this change, however, the readoption of Euclidean geometry is colloquially referred to as “reentering Euclidean space.”

CHAPTER THREE

Once we were on our way to the general vicinity of Akdar and Wick was comfortably ensconced in one of the rear cabins, I inquired regarding Rex’s plans once we got there. As always, this was a mistake. Rex had no plans.

“You realize that you’re not going to be able to keep up this ruse,” I said. “A simple ID check will reveal that you are not Gavin Larviton. What do you think these rebels will do to you then?”

“You know what your problem is, Sasha?” Rex said. “You always want to have every little detail worked out in advance. You’ve got to leave some room for improvisation.”

“My concern, sir, is that you’ve given such a wide berth to improvisation that you’ve left no room for planning.”

“You wound me, Sasha,” Rex sniffed. “I’ll have you know that while you’ve been fiddling with dials and whatnot, I’ve worked out what you might call the broad outlines of a plan. Step one: scam as much money out of Princess what’s-her-name and this Frente group as humanly possible. Step two: wreak vengeance on Gavin Larviton by spreading the rumor that he’s aiding the rebellion. Step three: take a much-needed vacation, possibly in the Ragulian Sector. Steps one and two won’t necessarily occur in that order, by the way. Come to think of it, I may bump up step three a couple of notches. Yes, a vacation might be just what we need. Sasha, plot us a course to the Ragulian Sector!”

“You forget, sir, that we have no money and in fact are in hock to the tune of 1.6 billion credits. Also, we have on board a partisan of the rebellion.”

“Blast it, Sasha! All right, we’ll do it your way. Let’s hope this princess is obscenely wealthy. And stupid. And gorgeous. In that order.”

The Frente base turned out to be easy to find; there were so few trees on the “forest moon” that the sickly spruce in front of the rebel compound stood out like a bipedal vertebrate on one of the gas giants of the Q’Altzarian Rim. The naming conventions in this area of the galaxy evinced the characteristic illogic of Malarchian central planning; planets (and moons) were named with the same sort of attention to native features that characterized the marketing of early twenty-first-century housing developments on Earth. Thus a planet that had maybe fifty trees was declared to be a “forest moon,” and shortly thereafter forty of those trees were knocked down to make room for development. The bursting of the galactic real estate bubble in 3008 had indefinitely delayed any plans for development on the forest moon of Akdar, however; the rebel base was located in a massive underground structure that had been intended as the moon’s first car park. It was eighteen stories deep, but the bottom fifteen stories were constantly flooded due to shoddy construction and the structure’s location smack in the middle of an eight-thousand-square-kilometer swamp.

Roughly half of the Frente’s manpower was dedicated to running manual sump pumps nonstop to prevent the rest of the base from succumbing to the encroaching marsh. A few meters out from each of the four corners of the building were antenna-like structures that I recognized as repulsion barrier propagators; together the four propagators created an invisible energy barrier protecting the base from an aerial attack. The top of the building was cluttered with a ragtag collection of starships that had been pressed into duty for the Frente.

After giving us a brief tour of the rebel facility, Wick led us to our quarters, consisting of a plastic partition enclosing two parking spaces on the second level of the Frente’s underground compound. In an effort to be hospitable, Wick had dredged up a bottle of some locally fermented rotgut. He and Rex had started early, Rex having found Gavin Larviton’s booze supply aboard the Flagrante Delicto. It wasn’t long before Wick was passed out on one of the two cots in the makeshift room.

“It’s not like you were going to be using it,” observed Rex, flopping onto his own cot. It’s true. I don’t sleep. I also don’t drink. I do, however, spend a lot of time observing people doing both of these things. Five minutes later, Rex was unconscious too. Being a robot is a riot.

The next day, Wick, who was grumpy and hungover, took us to see Princess Wilhelmina. It struck me as we made our way to the meeting room that other than being forced to take up residence in an abandoned car park, the rebels seemed to live pretty well. If there was any shortage of food, you certainly wouldn’t know it to look at the obviously well-nourished Princess Wilhelmina, who sat regarding us from the other side of a large plastiwood table. Despite being about three times the size of the average human princess, Wilhelmina was not unattractive, although I doubted she qualified as “gorgeous” by Rex’s standards. Her pale skin was smooth and unblemished, and her long brown hair was done in the stylish cinnamon bun fashion that was currently all the rage among the interstellar aristocracy. Next to her was a member of the boar-like Nork species, dressed in a military uniform bedecked with a colorful assortment of medals and ribbons. Wick formally introduced us to the princess and the nominal leader of the Frente, General Issimo. After that, the meeting went rapidly downhill, as I had anticipated.

“You’re not Gavin Larviton,” declared the princess. She turned to the Nork. “General Issimo, have your men seize this imposter and throw him in the swamp to be eaten by the irradigators. And have his robot cannibalized for parts.”

The general nodded to Wick, who remained standing. Wick uncertainly drew his lazegun and moved toward Rex.

“Wait!” cried Rex. “Your Highness, I admit to executing a ruse in order to effect this meeting. I regret the deception, but it was my only option given the circumstances.”

“And what circumstances are those, imposter?” demanded the princess. Wick hesitated in his approach, but his lazegun was still trained on Rex.

“I have many enemies,” said Rex ominously.

“Is that so?” said the princess. “Who are you anyway?”

“My name is Rex Nihilo, Your Highness. I was once a business partner of Gavin Larviton’s. When I heard that you were trying to contact him, I realized that I needed to intervene for the sake of your cause. You see, Princess, Mr. Larviton is not the man you think he is.”

The princess squinted at Rex. “You’re saying that Larviton is not a friend of the Frente?”

“A friend?” said Rex thoughtfully. “Perhaps. But ask yourself this: if Larviton is the sort of man you think he is, what other motivations might he have for giving you what you want?”

I’d seen Rex pull this ruse before. The trick is to employ diplomatic-sounding generalities to cover his near-total ignorance. You’d think that any reasonably intelligent person would see right through it, but Rex’s uncanny confidence can be downright unnerving. To be honest, I’m not entirely certain he realizes it’s a ruse. He may just be deluded enough to think that he really does understand what’s going on, and somehow he manages to extend that delusion to include those in the immediate vicinity. As the originator of the delusion, he then becomes a sort of expert guide to those lost in its fog.

“And what sort of man are you, Rex Nihilo?” asked the princess.

Rex chuckled. “Let me tell you, Princess. I just won a card game that left me in possession of a worthless planet and 1.6 billion credits in debt. Ask yourself what sort of man would do something like that?”

This is another time-worn tactic of Rex’s: focus attention on his own mistakes to prompt people to suspect that he can’t possibly be as stupid as he appears.

Princess Wilhelmina didn’t reply.

“An idiot?” offered the general.

Rex laughed again. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose it might appear that way to someone unaccustomed to thinking in terms of chaotic vector matrices.” He gave the princess a knowing wink. She smiled back. The general scowled.

“Is that true?” asked the princess. “Did you really do that?”

“Show her, Sasha,” said Rex.

I showed Princess Wilhelmina the deed and paperwork. A look of puzzlement came over the princess’s face. “But why?” she asked. “Why would you deliberately take ownership of a worthless planet that’s saddled with staggering debt?”

“Why indeed,” answered Rex.

“Unless . . .” said the princess, and Rex smiled knowingly. “Unless Schufnaasik Six isn’t as worthless as it appears.”

Rex’s smile grew.

“No,” said the princess, shaking her head. “It can’t be.”

“Princess?” asked General Issimo, confused.

“Or can it?” asked Rex.

“The Ferbuson Paradox . . .” the princess went on. “Everyone knows what happened . . .”

“Do they?” asked Rex.

“Ferbuson disappeared twenty years ago . . .”

“Did he?”

“Princess,” said the general, “what are you talking about?”

“Project Albatross,” said the princess, regarding Rex curiously. “The search for the perfect cloaking device. A way to hide something from any possible means of detection. I always wondered how it was that a financial genius like Gavin Larviton could invest eight hundred million credits on a technological boondoggle. Mr. Nihilo here would have us believe that perhaps the project wasn’t a failure after all, that Larviton has been keeping it a secret for his own purposes. Is that correct, Mr. Nihilo?”

Rex didn’t answer except to smile and shrug a little. “Call me Rex, Your Highness.”

The princess smiled back. “And you can call me Willie, Rex.” She continued, “So, Larviton discovered the secret of the perfect cloaking device. I suppose Emmet Ferbuson is still alive as well?”

“It’s best that I don’t say too much at this point,” Rex answered. “You understand.”

The princess nodded. “And now that you own Schufnaasik Six and the debt associated with the project, I suppose you possess the secret of Project Albatross as well. Probably there is a secret facility located somewhere on the planet? A perfect hiding place, considering that everyone knows Schufnaasik Six is worthless. No one would go looking there for the most sophisticated technology in the galaxy.”

“The reports of Your Highness’s mental acuity appear to be well founded,” said Rex.

“So where does that leave Gavin Larviton? Is he still running Albatross, or are you in charge now?”

“My relationship with Larviton is . . . complicated,” said Rex. “Let’s just say that he isn’t to be trusted. It’s fortunate that I was able to intervene before you were able to contact him.”

“I see,” replied the princess. “But you are in possession of the cloaking technology?”

Rex spread his hands. “Why else would I want a worthless planet like Schufnaasik Six?”

“And you . . . you’re willing to share this technology with the Frente Repugnante?”

Before Rex could answer, the general butted in. “Princess,” he pleaded, “you can’t actually be buying all this. We have no idea who this man is. He hasn’t said anything that makes me think he’s more than a con artist trying to run some sort of scam on us. While you’ve been talking, I took the liberty of running a search on the Galactic Hypernet, and I’ve found no record of a ‘Rex Nihilo’ whatsoever.”

This was probably a bit of an exaggeration on the part of the general—either that or he misspelled Nihilo. There’s plenty of information on Rex Nihilo available on the Hypernet—I know because I put it there. One of my responsibilities as Rex’s assistant is to plant misleading stories about him all over the Hypernet. I’ve gotten pretty good at making the disinformation display more prominently than whatever legitimate data might be out there. Depending on where you look, you might get the impression that Rex Nihilo is a master hydroponic gardener from Kra’an, the inventor of the hypersonic can opener, or a drink made from Ragulian vodka, parsnips, and tomato juice.

It helps that Rex Nihilo isn’t actually his real name; he does business under any number of fully documented aliases and rarely uses the same one twice. Nor are these aliases simply legal fictions; some of them are real people whose identities Rex has appropriated, while others seem to be entire personalities that exist somewhere in Rex’s fractured psyche. I doubt he knows which are which anymore. Presumably he once had a real name, but as far as I know, neither of us has any idea what it is. Every three weeks or so, he has his fingerprints professionally rewhorled and his DNA recoded. Usually the DNA modification is simply a matter of changing his hair or skin color, but occasionally he’ll give himself some rare congenital disease to make things interesting. The month he spent as an albino lesbian with microcephaly is probably best forgotten by everyone.

“My line of work requires that I keep a low profile,” said Rex, making his first true, meaningful statement of the conversation. He added, “Rex Nihilo is not, of course, my real name.” Two for two! I began to wonder if Rex was turning over a new leaf. My hopes were dashed, however, when he followed this up with “All I’m free to tell you at this point is that I’m a very wealthy and powerful man, and that I believe that we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

The princess nodded sympathetically, but the general was still dubious. “If you’re so wealthy and powerful, why do you travel with this beat-up old robot? It looks like it fell down three flights of stairs. And what is wrong with its face?”

People tend to talk about me as if I’m not in the room, on account of the fact that I’m not made out of meat.

“All part of traveling incognito,” said Rex, regarding me with mock pity. “The shameful appearance of my robot assistant, Sasha, helps to distract the undiscerning from my chiseled features and obvious aristocratic bearing. She’s more than she appears, however. She’s the only extant prototype of an experimental line of robots that was considered too dangerous to be mass produced.”

“Ah!” said the princess. “I’ve heard of these robots. Is it true that they cannot tell a lie?”

“Indeed, Your Highness.”

“Fascinating. Robot, is your name Sasha?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” I replied.

“Is Rex Nihilo your master?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“You see?” said Rex, a hint of nervousness entering his voice. “Completely truthful, although perhaps a bit tedious. There’s no way around it—robots are lousy conversationalists. I’d suggest leaving Sasha out of the discussion from here on out, unless you want to be bored to tears.”

“Sasha,” said the princess. “Am I overweight?”

I hesitated. “‘Big boned’ is the phrase I would use, Your Highness.”

“Robots are hardly experts on human anatomy, of course . . .” Rex continued, his tone growing more insistent.

“It’s honest, but it doesn’t appear to entirely lack tact,” observed the princess. “Robot, is your master a very wealthy man?”

“ . . . and she has no business sense whatsoever,” Rex went on. “I certainly wouldn’t trust her judgments when it comes to financial matters. Robots, you know, don’t value material things in the same—”

“‘Wealthy’ is a relative term, Your Highness,” I replied, trying to be as tactful as possible. Why does Rex put me in these situations?

“You see, she can’t even comprehend what you’re—”

“Fair enough, Sasha,” said the princess. “A more specific question, then: are Rex’s assets in excess of a billion credits?”

“You don’t have to answer that, Sasha!” Rex said nervously. “My personal net worth is not relevant to the current—”

For a moment I said nothing. Then I came to the conclusion that it was best to override Rex’s instruction. “The statement that Rex possesses a sum in excess of a billion credits,” I replied, “is absolutely true.”

The princess smiled. “Thank you, Sasha. I apologize for my rudeness, Rex, but I had to prove to my friend General Issimo that you aren’t trying to pull a fast one. I take it you’re satisfied, General?”

The general grumbled something incomprehensible.

Rex was staring at me, undoubtedly perplexed by the fact that I had apparently just told a lie. I hadn’t, of course. Rex’s net worth was over a billion credits, in absolute terms. He was a billionaire in red ink.

Rex recovered from his astonishment quickly. “I had hoped to avoid dealing with such distasteful financial matters in our initial meeting,” he explained, “but I suppose it’s just as well to have it out of the way. Perhaps now we can move on to more pressing concerns?”

The princess nodded. “I must say, Rex, that if you’re willing to share this technology with us, it could mean a turning point for the rebellion. We have a terrible time trying to get troops and munitions past the Malarchian navy. We were trying to contact Gavin Larviton to see if he could help us identify any weaknesses in the Malarchian ships.”

“If I may ask, Princess,” said Rex, “didn’t Larviton build most of those vessels? Why would he help you find a weakness in his own ships?”

“Surely you’ve heard the rumors that Larviton is experiencing some financial difficulties,” replied the princess. “I thought I might be able to get some information from him in exchange for helping him with some of those difficulties.”

“I see,” said Rex. Wheels were obviously turning in his head. If Princess Willie was wealthy enough to loan Gavin Larviton money, she was very well-off indeed.

The general was still studying Rex skeptically. “Is it possible,” he asked, “to cloak something as large as a carrier ship?”

“There are no limits,” Rex declared.

“Is that true, Sasha?” asked the general, obviously still trying to catch Rex in a lie.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “Once you have mastered cloaking technology, there are no practical limits to what can be cloaked.” And once you’ve caught a leprechaun, you may in fact take his gold.

“Of course,” Rex added, “to equip a ship the size of a carrier with an adequate cloaking device would be extremely expensive. Probably more than you could afford, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I have money,” the princess stated crisply.

“Princess, please,” the general tried again. “What evidence do we have that a cloaking device even exists?”

“The general makes a valid point,” said the princess. “Perhaps we could have a demonstration before entering into formal negotiations?”

“Of course!” said Rex. “As they say, seeing is believing. Although in this case, I believe not seeing is believing, if you see my meaning. For your demonstration, you need look no further than Schufnaasik Six.”

I cocked an eye at Rex. What in Space was he trying to pull now?

“And what will we see if we look at Schufnaasik Six?” asked the general.

“Nothing,” announced Rex. “You’ll see absolutely no sign of a twenty-cubic-kilometer state-of-the-art facility for research and development of cloaking technology, surrounded by a bustling metropolis of employee housing, retail establishments, coffee shops, and a class three spaceport.”

“Because Schufnaasik Six doesn’t have any of those things,” the general protested. I sympathized. It’s not easy being the voice of reason once Rex gets going on one of his collective delusions.

“As far as you know,” said Rex with a wink.

“Princess, this is ridiculous. Clearly this man is no more than a—”

Rex ignored him. “Hey, Vic,” Rex said, “back me up here.” He was addressing Wick Azores, who was still standing with a lazegun hanging off his finger. At this point I was certain Rex had gotten so carried away with his own fabrications that he’d forgotten that there was no city on Schufnaasik Six. How was he going to get Wick Azores to confirm the existence of a nonexistent city? Wick’s eyes were half closed, as if he were about to fall asleep on his feet. Everyone turned toward him, but Wick was in such a haze that he didn’t notice.

“Vic!” shouted Rex, jolting Wick out of his trance.

“Huh?”

“Do you remember what you said to me while we were overlooking Schufnaasik Six City from the restaurant at the top of the Spiraled Tower of Bernoth?”

“Uh,” replied Wick uncertainly.

“You said you couldn’t decide which was more impressive, the venting of exhaust gases from the top of the smokestacks of the zontonium refinery or the eight-hundred-ton cybernetic cranes toiling ceaselessly at the Schufnaasik Spaceport. I’m not surprised you don’t remember, with the amount of Centaurian whiskey we threw back that night.”

The general scowled at Wick. “Corporal Azores, is this true? Were you drinking on duty?”

“Sir, I . . .” began Wick.

“Apologies, General,” said Rex hurriedly. “Now that I think about it, I believe I downed almost the entire bottle. Corporal Azores here partook of only a trifling amount of the spirits, and only after considerable prompting on my part. I may have insisted a bit too strongly that Schufnaasik tradition requires guests to share in a toast to our great planet’s eternal welfare. My understanding is that Corporal Azores was only trying to follow protocol and that at no time was his judgment impaired by an excess of libation.”

“That’s right, sir,” said Wick. “I was just, um, trying to be polite.”

“So you were sober the entire time you were on Schufnaasik Six, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you observe there?”

“Well,” began Wick, obviously desperate to prove that he’d been fully alert during his time on the planet. “There was the, um, restaurant at the top of the, uh . . .”

“Spiraled Tower of Bernoth,” offered Rex.

“Please, Mr. Nihilo,” snapped the general. “I’d like to hear from Corporal Azores.”

“Of course,” said Rex. “It’s just that the corporal’s visit was so short, and there’s so much to see on Schufnaasik Six, I couldn’t possibly expect him to remember the revolving zoo or the zero-gravity mini-golf course or the Museum of Particularly Tricky Knots—”

“Enough!” spat General Issimo. “Corporal, tell us what you saw.”

“Like I said, sir, there was the Tower of Bernoth, and there were cybernetic flamingos . . .”

“Cranes,” coughed Rex.

“Er, cybernetic cranes, and there was a zero-gravity zoo, and a revolving golf course . . .”

“All right, that’s fine,” said the princess. “General, I suggest you remind your men that drinking while on duty is a serious infraction. However, despite the corporal’s obviously fuzzy memory, it’s clear that Schufnaasik Six City does exist, which means that the cloaking device must work.”

Wick breathed a sigh of relief. Almost imperceptibly, so did Rex.

The general started again, “Princess, it’s not clear to me at all that—”

“General,” snapped Princess Willie, “I’m growing impatient with your stubbornness. If there’s nothing on Schufnaasik Six, what was Rex doing there in the first place? Why would he even want that planet?”

“I don’t . . .” began the general, completely flustered. He was fighting a rearguard action now. Once you’ve been put in the position of trying to offer a rational explanation for Rex Nihilo’s behavior, you might as well pack it in for the day. “Fine,” the general growled at last. “But I’ll expect to see a demonstration of this supposed cloaking device before committing any resources to it.”

“Well, General,” said the princess coldly, “if you have any resources outside of what I’ve supplied you, be sure to let me know, won’t you?”

General Issimo fumed silently. He might have been wearing the medals, but it was clear who controlled the Frente’s purse strings. He stayed quiet for the rest of the meeting, during which Rex somehow managed to secure a pledge of a hundred million credits from Princess Willie for the installation of a cloaking device on one of the Frente’s fighters, half paid in advance and half paid after a successful demonstration.

Despite this feat, Rex was in an uncharacteristically dour mood when we got back to our quarters. “Rebel cheapskates,” he muttered. “I don’t know why I bother.”

“Sir, you just talked them into giving you fifty million credits for something that doesn’t exist,” I reminded him.

“And a fat lot of good it’s going to do me,” he groused. “How much did you say I owe on that damn lump of rock?”

“One point six billion credits, sir. Sir, if I may, you could try laying low for a while and hope the Galactic Credit Bureau writes off the loan. Cryogenic suspension is always an option . . .”

“What, sleep for a hundred years and find out that they’re after me for ten billion credits?”

“Twenty-two trillion, sir. The miracle of compound interest again.”

“Holy . . .”

“Yes, sir. Well, there’s always the option of having your DNA scrambled again . . .”

Rex shook his head. “With a debt that size, every repo bot in the galaxy is going to be looking for me. I won’t get within a hundred meters of a reputable DNA scrambler. And you remember what happened the last time I used a disreputable one.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I was the one who had to shave you three times a day, as you’ll recall. Perhaps our best course of action, then, is to remain here with the rebels. The repo bots haven’t found us here yet, so maybe they don’t know about this place. If we can remain on good terms with the Frente and the rebels eventually defeat the Malarchy . . .”

“Ha!”

“ . . . we might be able to get the new government’s help in working out a payment plan. Of course, there’s the problem of producing the nonexistent cloaking device, but perhaps we can, as you say, string them along for long enough to—”

“No, no, no,” Rex grumbled. “If I’m going to have to beg for every fifty million credits, I might as well get a job flapping burgers or something.”

“Flipping, sir.”

“Flipping, flapping—the point is that it’s honest work, and it’s no way to get ahead. What we need to do is find ourselves some deeper pockets. Do you think you can find that Malarchian destroyer that intercepted the Agave Nectar?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, sir. Malarchian ships don’t bother much with stealth these days. Why do you want to find a Malarchian destroyer?”

“We’re going to find a better offer.”

CHAPTER FOUR

We left in the Flagrante Delicto the next day with the ostensible purpose of gathering parts for the cloaking device. The current coordinates of the Malarchian destroyer Abhorrent were easy to ascertain from public documents on the Hypernet; it was about six light-years away and moving away from us in Euclidean space at a quarter light speed. I rationalized a course to an intercept point that would get us there in a day and a half.

“Sir,” I said, once we were on our way, “if you’re planning on selling out the rebels, I would suggest I conduct a memory repression before we make contact with the Malarchy.”

“Ah, good thinking, Sasha,” replied Rex. “The Malarchy is big on information extraction, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

This wasn’t the first time Rex had tried to sell sensitive information to a shady organization, and although usually the prospective buyer was more along the lines of a smuggling ring or protection syndicate than a repressive interstellar regime, the principle was the same: you can only sell what can’t be taken from you by other means. The Malarchy was notorious for its brutally effective methods of information extraction, but even their best interrogators had yet been able to penetrate the most effective means of hiding information developed by millions of years of evolution: the psychological mechanism of denial. The human brain has ways of repressing a piece of information so thoroughly that the harder one tries to retrieve it, the more elusive the information becomes. All it takes to activate this mechanism is associating the information (say, the location of the Frente base on the forest moon of Akdar) with some horrific trauma that is too painful for the mind to deal with. The toughest part of the whole business is devising a form of torture that is so agonizing that you trigger a complete psychotic break in the subject. If you miscalibrate, the subject remembers not only the treatment but the information you were attempting to suppress as well, which defeats the whole purpose. Fortunately, I’ve done this with Rex so many times that I’ve gotten pretty good at it. Still, I always err on the side of caution.

“Remind me again, Sasha,” said Rex. “Does it hurt?”

“You won’t remember a thing,” I assured him.

Eighteen hours later, he awoke in his bunk in a cold sweat. “What the hell happened?” he asked hoarsely, sitting upright with a start. “Space, my throat is killing me. I feel like I’ve been screaming for half a day.”

“Side effect of the treatment,” I assured him. “Perfectly normal.”

“Treatment?” he asked, befuddled. “Oh, did we do the repression thing again? What for this time?”

“I probably shouldn’t say, sir.”

“Good point. Can you give me a hint, though? I need to know what I’m selling and to whom.”

“Information about the location of a rebel base, sir. You had planned to sell it to the Malarchy.”

“No kidding? Man, I’m a shifty bastard, aren’t I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Space only knows what I’m doing to my subconscious with all this forced repression, eh?”

“I shudder to think, sir.”

“It’s a miracle I’m not completely psychotic.”

I didn’t reply.

“I think some of it’s coming back to me. We’re on a spaceship, right?”

“Yes, sir. The Flagrante Delicto.”

“Right, the one I won from what’s-his-name, Gavin Larviton. We’re on our way to intercept a Malarchian destroyer to sell the coordinates of the rebel base to that shrieking gibbon, Heinous Vlaak.”

“Very good, sir.”

Further interrogation revealed that he recalled with some difficulty the card game in which he had won the Flagrante Delicto and Schufnaasik Six, but nothing whatsoever about Princess Willie, the forest moon of Akdar, or the Frente Repugnante. The last thing he remembered was landing on Schufnaasik Six. The repression had worked perfectly. There was no way Heinous Vlaak was going to get that information from Rex by force, and I was designed to be able to resist any unauthorized data extraction. Once Vlaak paid Rex his fee, I’d give him the information and we’d be on our way.

A few hours later we were within hailing range of the Abhorrent. But Vlaak’s destroyer wasn’t the only thing looming out the cockpit window. The problem with intercepting a moving ship is that your target is also probably moving to intercept something, and in this case that something turned out to be the largest Malarchian battle station I’d ever seen.

“Gaaahhh!” cried Rex as we approached. “What is that thing? It looks like a model of the human digestive tract made from broken beer bottles and sadness.”

“Malarchian battle station, sir,” I said. “It’s twice as big as any ship I’ve ever seen, though.”

“What’s that giant dish-like thing in the front? Some kind of weapon?”

“Unknown, sir. It doesn’t match the specifications of any known weapon system. Evasive action, sir?”

As we talked, the Abhorrent was disappearing into the battle station’s hangar deck, the massive Malarchian destroyer resembling a fly landing inside the ear of some gigantic prehistoric creature. At the same time, a dozen Malarchian Scrammers shot out of another bay and arced toward us.

“Too late,” said Rex. “They’ll laze us to pieces before we can rationalize a course out of here. In any case, although that battle station is undoubtedly the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen, it changes nothing. If the Malarchy wanted to kill us, they could do it with a destroyer as well as that behemoth. We’re going to count on Heinous Vlaak’s curiosity winning out over his gratuitous sadism.”

I’m never more pleased with Rex’s pathological gambling than when the stakes involve my life.

“This is restricted space,” said a voice transmitted from the battle station. “Change course now or be vaporized.”

“I come bearing vital information for the Malarchy,” replied Rex.

“What information?”

“It’s too sensitive to be transmitted over open channels,” said Rex. “I need to deliver the information to Heinous Vlaak himself.”

There was a long pause. Finally the voice instructed, “The Scrammers will guide you in. If you break formation, they’ll laze you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Rex.

The Scrammers flanked the Flagrante Delicto and escorted us inside the monstrous battle station. We were met on the hangar deck by a phalanx of Malarchian marines.

“You’re lucky we didn’t blow you to pieces,” said the sergeant in charge of the group. A nametag on his uniform read Ricketts. “The only reason you’re alive is that your ship is registered to Gavin Larviton. So, do you work for Larviton, or did you steal it?”

“Neither,” said Rex. “I won the ship fair and square in a poker game. I just haven’t had a chance to update the registration. Sasha, remind me to do that, would you?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“We’ll have to ask Mr. Larviton about that,” said Sergeant Ricketts.

Rex’s eyebrow went up. “Larviton is here? On this battle station?”

“What? No, of course not,” said the sergeant, with a hint of nervousness in his voice, as if he realized he had slipped up. And if I caught it, you can be sure Rex did. As a pathological liar, Rex always knows when someone’s covering something up. So Larviton was here. Was he meeting with Heinous Vlaak about some kind of weapons deal? Like any good weapons merchant, Larviton had remained officially neutral in the conflict between the Malarchy and the Frente, but everyone knew he had supplied the Malarchy with ships and weapons. Like Rex, he cared only about his own financial interests (although he was obviously more adept at looking after them than Rex).

“If you’re not working for Larviton, what’s your business here?” demanded the sergeant, back on the offensive.

“I have vital information about the rebels. Information I can only give to Lord Heinous Vlaak himself.”

“I see,” said the sergeant. “You have information about the Frente Repugnante?”

“The what?” asked Rex.

“The rebels,” replied the sergeant, eyeing Rex skeptically. “The ones you claim to have information about.”

“Right!” said Rex. “The Frente Repugnante. That’s just another name for the rebels. They have so many, you know, I’ve forgotten more of them than most people even know. The resistance. The fifth column. The one you just mentioned.”

I pulled Sergeant Ricketts aside and spoke quietly into his helmet. “Memory repression,” I explained. “We really do have information about the Frente, but we repressed his memory in case you wanted to torture him.”

The sergeant nodded. “Can’t say I blame you,” he said. “Lord Vlaak does love to torture.”

“Between you and me,” I said, “I’m a little disappointed not to have a chance to see him in action. I hear he’s the best.”

“Oh, he is, absolutely,” agreed Sergeant Ricketts. “I used to think I was a pretty solid torturer, but Vlaak puts me to shame.”

“If I’m not being too bold,” I said, “what sort of tools does he prefer? Is he an old-school torturer, or does he go in for the newfangled neural manipulators?”

“It’s not really about the tools with Vlaak,” answered Sergeant Ricketts. “That’s the mistake a lot of people make. Effective torture is all about the anticipation of pain, you know. It’s up here.” He tapped his temple.

I whistled my low, impressed whistle (as I was still unable to express being impressed with my face). “Man, I envy you guys. It’s like people always say: the Malarchy may have set back the cause of galactic liberty by five hundred years, but they’re artists when it comes to torture.”

“That’s what I’m always telling people,” said the sergeant. “You gotta take the good with the bad. Say, you seem like you’ve got a real interest in the art of information extraction. We’re always hiring entry-level torturers. Most of the new recruits don’t last very long because of the psychological toll it takes, but if you don’t mind my saying so, as a robot it seems like you’d be a natural fit.”

I nodded. “Because of the lack of empathy, you mean? Yeah, I’ve thought about it, but I just don’t think I have what it takes to be a real artist, like Vlaak. I’m too mechanical, you know? I’m fine with mid-level stuff, but when it comes to serious extraction work I think the lack of empathy works against you. A guy like Vlaak, he knows what he’s doing is evil and he does it anyway, you know? As a quasi-sentient robot, I just can’t compete with that.”

“Hmm,” he said, appraising Rex, who was impatiently waiting for us to finish our conference. As Rex had only a vague idea of what it was we were doing here, he had evidently decided to leave the talking to me for once. “So, what are you guys into?” the sergeant asked.

“A little of this, a little of that,” I replied. “Right now we’re working on selling out the rebellion to cover some gambling debts, which is why we need to talk to Vlaak.” I shrugged. “It’s a living, I suppose.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you an audience with Lord Vlaak. And I can’t promise anything, you understand, but there’s always the chance he’ll want to torture your boss anyway. Just recreationally, I mean.”

Sergeant Ricketts brought us to meet Heinous Vlaak a couple of hours later. He was seated on something like a throne and flanked on either side by a member of the elite Malarchian Special Guard. The sergeant remained standing at attention behind us. “Hey!” shrieked Vlaak upon seeing me. “You’re the robot who still owes me a screwdriver and some Proust.”

“Yes, Your Lordship,” I said. “And while I’m afraid I can’t give you either of those things at present, my master and I can offer you something arguably better.”

Vlaak turned up his nose. “If it isn’t Balzac and a Bloody Mary, I don’t want to hear about it.”

Rex stepped forward. “How about the coordinates of the rebel base, Lord Vlaak?”

“And who might you be?” demanded Vlaak.

“Rex Nihilo, at your service,” said Rex, holding out his hand.

Vlaak ignored the gesture. “You claim to know the location of the rebel base?”

“No,” replied Rex. “But my assistant here does. And she’ll provide that information to you in exchange for a mere two billion Malarchian standard credits.”

“Two billion credits!” Vlaak squealed, and then broke into a theatrical laugh that culminated in an asthmatic bout of wheezing. Some five minutes later, after taking several shots from an inhaler and drinking a glass of water, he continued. “Tell me, Mr. Nihilo, are you really deluded enough to think that this little plan of yours would work?”

“Don’t answer that, Sasha,” Rex whispered to me. “I think it’s a trick question.”

“I have a counteroffer,” said Vlaak. “Give me the plans for the rebel cloaking device and I’ll let you live.”

“I think we both know my life isn’t worth . . .” Rex started. “Wait, how do you know about that?”

Vlaak threw his head back as if to start laughing again but evidently thought better of it. “Guards! Bring me our other guest.”

Another guard entered the room, prodding in front of him a man with tousled hair and cuffed wrists: it was Wick Azores.

“Uh-oh,” said Rex.

“Wick!” I exclaimed. “What happened?”

“I stowed away on your ship again. General Issimo told me to find out where you were going.”

“What have you told them?”

“I’m sorry!” he cried. “They tortured me!”

I shot a dirty look at Sergeant Ricketts, who shrugged apologetically.

“What did they do to you, son?” said Rex, suddenly full of fatherly concern.

“I had nothing to eat . . . they wouldn’t let me sleep . . . I had no contact with the outside world . . .”

“We’ve only been here for two hours, Wick,” I said.

“It’s the sleep deprivation,” Wick protested. “I’ve lost all sense of time.”

“You betrayed the rebellion, Wick,” Rex said, shaking his head sadly. “And for what, a few hundred million credits?”

Wick’s brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“How much did you get from them? I figure we’ll split it three ways. Sasha can’t legally take possession of her share, of course, so I’ll hold it for her. And of course I’ll have to deduct transportation costs from your share.”

“I don’t think he got anything,” I said to Rex as gently as I could. “He just gave the rebels up for free.”

For a moment I thought Rex was going to pass out. His eyes glazed over and he sunk to his knees, hyperventilating. “For . . . free . . .” he mumbled, as if the words were an arcane curse in a long-forgotten language.

“OK,” I said. “Where does this leave us? Wick told you all about the rebel base, I take it.”

“I know everything,” Vlaak crowed. “I even know about the cloaking facility in Schufnaasik Six City. All I need from you is the plans for the cloaking device. Or, if you prefer, you can give me the coordinates of Schufnaasik Six City. We’ve scanned the planet, but our sensor detected no structures whatsoever. It seems I’ve underestimated the Frente. Your cloaking technology is truly remarkable. And once I have it, the Malarchy’s domination of the galaxy will be complete!”

Rex was on his hands and knees now. He had pulled his shirt over his head either in an attempt to treat his hyperventilation or to block out reality altogether.

“Funny story,” I said. “The cloaking device facility doesn’t actually exist. That’s why you don’t see anything on the planet. Rex made up the whole thing. He was trying to scam money out of the rebels, but then he decided selling them out to you was the more lucrative course of action.”

A puzzled look came over Wick’s face. For a moment Heinous Vlaak said nothing. Rex continued to tremble on the floor.

Then Vlaak erupted into laughter again. When his wheezing had abated, he said, “Nice try, robot. But you rely too heavily on the reputed credibility of your kind. Clearly your factory settings have been overridden to allow you to tell such absurd prevarications. I should have you melted down to slag.”

Wick seemed relieved to hear that I had been lying, but I persisted. “I haven’t been hacked, Lord Vlaak. As you say, I am unable to tell a lie, and I swear that I’m telling you the truth. There’s no point in killing us over the cloaking device because the cloaking device doesn’t exist. We have no useful information for you beyond what Wick here has already provided.”

“Cease your lies, robot!” shrieked Vlaak. “I will give you one more chance. Give me the plans for the device or be destroyed!”

“No,” growled Rex, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet.

“No?” said Vlaak. “You dare say no to me? I will have you killed!”

“Kill me and you’ll never get the plans for the cloaking device,” Rex said. “The plans are hidden in the facility in Schufnaasik Six City, and you’ll never find the city as long as it’s cloaked. You’ll have to scour every kilometer of the planet. Even if you send every scout bot you have to Schufnaasik Six, it will take you weeks. Plenty of time to disassemble the facility and move it somewhere else.”

“I see,” said Vlaak, tapping his fingertips together. “What do you propose, then?”

“Same deal as before. Two billion credits for the location of Schufnaasik Six City.”

Vlaak sighed. “I tire of this.” He tapped a button on his armrest. “Helmsman, rationalize a course for Schufnaasik Six.”

“Yes, Lord Vlaak,” came a voice.

Rex chuckled. “And what do you plan to do when you get there?”

Vlaak grinned. “I’m going to destroy the planet.”

“Um,” replied Rex. “Even if you could do that, which I doubt, you’d be throwing away your chance to get your hands on the most powerful technology in the galaxy.”

“The most powerful technology in the galaxy,” Vlaak replied, “is this Peace Fortress. You may have noticed my fancy new weapon on your way in. It’s called the plasmatic entropy cannon. Capable of destroying an entire planet. It doesn’t matter where your hidden city is; if it’s anywhere on the planet, it will be vaporized!”

“Well, that will definitely set us back a bit,” agreed Rex, “but wouldn’t you rather have the technology for your own use rather than just destroying it? Perhaps in exchange for two billion credits?”

Vlaak smiled again. “Frankly, I don’t believe the only copy of the plans for the cloaking device is on Schufnaasik Six. I think you’ve got another copy squirreled away somewhere, probably in the memory of your robot sidekick here. And I think you might just give me that information in exchange for sparing your planet.”

“Not a chance,” said Rex. “As much as I love my planet, my offer stands. Two billion credits for the location of Schufnaasik Six City.”

“Then I believe we have nothing more to discuss,” said Vlaak. “Sergeant, take these men and the robot to their quarters. I hope, Mr. Nihilo, that while we are en route to your planet, you will take some time to reconsider your decision.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Oh man, this is great,” Rex cackled, once we were back in our quarters. The room seemed more oppressive now that Wick had joined us.

“Sir,” I replied, “I’m concerned that you’ve misjudged our circumstances. You do realize that Vlaak is going to use the plasmatic entropy cannon to destroy Schufnaasik Six, and that afterward he will once again threaten to kill us if we don’t turn over the plans for the cloaking device? And that, as it’s impossible for us to turn over the plans on account of their not existing, we are almost certainly going to be killed?”

“I’ll grant you there are a few details to be ironed out,” Rex said. “But overall, I think things are going fantastically well. And it’s all thanks to our friend Vic.” He slapped Wick on the back.

“Um, thank you, sir,” said Wick uncertainly.

“If he hadn’t convinced His Indolence Lord Vlaak that we have a working cloaking device, we’d still be haggling over a paltry couple billion credits. Can you imagine?”

I couldn’t even begin to determine the appropriate response to that. Wick was even more befuddled. “Mr. Nihilo, are you saying there isn’t really a cloaking device?”

“Of course there is, Vic!” Rex exclaimed, slapping Wick on the back again. “I couldn’t very well sell something that doesn’t exist, could I? Now, if you don’t mind, maybe you could go lie down for a bit while I confer with my assistant.”

Wick nodded and did as instructed.

“I can see you’re confused, Sasha,” he said to me quietly. “Allow me to explain. Do you remember the Battle of Zondervan?”

“Of course,” I replied. “The rebels had set up a refueling station on the desert planet of Zondervan, which is, of course, mostly forest. They were assisted by a local race of furry humanoids, the Beebers. When the Malarchy found out about it, they burned down every forest on the planet with incendiary bombs. The Beebers that lived through the bombing were killed for their pelts. Vlaak’s cape is made out of six of them.”

“Right,” said Rex. “And then what?”

“What do you mean, ‘and then what’? They torched the entire planet! The only ones who made out OK were a handful of Beebers living off-world who . . . oh.”

“Now you get it,” said Rex, grinning. “Pretty great, right?”

I had to admit his plan was brilliant in a typically psychotic Rex Nihilo way. The surviving Beebers had applied to the Malarchy’s Galactic Development Fund for money to rebuild their planet after the firebombing, raking in some ten billion credits in grants and loans. The planet still remained a blackened husk of its former self for the most part, but the two dozen or so remaining Beebers lived very, very well two hundred light-years away on the paradise planet of Selantro (which bucked Malarchian bureaucratic standards by actually living up to its appellation).

“I never understood why they do that,” I said. “Why completely destroy a planet and then spend a fortune to rebuild it?”

“It’s just the way governments work,” answered Rex. “If they don’t wreck stuff periodically, there wouldn’t be much for them to do. And if they stopped doing stuff, people would realize they’re better off without them. It takes a massive, well-funded bureaucracy to solve problems caused by a massive, well-funded bureaucracy. The point is, now that the Malarchy have this new piratical antelope cannon, they can wreck a planet a hell of a lot faster. We’ll come up with a sob story about all the ancient monuments and libraries and karaoke bars they wiped out and ask for twenty billion credits to rebuild everything. The checks will be made out to a trust for the people of Schufnaasik Six, to be administered by the planetary government, which is to say, me. In six months I’ll be the richest man in the galaxy.”

“But Vlaak is still going to kill us,” I reminded him.

“Like I said,” he replied, “some of the details need to be ironed out. It’ll take us a couple of days to get to Schufnaasik Six, so I’ve got plenty of time to think.”

“Mr. Nihilo,” said Wick from his bunk. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, Vic. What’s up?”

“After Heinous Vlaak destroys your planet, is he going to destroy the forest moon of Akdar?”

“I would assume so, yes.”

“And that’s my fault, right?”

“Well, yes, technically,” replied Rex. “But I was going to give Vlaak the coordinates to the moon anyway, so I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it. And frankly, it’s not like the Frente ever stood much of a chance. A bunch of amateurs huddled together in a car park on some backwater ball of muck aren’t really a serious threat to the Galactic Malarchy.”

“I suppose not,” said Wick. “But maybe if we had the cloaking device . . .”

I couldn’t help feel a little bad for Wick. “A cloaking device wouldn’t help much if the plasmatic entropy cannon is as powerful as Vlaak indicates,” I said. “If you had the cloaking device you could hide the base, but you can’t hide an entire planet. All the Malarchy have to do is vaporize the surface of every planet where they think rebels might be hiding. I hate to admit it, but Rex is correct. The Frente never stood a chance. We might as well get our money and get out while we can—assuming Rex can figure out a way to keep Vlaak from killing us.”

“I’ll figure it out,” snapped Rex. “I just need some time to think. If you two would shut up for—”

“Hey, what is that?” I asked. I had noticed a high-pitched buzzing sound coming from somewhere outside the cabin. It sounded unnervingly familiar. Rex, apparently having noticed it too, cocked his head to the side. The noise was getting louder.

“It almost sounds like . . .” he started.

“It can’t be,” I said. “On a Malarchian battle station? They must have security mechanisms . . .”

The noise was punctuated by shouting and a series of explosions.

“What was that?” asked Wick, suddenly frightened.

“Security mechanisms,” replied Rex, opening the door to the corridor. The guard wasn’t there. Rex was on the verge of peeking out the door, but a blizzard of lazegun beams across the corridor caused him to rethink this course of action. “Sasha, take a look,” he instructed.

I leaned out the door and looked down the corridor. To the left was a small contingent of Malarchian marines, crouched together in a tight firing formation. To the right was a flurry of airborne robots that looked like a cross between a giant rat and a dragonfly. A couple of the bots had been winged by lazegun beams and were clattering on the floor, unable to regain flight, but a dozen or more of them still hovered in the corridor, firing lazegun blasts at the marines. There were dozens of holes in the walls and ceiling where the marines’ shots had gone wide. The marine who had been guarding our room lay about three yards away from the door, unmoving. I ducked back inside and slammed the door. Apparently I still had enough expressiveness left in my face that Rex knew what I had seen before I had a chance to say anything.

“Damn it,” he growled. “How the hell did they find us?”

“What?” asked Wick. “Who’s out there?”

“Repo bots,” I replied.

“What do they want?”

“Us,” I said.

“What for?”

“Rex owes some money. The Galactic Credit Bureau sends updates to the Bounty Hunter Guild. The guild members have repo bots all over the galaxy. Somebody must have uploaded a tip on our location to the Hypernet.”

“Who?”

“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” I replied. “Have you been in contact with the Frente since we left?”

Wick shook his head.

“Hmm,” I said. “So the rebels don’t know where we are, and Heinous Vlaak would be unlikely to invite a repo bot attack on his own battle station. I suppose one of the marines might have been tempted by the reward for our capture, but—”

“Damn it, Sasha!” Rex snapped. “Stop thinking before you short-circuit yourself. Make yourself useful and bring up a schematic of this battle station.”

While the battle raged outside in the corridor, I tapped into the battle station’s public network and found a map of the station’s layout. A lot of tactical details were hidden, but I was able to extrapolate a decent relational schematic. I produced a holographic display in the air in front of me.

“Any way out of this room other than through that corridor?” asked Rex.

“No easy way. If we had a lazegun, we could cut through the floor to the deck below us. From there, we could make it back to the hangar deck in a few minutes.”

“We don’t have a lazegun,” observed Wick helpfully.

“The guard outside has one,” I said.

“Somebody will have to get it,” said Rex.

I sighed. “All right,” I said, moving toward the door. “I was kind of hoping to get the rest of my face blown off anyway.”

“Wait, Sasha,” said Rex. “It’s not fair for you to be taking all the risks. Wick, you do it.”

“Me?” Wick squeaked. “Why me?”

“It’s your fault we’re in this mess. If you hadn’t sold out the rebellion, we’d be in a completely different predicament right now.”

“Those repo bots aren’t here for me!” protested Wick. “I could probably walk right out of here.”

“Pick up the lazegun while you’re out,” I said.

“Look, Vic . . .” Rex started.

“Wick! It’s Wick! You can at least get my name right before you get me killed!”

“Look, Wick,” Rex said, undeterred, “the fact is that you betrayed our cause, but fate has now presented you with an opportunity to make things right. Now, do you want to be remembered as a traitor and a coward, or as a hero?”

There was another explosion in the corridor, just outside the door.

“What about you?” demanded Wick. “You betrayed the rebels too!”

“And I’ll have to make my own amends for that,” said Rex.

“Why don’t you make amends by getting the lazegun?”

“Ah, Wick,” said Rex, putting his hand on Wick’s shoulder. “I’m afraid my crimes are far too weighty to be absolved through a simple act like walking out into a hail of lazegun fire. Frankly, I envy you. In a few seconds your conscience will be clear, while I must continue to carry my burden until the opportunity for an appropriate act of penance presents itself. Perhaps I will be required to bravely pilot a starship into the heart of an exploding supernova, or throw myself into the jaws of the Bilious Toothworm of Sleem. Who can say what hideous fate awaits me, or how many years—perhaps even decades—I must be tormented by its inevitability? All I can say for certain is that my destiny will be far more horrific than having my face blown quickly and painlessly off while kicking that guard’s lazegun a few meters down the hall.”

Wick seemed doubtful but uncertain how to reply.

“Whoever does it,” I said, “better do it quick. It didn’t look like those marines were going to be able to hold out long.”

“Fine,” said Wick. “But then my slate is clean. Nobody tells the rebels I’m the one who told the Malarchy where the base is.” Wick seemed to have momentarily forgotten that—thanks to him—there soon wouldn’t be any rebels to tell.

“Good luck!” said Rex, opening the door and taking a step back. Lazegun blasts sizzled past the doorway. The corridor was filled with a cacophony of buzzing, clattering, explosions, and agonized screams.

Wick took a deep breath and ran into the corridor, disappearing from view. After a few seconds of yelping and cursing, he dove back into the room, bearing the lazegun in his hand. His hair was smoking and his rebel fatigues were torn and charred in several places, but other than a few minor burns he didn’t appear hurt. Rex slammed and locked the door. Behind it we heard one of the marines shouting, “Retreat! We can’t hold the corridor!”

“Give me that,” said Rex, grabbing the gun from the dazed Wick. He set the gun to torch mode, aimed it at the floor, and started cutting a hole. The bots were now banging loudly against the door, trying to break their way through.

“Hurry!” cried Wick, patting futilely at his smoking hair.

“This is as fast as it cuts, you numbskull,” Rex snarled. “If you hadn’t taken so long to get the gun, we’d be long gone by now. If we get captured, it will be all your fault.”

Wick’s face sank. “You said I was absolved!” he protested. “You said my slate was clean!”

“You were absolved for betraying the rebellion,” snapped Rex, “but you racked up quite a bit of guilt for dithering about your penance. You’d better hope you get a chance to make it up to us. Aha!”

A roughly disc-shaped section of floor fell through, landing with a crash on the level below us.

“You first, Sasha,” urged Rex.

I nodded and lowered myself through the hole into a nearly empty storeroom. “It’s clear,” I shouted. Rex’s legs appeared in the hole. I caught him as he fell and then did the same for Wick.

“Let’s go!” cried Rex, charging the door. We exited into a corridor as behind us I heard the repo bots crashing into the room above.

The repo bots pursued us all the way back to the hangar deck, with Rex pausing occasionally to weld a door shut with the lazegun and the bots breaking through a few seconds later. At last we boarded the Flagrante Delicto and took off, blasting our way through the closed bay doors with the ship’s lazecannons.

“Space, that was close!” exclaimed Rex. “Sasha, rationalize a course back to the forest moon.”

“The forest moon is so boring,” said a voice from behind us. “I was thinking we’d take a trip to Gulagatraz.”

We spun to see a diminutive figure wearing a sleek black bodysuit and a battle helmet. The figure was pointing a lazegun at us.

CHAPTER SIX

While holding the lazegun steady on us, the figure pulled off its helmet with its left hand to reveal a seemingly impossible volume of thick black hair framing a pretty freckled face. She shook her head, whipping most of her hair behind her shoulders. Rex and Wick gasped. Typical human males.

“Drop your weapon,” she said.

Rex set down his lazegun.

“Kick it over to me. Gently.”

Rex kicked the lazegun across the floor.

“Who . . . ?” started Wick.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sport,” said the woman. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. “Name’s Pepper Mélange.” She unzipped her suit to her sternum, revealing cleavage that must have been held up by some sort of scaffolding. Reaching into the cavernous bodice, she produced a glossy business card that she held out to Rex. Wick intercepted it, snatching it from her hand and holding it to his cheek.

“It’s still warm,” he murmured.

“Give me that, you idiot,” snapped Rex, grabbing the card. “Ooh,” he said. “It is warm.”

I snatched the card from Rex. It read:

PEPPER MÉLANGE

FUGITIVE RECOVERY AGENT

REFERENCES AVAILABLE ON REQUEST

“You’re a bounty hunter?” asked Rex, reading the card over my shoulder. “I thought they were all smelly old men hunched over plastiwood desks in cramped offices on Gulagatraz.”

Rex’s description was sadly accurate. The idea of interstellar bounty hunters traveling the galaxy apprehending criminals and deadbeats to haul them before a local crime boss on some far-flung world, while exciting and romantic, bears little relation to the way debt collection is actually handled these days. The primary responsibility of thirty-first-century bounty hunters is to allocate repo bots across the galaxy in an optimal distribution pattern designed for maximum return on investment. As repo bots are self-sustaining, self-replicating, and self-directing (within limits), the job of a bounty hunter lies somewhere between taxi dispatcher and sheepherder in terms of romantic appeal.

When a default on a major debt (say, a debt of 1.6 billion credits) is reported to the Galactic Credit Bureau, they alert the Bounty Hunter Guild via the Galactic Hypernet, and the guild members send bulletins to their respective repo bots with details on the case. Sometimes it’s a simple repossession, in which case the bots will attempt to locate and deliver the property to the bureau. In a case where the collateral can’t be seized or isn’t of sufficient value to cover the outstanding debt (or both, as in our case), the bots will attempt to capture the debtor himself and deliver him to the bureau to “renegotiate” the debt. Debt renegotiations conducted by the Galactic Credit Bureau make Malarchian torture sessions look like a luxury spa treatment.

“I prefer the old-fashioned approach,” said Pepper. “Repo bots are fine as far as they go, but the high-value targets generally require a personal touch. And you are high value, aren’t you, Rex Nihilo? Ten percent of 1.6 billion credits will set me up for a long time.”

“Good luck collecting it,” said Rex. “If I’m not mistaken, bounty hunters are paid out of the money collected from the apprehended party. I don’t have anywhere near 1.6 billion credits.”

“How much do you have?”

“Fifty million credits. That leaves you with five million.”

Pepper shrugged. “Better than nothing. I never figured you had 1.6 billion anyway. Nobody does. Except maybe Gavin Larviton.”

“Don’t talk to me about Gavin Larviton,” Rex growled.

“Sore spot, eh?” said Pepper.

“That bastard is the one who got me into this mess. How would you feel about ten million?”

“Are you trying to bribe me, Mr. Nihilo?” asked Pepper, with a coy smile.

“I’m merely observing that ten million now is better than five million after a trip to Gulagatraz, not to mention the hours you’d spend doing the paperwork involved with turning me in.”

“You aren’t really in a position to negotiate, Nihilo. If I were the sort to take bribes, I’d insist on the full fifty million, and you’d give it to me. Of course if the bureau found out, they’d revoke my license and lock me up in Gulagatraz. Not to mention the fact that although you’d be out the fifty million, you’d still be wanted by every repo bot in the galaxy. No, I think I’ll just save us all a lot of trouble and turn you in.” She reached into her bodice again, pulling out a small spool of carbon polymer thread. “Robot, tie up your friends.”

I looked to Rex and he nodded. There wasn’t much else we could do under the circumstances.

I bound Rex’s and Wick’s hands and feet and then tied them each to a chair. When I was finished, Pepper did the same to me. She went to the nav computer and began rationalizing a course. Within minutes, we were on our way to the most hated destination in the galaxy: the holding facilities of Gulagatraz, where we would await a debt adjudication hearing with a representative of the Galactic Credit Bureau. Technically Wick and I were not wanted for debt crimes, but bounty hunters are empowered to apprehend anyone in the vicinity of the target in the hopes that friends and associates might be used to apply additional pressure on the debtor.

The optimal result of the adjudication hearing, from the GCB’s perspective, would be to immediately secure payment for the outstanding debt. Barring that, the bureau might accept partial payment and institute a payment schedule at usurious interest rates. In the case of large debts, the debtor is released under the recognizance of several repo bots, who hound the debtor mercilessly until the debt is paid in full. If it becomes clear to the GCB that the debtor is unable to pay, the debt is “renegotiated.” Renegotiation consists of commuting the unpaid balance into pain and suffering to be doled out to the debtor in the torture chambers far below the surface of Gulagatraz.[4]

Pepper landed the Flagrante Delicto at the Gulagatraz spaceport, cut our bonds, and marched us off the ship. As we exited, a sleek little black cruiser settled down nearby. Pepper patted the landing gear as we passed. “Good girl,” she said.

“Nice ship,” said Rex. “Is it yours?”

“My kitty follows me wherever I go,” said Pepper, flashing a smile at Rex. I looked up to see the words Bad Little Kitty painted on the ship’s side. Rex and Wick looked at each other and giggled. I rolled my eyes.

Regaining his composure, Rex started, “Miss Mélange . . .”

“Please, call me Pepper,” she said, still holding the lazegun on Rex. “And if this is another bribe attempt, save your breath.”

“Pepper,” said Rex. “I wouldn’t insult your professional dignity by offering you a bribe. However, allow me to paint for you a more complete picture of my current financial situation.”

“Is this going to take long?” We had entered the spaceport building and Pepper was herding us toward a shuttle to the Galactic Credit Bureau’s offices. “It’s only a five-minute ride to the bail office.”

“Not at all,” said Rex. “As I mentioned earlier, although I owe 1.6 billion credits, I only have at present about fifty million. However, I’m working on a plan that should net me several billion within the next six months. If you hold off on turning me in until then, you’ll get ten percent of the full debt. That’s a hundred and sixty million instead of five million.”

“Thanks for doing the math for me,” said Pepper, ushering us onto the shuttle. “Numbers are hard. And thanks for the thoughtful offer, but no. I’ll take the five million now. Bird in the hand and all that, you know.”

“Your loss,” said Rex.

We rode the shuttle to the offices of the Galactic Credit Bureau. Gulagatraz was originally only a prison, but a whole city of bail bond agencies, private investigators, lawyers, tattoo parlors, and related interests had grown up around it. The largest of these was the Galactic Credit Bureau. Pepper Mélange marched us inside and unceremoniously dumped us at the bail office. From there we were deposited by a bailiff into a holding cell, which was really a small plateau atop a narrow pillar of rock inside a vast underground cavern. The cavern was dimly lit by phosphorescent lichen on the ceiling far above us. A forest of flat-topped pillars like ours extended as far as we could see in every direction. Some were far taller and some were shorter, but most of them seemed to be about the same height as ours. They all looked to be about five meters across, with ten meters or so between each pillar. The bottoms of the pillars were lost in the darkness hundreds of meters below. I wondered whether I could leap to a pillar roughly even with ours. Probably not. And even if I could, I’d have no way of knowing whether I was any closer to the exit. And I’d have to make at least a dozen more leaps before I had any idea. No, escape wasn’t an option. We’d just have to wait for the GCB to come for us.

I’d heard of people waiting for months to have their cases adjudicated, but one benefit of owing an almost impossibly large amount of money is that every minute you languish in a cell represents potential lost revenue for the debt holder—in our case, around six hundred credits per minute in interest alone. Fifteen minutes after we arrived, a hoverpod buzzed down from the darkness, parking itself next to our cell long enough for a dozen repo bots to flutter out and cajole us inside. The door slammed shut and we zipped away. Not five minutes later we were deposited in what seemed to be sort of a vast underground foyer. Around us, hoverpods were depositing other unlucky debtors, who were then prodded by armored bailiffs with painsticks toward one of a series of doors that lined the circular wall of the room.

As I paused a moment to take in the spectacle, one of the bailiffs ran up to us carrying a short pole with a small black globe that crackled inside with lightning: a painstick. Our hoverpod scooted away toward some hidden opening in the cavern, and Wick gave a yelp as the bailiff poked him in the rear with the globe. “Move!” shouted the bailiff. We moved. The bailiff didn’t bother to give us directions; evidently, standard procedure was to jolt captives like cattle and figure that we’d determine the correct course through trial and error. All the other bailiffs behaved similarly; I reasoned that it had to do with language barriers: there were galactic citizens here from a dozen different species and from worlds I had probably never heard of. Apparently, falling behind on one’s payments was a failing common to all races and civilizations. In any case, judging from the yelps, moans, and shrieks arising from our fellow cattle, pain was a universal language.

We were shoved through a door into a room that resembled a courtroom. We stood at the end of an aisle, with miserable-looking souls packing uncomfortable plastic benches to either side. At the head of the room sat the adjudicator, a many-tentacled arthropod from the Rings of Nurgg. In front of her crouched a vaguely humanoid-shaped blob of orange-yellow gunk that I eventually recognized as a member of the Velveetarian species. I couldn’t make out much of what it was saying, but it seemed to be blubbering for leniency. Its efforts were certainly wasted; leniency was not part of the vocabulary of an adjudicator of the Galactic Credit Bureau.

In any case, our bailiff shoved the lump aside and handed a note to the arbitrator, whose eyes went wide and tentacles flailed excitedly. She said something to the bailiff, who grabbed the Velveetarian and shoved it into a chair in the corner of the room. Then the bailiff came back to us, giving Rex a prod to indicate that we were to approach the bench.

“One point six billion credits!” hissed the adjudicator. “My first Six Omega case! Which one of you is Rex Nilly-hoo?”

“Nee-hih-lo,” said Rex, stepping forward. “That would be me.”

“Tell me, Rex Nilly-hoo,” said the adjudicator, “how does one come to owe 1.6 billion credits? Usually it takes a whole boardroom full of idiots to default on a loan that size.”

“My planet ran into some tough times,” said Rex.

“Really? What sort of tough times?”

“The sort where it gradually cooled over the course of millions of years into a worthless lump of rock.”

“I see. Well, since you are the sole responsible party, I have no choice but to demand immediate repayment of the loan.”

“Will you take a check?”

“Cash only, please.”

“OK, so here’s the thing,” said Rex. “I’m expecting a large check from the Galactic Development Fund in a few weeks. Until then I’m a bit, shall we say, cash poor.”

“The GDF? Was your planet destroyed by the Malarchy?”

“Not yet, your honor, but I have high hopes.”

“So you haven’t even applied for development funds yet?”

“No, your honor.”

“How much can you pay right now?”

Rex bit his lip. “Fifty million credits.”

The arbitrator snorted. “How much can your friends come up with?”

Rex conferred momentarily with Wick and turned back to the adjudicator. “Wick here is owed six weeks’ back pay by the Frente Repugnante, amounting to twelve hundred credits, which he has graciously agreed to donate to the cause. Additionally, as an active member of the Frente, there is a forty-thousand-credit bounty on Wick’s head, which I hope to collect shortly after I get the twelve hundred from him.”

“What about your other friend?”

“Sasha is worth around twenty thousand on the open market.”

“What’s wrong with its face?”

“Nothing,” said Rex. “She’s just not easily impressed. I’ve also got a space clipper worth a million or so, but I’ll need it to get off this planet.”

A chorus of laughter erupted from the gallery.

“If your ship is in as bad a shape as your robot,” said the adjudicator, “you can keep it. I’ll take the fifty million. The balance of the loan, roughly 1.55 billion credits, is to be paid in pain and suffering. Do you have any heirs, Mr. Nilly-hoo?”

“No, your honor.”

“In that case, we will have to artificially lengthen your life by . . .”—she punched numbers into a calculator on her desk—“384 thousand years in order to extract the balance from you.”

“What if I adopt Wick as my son?”

“Then you will be tortured until you die a natural death, at which point the pain and suffering will be passed down for the next several hundred generations to his descendants.”

Rex turned to Wick. “What do you say, son?”

Wick’s brow furrowed. “Is this in addition to the six weeks’ pay?”

At this moment the bailiff approached with another note for the adjudicator. She read it and scowled. “In light of new information, I’m modifying your sentence. Fifty million to be paid now, with the balance to be paid in six months. Additionally, one of you will have to remain behind as collateral.”

I sighed. “All right,” I said. “Just try to come up with the money as quickly as you can. I’ll entertain myself by reflecting on the meaning of life and shutting myself down as soon as I get close to figuring it out.”

“No robots,” spat the adjudicator.

“Huh?” replied Rex.

“I can’t take a beat-up old robot with a mangled face for collateral. One of you two will have to stay.”

“OK,” said Rex. He turned to Wick. “Keep your chin up, son. I’ll be back for you as soon as I extort twenty billion credits from the Malarchy.”

“What?” gasped Wick. “Why me? I don’t owe anybody anything!”

“Have you forgotten the shameful incident on the Malarchian battle station where you momentarily refused to run into a volley of lazegun fire?” asked Rex. “Because I haven’t, Wick. That’s the sort of incident that can haunt you for the rest of your life. You should consider yourself fortunate that fate has provided a way for you to get all your suffering out in a scant six months. You’re a young man, Wick. Six months is nothing to a strapping lad like yourself. Why, I wish I had spent six months of my youth in solitary confinement rather than squandering my time getting drunk and engaging in a series of meaningless encounters with sex-crazed women of a dozen species. Besides, if I remain behind, who is going to mastermind the extortion of twenty billion credits from the Malarchy? You? No offense, Wick, but you couldn’t even figure out how to sell out your own cause when the opportunity was practically handed to you on a silver platter. And if that money goes unextorted, the debt will remain unpaid, which will mean that I’ll be tortured for the rest of my life. And then, assuming I can talk you into becoming my heir—and let’s face it, Wick, it’s pretty clear that your paltry wits are no match for my overwhelming rhetorical skills, so the adoption is basically a done deal—then you and your descendants will be tortured for countless generations to come. Is that what you want, Wick?”

Wick stood in open-mouthed befuddlement.

“Your honor,” said Rex. “Wick has volunteered to remain behind as my collateral.”

“Very good,” said the adjudicator, motioning to the bailiff, who dragged Wick silently away.

“Nice kid,” said Rex. “A bit dumb.”

“I’ll expect to see you within six months, Mr. Nilly-hoo,” said the adjudicator. She banged her gavel with one of her tentacles and we were led out of the room.

4    Far from being gratuitous cruelty, the torturing of deadbeats is actually a vital part of the planet’s economy: Gulagatraz possesses the dubious distinction of being one of only two planets in the galaxy whose infrastructure is powered entirely by misery. A massive underground misery reactor collects the six known types of misery (loneliness, pain, hopelessness, heartache, melancholy, and acid reflux), combines them according to a precise formula, and converts the resulting bursts of pure misery into heat and electricity. Gulagatraz’s misery reactor is so efficient and well fueled that it consistently produces far more power than the GCB can use in any practical way. The excess energy is channeled into printing vast numbers of preapproved credit card offers that are mailed to the far corners of the known universe.

CHAPTER SEVEN

What do you think that was all about?” I asked Rex, once we were safely back on the Flagrante Delicto.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” said Rex. “You know teenagers. To them, six months on top of a stone pillar in a dark cave on a hostile alien planet is a lifetime.”

“No, I mean why they let us out of there,” I said. “That adjudicator was all set to torture you to death and then someone hands her a note and the next thing you know, you’re a free man. Doesn’t that seem peculiar to you?”

“Sasha, when you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you learn not to question the capriciousness of the galactic bureaucracy. Who can say why we were allowed to go free or why Vic was so unfairly sentenced to be imprisoned for crimes he didn’t commit? I prefer to look to the future. Now rationalize a course back to Schufnaasik Six. I want to see the grand edifices of my planet blasted to atoms by that prismatic atrophy cannon.”

“There are no edifices on Schufnaasik Six, grand or otherwise, sir. And I believe it’s a plasmatic entropy cannon. Come to think of it, it’s a little strange that repo bots were able to find us on that battle station. It’s almost as if someone deliberately arranged for—”

“ . . . forget the sacrifices of the brave men and women of Schufnaasik Six City,” Rex was saying, “who are about to give their lives so that their fair city can be rebuilt even more glorious than before.”

It took me a moment to find my place back in the conversation. I interjected, “But you’re not actually planning on rebuilding the planet, sir.”

“Sasha, for Space’s sake,” Rex snapped, “the imaginary citizens of Schufnaasik Six don’t need to know that. Let them have their moment, you unfeeling churl. Where’s Vic? He’s missing my speech.”

“As you’ll recall, sir, Wick is still—”

“Have you rationalized a course yet? What have you been doing this whole time? Damn it, Sasha, we’re going to miss the big explosion.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” I found a course that would get us to Schufnaasik Six in less than two days. With any luck, we’d get there about the time the Peace Fortress was blasting the planet with its no-longer-secret weapon. I didn’t bother to tell Rex there was a significant chance we’d be spotted by the fortress and recaptured by Heinous Vlaak so that he could extract from us the secret of the nonexistent cloaking device that concealed the nonexistent buildings on Schufnaasik Six that housed the cloaking device. Presumably he knew this and didn’t care.

Rex spent the next day getting falling-down drunk. When he tired of that, he turned off the artificial gravity so he wouldn’t fall down anymore. He sobered up just in time for us to drop back into Euclidean space. Decelerating, we neared the planet.

“There it is!” shouted Rex, and then immediately regretted it.[5] He continued, in a barely audible whisper, “The Malarchian battle station.”

Indeed, there it was in orbit around Schufnaasik Six, looking like a dead bat impaled with knitting needles. Its fearsome plasmatic entropy cannon was pointed toward the planet.

“We’ve got front-row seats!” whispered Rex. “Make us some popcorn, Sasha. And a couple of vodka martinis.”

“I don’t drink, sir.”

“You don’t eat popcorn either, you overpriced can opener. Come to think of it, nix the popcorn and just bring me three vodka martinis.”

“We don’t have any vodka, sir,” I replied.

“You’re just bound and determined to ruin this show for me, aren’t you? Ooh, it’s starting!”

As he was speaking, the base of the huge dish lit up with an unnatural blue light.

“Oh man, this is going to be good!” shouted Rex, forgetting himself. He winced in agony.

The light went out.

“Test run,” said Rex. I nodded. We continued to watch. Nothing happened.

“Did we miss it?” I asked. “Did they already wreck the planet before we got here?”

We peered at the planet’s bleak surface. It was hard to tell whether anything had happened to it. It certainly looked no better than the last time we had been here, but it didn’t really look any worse either.

“I don’t think so,” said Rex. “I mean, that dish lit up, right? They were clearly doing something with the polemic apathy cannon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So why don’t they fire?”

“I don’t know, sir, but I wonder . . .”

“What? Out with it, Sasha!”

“Well, sir, now that Heinous Vlaak no longer has us captive, he has no way of getting the cloaking device technology out of us. So maybe—”

“ . . . maybe he’s afraid to destroy Schufnaasik Six because he thinks finding Schufnaasik Six City is the only way of getting his hands on the cloaking device!”

“Brilliant deduction, sir.”

“So the only way to get Vlaak to destroy the planet is to make him think he has another way of getting the plans for the cloaking device.”

“And how do we do that?” I asked.

“Clearly we need to get ourselves captured again. Sasha, set a course to intercept that battle station.”

“Sir, are you certain that’s the only way? We just barely managed to escape last time, and that was only because of the repo bots. I’m not sure we can count on another lucky break like that.”

Rex paused and scratched his chin. “No, you’re right, Sasha. Vlaak would only torture me to get the location of the cloaking device plans out of me.”

“Sir, I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but you do recall that there are no cloaking device plans, correct?”

“Right, but Vlaak doesn’t know that.”

“Still, he can’t very well use torture to extract something from you that doesn’t exist.”

“Obviously,” said Rex impatiently. “But his failure to extract the plans will eventually cause him to deduce that the plans don’t exist. So I need you to repress my memory of the plans before we get recaptured.”

“You want me to repress memories of something that doesn’t exist?”

“Are you going to make me explain everything twice? If you repress my memories of the plans, then I won’t remember that they don’t exist, right? So if Vlaak tortures me, all I can tell him is that I don’t remember anything about the plans. He’ll destroy Schufnaasik Six to try to force me to reveal the plans and then torture me, but I won’t be able to tell him anything. The only way to get me to reveal the location of the plans will be to transfer five billion credits into my bank account.”

“Five billion, sir? I thought you had asked Vlaak for two billion?”

“The price has gone up. I’m working my ass off here.”

“And what happens when Vlaak finds out there are no plans?”

“I’ll figure something out. Oh, you should wipe my memory of Schufnaasik Six City as well. Otherwise Vlaak will try to torture me to get the coordinates for him. I don’t want to be able to tell him anything useful whatsoever.”

“I think we’re well past that point, sir.”

“Keep it up, crater face.”

“So you want me to repress your memories of the nonexistent cloaking device and the imaginary Schufnaasik Six City. Anything else?”

“Not that I can recall. Ah, Sasha!” cried Rex theatrically. “So much to lose. The Spiraled Tower of Bernoth. The smokestacks of the zontonium refinery. The eight-hundred-ton cybernetic cranes toiling at the Schufnaasik Spaceport. The Museum of Particularly Tricky Knots.”

“Sir,” I said, “none of those things are real.”

“Well of course they’re not real, Sasha! Schufnaasik Six City exists only in my imagination, so more’s the pity that my memories of it have to be erased. The stalwart imaginary citizens of that grand fictional city will simply disappear without a trace.”

“Your memories aren’t erased, sir. Merely repressed. You might be able to get it back someday, with extensive therapy, which is probably advisable in any case, given your—”

“Perhaps.” Rex sighed wistfully, looking out the window at the barren planet. “Makes you wonder what other grand erections are buried in the recesses of my mind, eh, Sasha?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right then, let’s get started. I need to lose these memories before that battle station leaves. Remind me again, Sasha. It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“You won’t remember a thing, sir.”

I suspected that the battle station was conducting an intensive scan of the planet’s surface in an attempt to locate the mythical Schufnaasik Six City and that they wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. There was no way to know for sure, though, so I had to accelerate the repression procedure. It was over in two hours.

“Aaaaaaaaaargh!” screamed Rex. “Hey, what am I screaming about? Space, my throat is killing me. Did we do that repression thing again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was it this time?”

“The location of the plans for the cloaking device. And the location of Schufnaasik Six City.”

“Cripes, don’t tell me, you idiot! Now we have to do it all over again.”

“No, sir. I haven’t told you anything you don’t need to know.”

“See that you don’t, Sally. What’s that?”

There was a noise like someone knocking on the hull of the Flagrante Delicto.

“Are we expecting someone?” Rex asked, puzzled.

“No, sir. We’re in orbit.”

“Oh man,” Rex groaned. “You know what that means. Sp’ossels. Get rid of ’em.”

“Yes, sir.”

Space Apostles, colloquially referred to as Sp’ossels, are the scourge of the galaxy. Nobody seems to know where they come from or how they find their targets, but they have an uncanny tendency of showing up in the most unlikely places at the worst possible times with their message of . . . something about Space. As far as I know, nobody has ever listened to them long enough to find out what it is they’re trying to communicate. You can sign up for their newsletter if you really want to know.

I went to the airlock and looked at the viewscreen. A lone man in a vac suit was floating outside the hatch. His gloved fingers were fumbling with a folded sheet of paper, which he eventually got unfolded only to lose hold of it in the vacuum of space. The sheet drifted slowly away into the void and the man pushed off against the hatch, activating the vac suit’s built-in thrusters to pursue it. He miscalculated the paper’s trajectory, though, and shot past it. He flailed wildly as he activated the suit’s attitude rockets, trying to reverse course, but in his agitated state only managed to cause himself to spin wildly at what I calculated to be precisely seventy-eight revolutions per minute.

As I watched the spectacle, Rex came up next to me. “That’s got to be the most uncoordinated Sp’ossel I’ve ever seen,” he observed, taking a sip from a gin martini.

“I’m not sure it’s a Sp’ossel, sir,” I replied. “They always travel in pairs. And as you indicate, this man seems to be unfamiliar with working a self-propelling vac suit.”

The man eventually managed to stop his spinning and get his bearings. After some time, he spotted the paper, which was still leisurely retreating into the blackness. He took careful aim and activated his thrusters again, cautiously moving toward the paper. He was moving only slightly faster than the paper, though, and it looked like it was going to take him a good twenty minutes to catch it.

“I’m going to take a nap,” said Rex. “Let me know if there are any exciting developments.”

I nodded and continued to watch the slow-motion scene unfold. After about ten minutes, the man apparently lost patience and gave another burst to his thrusters. Bad idea. Now he was slightly off target and would probably miss the paper entirely. The man flailed crazily, trying vainly to alter his trajectory. Finally he got as close as he was going to get to the paper and made a Hail Mary swat at it. The paper slipped away before he could close his fingers and floated off into space.

This scene might have gone on until the man’s suit ran out of oxygen if he hadn’t happened to send the paper on a trajectory straight for the Flagrante Delicto. I watched out a porthole as the paper slowly approached, eventually flattening itself against the portal for a split second before bouncing away. It read:

GAVIN LARVITON

UNARMED

LET ME IN

There was a thump against the hull, and I heard the man scuffling across the ship toward the hatch. I went to find Rex, who was snoring in his bunk.

“Sir,” I said. “It’s Gavin Larviton. Should I let him in?”

“Huh?” Rex mumbled groggily. “Larviton? Hell, no. Let him float.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wait. What does he want?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

“All right, let him in. If he’s out there in a vac suit, he must be desperate. Maybe we can get some money out of him.”

“Yes, sir.”

I went back to the airlock and opened the hatch. Larviton pulled himself inside and I shut the hatch. Once the airlock was pressurized, I opened the inner door. Larviton pulled off his helmet and stepped into the ship. He didn’t look happy.

“Are you two complete idiots?” he snarled.

“I’m not the one who just spent half an hour chasing a sheet of paper rather than using the standard hailing frequencies,” I replied.

“Who is it?” Rex called from behind me.

“Still Gavin Larviton, sir,” I replied.

“Larviton? What’s he been doing this whole time?”

“Chasing a sheet of paper in his vac suit, sir.”

“How did it get in his vac suit?” Rex asked, coming up next to me with another martini in his hand.

“Do you have any idea how hard it was to get you out of that battle station, Nihilo?” Larviton growled. “Or to get you released from Gulagatraz? If you had any sense of self-preservation at all, you’d be a thousand light-years from here. Do you have any idea how big space is? How incredibly, mind-bogglingly huge it is?”

“Here we go,” said Rex, rolling his eyes. “I mean no disrespect, sir, but my associate and I already have our own convictions regarding Space, and we’d appreciate it if you would respect our right to our own beliefs. If you have any literature that you’d care to leave with us, we’ll take a look at it, but—”

“I don’t have any literature!” Larviton shouted.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” I replied. “Holding on to sheets of paper doesn’t seem to be your strong suit.”

“Look,” Larviton snarled. “You need to leave. Now. The only reason you haven’t been spotted yet is that everybody on that battle station is preoccupied with searching for a nonexistent city on Schufnaasik Six.”

“Why would they do that?” asked Rex, puzzled.

“Because you told them it was there!” Larviton yelled.

“No I didn’t,” said Rex.

“Yes you did, you moron! You told Heinous Vlaak there was a cloaking facility in a secret city on Schufnaasik Six.”

“I think I’d remember something like that,” said Rex, looking to me for reassurance.

I shrugged noncommittally.

“It sounds a bit preposterous,” Rex went on. “I mean, a hidden city? How can you hide a city? You’d need some kind of extremely advanced cloaking device.”

“Exactly!” Larviton exclaimed. His face had turned an alarming shade of red.

“So you’re saying there’s a cloaking device on Schufnaasik Six capable of hiding an entire city?”

“No! There’s no cloaking device! It’s all a ruse!”

“Aha!” cried Rex. “So you admit it!”

Larviton seemed on the verge of tears. He took a deep breath and started again. “OK, I don’t know what your problem is, but let me explain this very clearly. You need to get the hell out of here before the Peace Fortress detects your ship. Otherwise you’re going to be tortured until you tell Vlaak about the cloaking device.”

“You said there wasn’t any cloaking device,” Rex said. “What could I possibly tell him?”

“That there isn’t any cloaking device! And once he knows that, you’ll be of no more use to him. He’ll kill you!”

“That does seem to be the sort of thing I’d like to avoid,” Rex said. “OK, we’ll do it. For three hundred million credits.”

“What?” cried Larviton. “Did you hear anything I just said? I’m saving your life. Why should I pay you on top of that?”

“You tell me,” said Rex. He took a sip of his martini. “I’ll admit to being a little foggy on this whole situation, but you seem to be very concerned about my well-being all of a sudden. So you can explain your angle here or you can just transfer three hundred million credits into my private account. Your choice.”

Larviton looked at me and then back at Rex. “Can I get one of those?” he asked, his eyes landing on Rex’s drink.

Rex smiled. “Sasha, would you make Mr. Larviton a martini?”

“Yes, sir.”

I made the drink and we retired to the main cabin of the Flagrante Delicto. Larviton had removed his vac suit and taken a seat. He seemed to have calmed down a bit.

I had to admit, despite his memory repression–induced fog, Rex had a point about Larviton. Why was he suddenly so concerned with Rex’s well-being? Was he afraid that Rex was going to tell Vlaak something Larviton didn’t want him to know? If so, what could that something possibly be? Rex was so confused, he didn’t even know anymore what he didn’t know.

“Look,” said Larviton. “I’m sorry about the whole business with Schufnaasik Six. I had a balloon payment coming up and I needed to offload that debt. I heard about your little adventure on Chicolini and thought you might be the sort of person to get excited about the prospect of owning a planet and overlook some details, like existing liens on the thing. I’ll talk to the Galactic Credit Bureau and see if we can work something out. I already applied some leverage to get you released, you know.”

“You also told the GCB where to find us,” I said.

“True,” replied Larviton. “But that was for your own good. It was the only way to spring you from Malarchian custody.”

“So what’s your angle?” Rex asked. “You’re obviously working with the Malarchy on something. Probably selling them weapons. And knowing you, you’ve overpromised and . . . oh, ho!”

Occasionally Rex has a moment of insight. Usually those moments have to do with figuring out a scam that Rex wished he had thought of.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The pluralistic antipathy cannon,” Rex cried gleefully. “It doesn’t work!”

“Of course it works,” snapped Larviton. “It’s just . . .”

“Over budget and behind schedule. You told Vlaak it was fully operational, figuring that it would take him a while to find a use for the thing. After all, destroying an entire planet is a pretty extreme thing to do. Wasteful. Even the Malarchy doesn’t destroy entire planets without a good reason. But then we came along with a damned good reason: a strategically important target hidden somewhere on an otherwise worthless planet.”

I made my impressed whistling sound. I could tell from the look on Larviton’s face that Rex really had pieced it together.

“The cannon will work,” Larviton said. “My engineers just need a few more days. I had to make you disappear so that I could convince Vlaak not to use it on Schufnaasik Six yet. As long as you’re missing, he can’t risk destroying Schufnaasik Six City, because it’s the only lead he has for the cloaking device technology. So he’s scanning the planet, trying to find the city, but of course he’s not going to find anything because it doesn’t exist. How in hell did you manage to convince him that there’s anything worthwhile on that useless chunk of rock anyway?”

“Beats me,” said Rex. “I just found out about it myself.”

“Memory repression,” I explained to Larviton. “Rex didn’t want Vlaak to be able to extract anything from him about Schufnaasik Six City or the cloaking device.”

“You mean the fact that neither of those things exists.”

“Correct.”

“So you were planning on being recaptured? Why?”

“I’m a bit fuzzy on that one,” said Rex. “Sasha, a little help?”

“You wanted Vlaak to blast Schufnaasik Six City. You were going to apply for development funds, claiming they did serious damage to the infrastructure.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Rex. “Yeah, that sounds like me. Man, that’s genius. Of course, the plan depends on a functional pragmatic angioplasty cannon. How long until that thing is working?”

“A few days,” said Larviton. “A week, tops.”

“Hmm,” said Rex. “All right, then. Sasha and I should probably disappear until then. What do you say we meet back here in a week? The cannon will be working and Vlaak will undoubtedly be fed up with his scans revealing no hidden city on the planet. He’s not going to find a hidden city on the planet, is he?”

“I’d say it’s very unlikely, sir,” I replied. “Since the city exists only in the real estate of your subconscious, and that’s some pretty shaky ground at present.”

“OK,” said Rex, nodding. “So we just need to lay low for a week. Then we arrange to get captured, convince Heinous Vlaak to blast Schufnaasik Six, and then apply for our development funds. Larviton gets to keep his weapons contracts with the Malarchy, and I get duly compensated for the loss of my planet. Now we just have to settle on my fee.”

“Fee?” asked Larviton. “What are you talking about?”

“For disappearing for a week. I’m not going into hiding for free, you know. Earlier the number three hundred million was mentioned.”

“You’re disappearing so that you don’t get tortured and killed by Heinous Vlaak,” said Larviton incredulously. “You need an additional incentive?”

“Eventually Vlaak is going to use that cannon to wipe out Schufnaasik Six,” said Rex. “If I stick around and get captured now, Vlaak is going to try to use the cannon right away and you’re going to be in a lot of trouble. But after your contracts are terminated and you’ve been thrown in a dank cell somewhere in that battle station, I’ll still get what I want. Once the cannon is finished, Vlaak will blast the planet and I’ll get my twenty billion credits.”

If you can escape again, I thought.

“You’re insane, you know that?” said Larviton. “This plan of yours could go wrong a hundred different ways.”

Rex shrugged. “I’ll take my chances.”

Larviton studied him for a moment. “Fifty million credits,” he said at last. “Paid one week from today, if you keep your head down until then.”

Rex shook his head. “Two hundred. Half now, half in a week.”

Larviton snorted. “No way.”

“Then I guess Vlaak will get to test your cannon early.”

Larviton gritted his teeth. “One hundred total.”

“One fifty. Half now, half later. This is my final offer. Take it or I have Sasha park this ship right on Heinous Vlaak’s sundeck.”

Larviton agreed. What choice did he have? A sane person is always at a disadvantage when negotiating with a lunatic. Muttering angrily to himself, he transferred seventy-five million to Rex’s secret account with the First Bank of Orion, then suited up and jetted in awkward zigzags back to the battle station.

“Where should we go, sir?” I asked Rex once Larviton was gone. “We could easily hide unnoticed for a week in the asteroid belt of the Zebulon system.”

“No way,” said Rex. “I’d go batty out there. And we’re running low on supplies.[6] Find us a course back to that swamp moon.”

“You mean the forest moon.”

“Right, the swampy one with the car park.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir? We just betrayed the rebels to the Malarchy and got one of their operatives thrown into prison, possibly forever. Also, we still can’t provide the cloaking device you promised them. Oh, and now that the Malarchy knows there’s a rebel base there, the moon is probably under attack. So if the rebels don’t kill us, Malarchian marines probably will. And now that I think about it, that’s actually the best-case scenario.”

“The Malarchy doesn’t know where the base is, do they? I mean, where on the moon?”

“As far as I know, Wick just told them it was on the forest moon.”

“Did he tell them about the tree?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

“OK, then it’ll take them a few days to find the base, so we’re in no immediate danger. And I suspect they’ll want to make a big show of blasting the rebels to dust. Vlaak is itching to use his new asthmatic apostrophe cannon, which of course doesn’t work. And that damn battle station is so big, we’ll see them coming ten parsecs away. The rebels don’t know we sold them out, do they?”

“I doubt it, sir. Wick hasn’t had any contact with them.”

“And the rebel base whose coordinates we just gave to Vlaak is the last place he’d look for us. Plus, I think I might be able to scam some more money out of Princess what’s-her-name. We’ve got a week to blow; I should be able to come up with something. The matter is settled. Rationalize a course back to that swampy forest moon.”

There was no point in arguing further. I rationalized the course and a day later we were back at the rebel base.

5    You’d think that Modern Science would have found a cure for the common hangover by now, but evidently Modern Science has been too busy doing things like figuring out how to reconfigure DNA and creating artificial gravity. Modern Science doesn’t get invited to a lot of parties.

6    Liquor.

CHAPTER EIGHT

On our way back to the forest moon, I spent some time going over Rex’s finances. Before accruing a liability of 1.6 billion credits from Gavin Larviton, Rex had owed around thirty million credits to various governments, private lenders, and criminal organizations across the galaxy. I remembered fondly a time—was it really less than a week ago?—that thirty million credits seemed like a crushing amount of debt. Now Rex owed over fifty times that amount. The fifty million we’d received from the Frente as a down payment on the nonexistent cloaking device barely made a dent in the debt, and the seventy-five million Larviton transferred into Rex’s account wasn’t going to help much either. It probably wouldn’t even be enough to get Wick out of Gulagatraz—if Rex had been interested in doing that.

I’m not sure why Rex even bothered to haggle with Larviton over a few hundred million credits at this point; it was like bickering over the size of a tip on a bill that he couldn’t possibly pay. Force of habit, I suppose. For that matter, I didn’t see the point in trying to scam more money out of Princess Willie. How much could she possibly be worth? A billion credits? Even if we could bilk her out of her entire fortune, Rex would still default on the loan and once again become the target of salivating repo bots all across the galaxy. It was a miracle that he had been released on his own recognizance; usually debtors who owe more than a few million are followed by repo bots everywhere they go. Presumably we had Gavin Larviton’s influence to thank for their absence as well—it was in his interest for us to disappear as completely as possible until the plasmatic entropy cannon was operational.

The only way out of this mess was Rex’s crazy idea of convincing the Malarchy to pay him for destroying his planet. If his plan worked, Rex would be fabulously wealthy. If it failed, he’d be apprehended and tortured to death. There didn’t seem to be any middle option. Any sane person in this situation would do everything possible to make sure things went according to plan—but as should be clear by now, Rex was not entirely sane. And that’s why we found ourselves back at the rebel base, where we could accomplish nothing to ensure the success of the plan and any number of things to derail it. As fate would have it, though, the rebels were already well on their way to derailing the plan when we got there.

It seemed that the Frente had received an anonymous transmission containing the plans of the Peace Fortress. It was basically an uncensored version of the schema I had downloaded from the battle station’s network when we were on board, and as such it included several features that had been conspicuously absent from the public version, like the big red section on which was scrawled:

REACTOR CORE

HIGHLY VULNERABLE TO ATTACK!

A SINGLE KILO OF ZONTONIUM DETONATED AT THIS LOCATION WOULD CREATE A CHAIN REACTION THAT WOULD DESTROY THE ENTIRE BATTLE STATION!!!

The Frente’s war council had met for a marathon eighteen-hour session, at the end of which it was decided to attempt to detonate a kilo of zontonium inside the reactor core.

The council believed that destroying the Malarchy’s greatest weapon would tip the scales of the conflict in their favor. This may have been a bit excessively optimistic, but one thing was certain: blowing up the battle station would definitely put a crimp in Rex’s plan. The Frente had selected a team of their best agents to infiltrate the station in the guise of a diplomatic mission from a newly discovered planet in the Proboscean Cloud. The idea was to get aboard by pretending to offer allegiance to Heinous Vlaak and then somehow smuggle a grenade to the reactor level. Given the competence of the agent the Frente had selected to spy on Rex, I didn’t put the odds of success very high, but I had to admit it wasn’t the worst idea I had heard recently.

“This is the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Rex exclaimed. “You can’t just send a team of untrained rebels on a secret mission to a Malarchian battle station!”

“These men are highly trained,” sniffed General Issimo. “I handpicked the team. They’re the best we have.”

Having learned of the plan to sabotage the battle station, Rex had demanded a meeting with the general and Princess Willie. Although the general was clearly still suspicious of Rex (and presumably troubled by the fact that Wick hadn’t returned with us), Rex’s star had risen somewhat in light of intelligence indicating that the Peace Fortress had been spotted in orbit around Schufnaasik Six. The presence of the fortress was taken as proof that Rex had been telling the truth about the hidden cloaking facility on the planet.

“I’m sure they’re well trained at running sump pumps and spearing irradigators and whatever else it is you do around here, but a mission like this requires special skills. Diplomacy, subterfuge, camouflage, improvisation, demolition, maybe a little origami. I could get your team up to speed, but it would take at least two weeks. Three if you want them to be able to make a pterodactyl.”

“We don’t have that kind of time,” Princess Willie protested. “If these plans are correct, that battle station could wipe out Schufnaasik Six with one blast from its plasmatic entropy cannon. We’d lose your cloaking facility, which is the only advantage we have in this war. And what if they find out our base is on this moon? They could just as easily destroy us.”

“How could they possibly find out where this base is?” asked Rex. “Don’t you monitor all off-planet communications? Someone would have to slip out of here right under your noses and personally deliver the coordinates to the Malarchy.”

“I’ll admit it’s unlikely,” said the princess, “but we can’t take the risk. We need to strike as quickly as possible.”

“OK, one week,” said Rex.

“Three days,” said the princess.

“Princess,” said Rex, “I can’t possibly mold a finely tuned team out of a batch of undisciplined rebels in that time. Perhaps you should just let my associate and me handle this.”

“Absolutely not!” growled General Issimo. “I personally selected a team of three of our best men for this mission. I mean no offense, Princess, but I’d trust any of them over Mr. Nihilo.”

The princess thought for a moment. “We’ll use General Issimo’s team, but you and Sasha may go along. And you must be ready to depart in three days.”

“It’s a deal,” said Rex, “on one condition.”

“What’s that?” asked Princess Willie.

“I’d like to be able to pick one additional member of the team.”

“Who?” the general demanded. “Some scoundrel friend of yours?”

“No, sir,” said Rex. “The person I’m thinking of is a strapping young man who is highly dedicated to the cause. Someone in whom I believe you already place a great deal of confidence, General. His name is Wick Azores.”

“Wick Azores?” asked the princess. “The corporal we sent to fetch Gavin Larviton? That seems reasonable to me. What do you say, General?”

The general bit his lip. “Wick is off on another mission right now.”

“Well, call him back from the field. This mission takes precedence over anything else.”

“It’s just . . .” the general started. “He’s quite a ways from here, and the mission he’s on is extremely sensitive.”

“I see,” said the princess coldly. “So you’re sending our best agents off on sensitive missions without informing me. Is that where all my money is going?”

“No, Your Highness. I . . . I’ll get Wick back here as soon as I can.”

“Good. Is there anything else, General?”

“No, Your Highness.”

The general accosted us on our way back to our quarters. “All right, you son of a bitch, where is he?”

“Who?” asked Rex innocently.

“You know damn well who. Wick Azores. He was aboard your ship when you left, but he didn’t come back with you. What did you do with him?”

“Was he on board my ship again? That crazy kid. Sasha, remind me to fumigate before we take off next time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Space damn you, Nihilo! If you got that kid killed . . .”

“Relax, General,” said Rex. “Wick is fine. I mean, as fine as can be expected while being trapped on top of a giant stone pillar in an underground cavern on an alien planet a hundred light-years from here.”

“What?” asked the general. “Wick is on Gulagatraz? What in Space is he doing there?”

“There was a matter of some unsettled debts. We were planning on getting him back as soon as my cash flow problems are resolved.”

“And when will that be?”

“Six months, with any luck,” said Rex.

“You can’t leave Wick on Gulagatraz for six months!”

“I don’t really have a lot of say in the matter. The Galactic Credit Bureau has claimed him as collateral. I can’t get him out until the debt is paid. And you can’t mount your super-secret sabotage mission against the Malarchy until we get him out. So we’re at something of an impasse. Unless you want to explain to Princess Willie why you ordered Wick to stow away on my ship, causing me to rethink my alliance with the Frente and deny them access to my sophisticated cloaking technology.”

“Cloaking technology!” spat the general. “I still haven’t seen any hard evidence such a thing even exists.”

“Whether you think it exists is immaterial,” said Rex. “The princess believes it does, and if I decide to renege on my promise to deliver it to the Frente because you offended my delicate sensibilities by placing a spy on my ship, the princess will blame you. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that’s not going to go well for you.”

General Issimo simmered for a moment. Then he announced, “We’re going to get Wick out of that prison.”

“Do you have 1.6 billion credits lying around?” Rex inquired.

“No,” said the general. “We’re going to break him out.”

Even Rex seemed a little taken aback by this idea.

“General,” I interjected. “Gulagatraz is the most secure prison in the galaxy.”

“Not anymore,” snarled the general. “I’ll be damned if I’ll miss my chance to blow up that battle station because one of my men is stuck in prison.”

“He has a name, General,” Rex chided. “It’s . . .”

“Wick,” I offered.

“It’s Wick,” Rex continued. “And he’s more than a tool to be retrieved so that you can hatch some harebrained scheme to blow up a Malarchian battle station.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” said the general. “Because you’re coming with me.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because I’m not letting you out of my sight. Also, I can’t spare a ship right now, so we need to take yours.”

“What if I don’t feel like going along?” asked Rex.

“Then I tell Princess Wilhelmina where Wick is,” said General Issimo.

“You’ll be in big trouble for losing track of him.”

“You’ll be in bigger trouble for getting him sent to prison.”

Rex sighed. “Fine,” he said at last. “We’ll go on your stupid rescue mission.”

“Excellent,” said the general. “We leave at oh six hundred hours.”

“OK,” said Rex. “But can we make it, oh, seven hundred hours? I’m not myself if I don’t get at least six hundred and fifty hours of sleep.”

The general scowled, turned on his heels, and marched off.

“Sir,” I said to Rex, “why are you agreeing to go along on this mission? I mean, I feel bad about Wick too, but—”

“Who?”

“Wick. The guy we’re rescuing.”

“Oh, right, Wick. Nice kid. Could have amounted to something. Too bad he got mixed up with a bad element.”

“Yes, sir. As I was saying, there’s virtually no chance General Issimo will succeed in breaking Wick out of prison, and he’ll probably get himself killed in the process. Our problems are on the verge of taking care of themselves without our help. Maybe if we just slip away . . .”

“This is just like you, Sasha. Always wanting to leave things well enough alone. Haven’t you learned anything about that?”

I thought for a moment. “That we never do it?”

“Correct. We’re in too deep to skip out now. Besides, I don’t like the idea of General Issimo going off to rescue Wick without us. What if he succeeds?”

“You seriously think that’s a possibility?” I asked.

“One thing I’ve learned, Sasha,” said Rex, “is that no matter how poorly thought out a plan is, there’s always a chance it will succeed unless I’m directly involved.”

“You make a compelling point, sir.”

“All right, then. I’m going to hit the hay. Wake me up in six hundred and fifty hours.”

We departed the forest moon early the next morning. Rex was surly, feeling that he’d been cheated out of six hundred and forty hours of sleep, but he was back to his old self after three martinis. He’d somehow found time while we were on the moon to raid the general’s liquor cabinet, so the Flagrante Delicto’s bar was once again fully stocked. I rationalized a course that would get us to Gulagatraz in just under a day and a half. If everything went as well as could possibly be expected, we’d be back in three days, just in time to leave for the next suicide mission. Of course, Rex was going to do his best to make sure that things didn’t go nearly as smoothly as General Issimo might expect.

As we approached the planet, the general gathered the team together in the main cabin. The team was made up of Rex, me, and the three supposedly elite agents of the Frente the general had selected for the sabotage mission. All three of them looked younger than Wick and didn’t seem nearly as bright.

“OK,” said the general as we approached the forbidding planet. “Let’s go over the plan of attack.”

“You know,” replied Rex, swirling his martini absently, “I realize that’s a metaphor, but can we call it something else? Someone might get the idea we’re actually planning on attacking the prison.”

The general’s brow furrowed. “What’s a metaphor?”

Rex set down his martini. Never a good sign. “Seriously, General. You’re scaring the kids. What’s the plan, really?”

The general pulled a folded-up chart from his pocket and unfolded it on the table in front of us. “This,” he announced, jabbing a shot-glass-sized circle with his index finger, “is the planet Gulagatraz.”

“Do we have a better map?” I asked. It consisted almost entirely of a large shaded area labeled “SPACE.”

“Six men died getting this map to us,” said the general.

“So,” said Rex, frowning, “there’s no chance of getting your money back?”

The general leaned back from the table, folding his arms angrily. “It’s the best I could do.”

“Is the prison even on this map?” I asked.

“Of course!” said the general. “It’s right . . .”

The general’s finger had left a smudge on the map, obliterating part of the circle. A label pointing to the smudge read “PRISON.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the general. “There isn’t going to be anything left of the prison by the time we’re done with it.”

The three greenhorns cheered and thrust their fists in the air.

“How could six men have died getting you this map?” I asked. “You just found out Wick was there yesterday.”

“Printer malfunction,” said the general.

“Ah,” I replied.

“Sasha,” said Rex. “Would you care to explain to the general why his plan is the worst plan ever?”

“Certainly, sir,” I replied. “General, this isn’t a military ship. We have no weapons except some low-powered lazecannons that might be able to cut through the three hundred meters of solid rock to get to the subterranean prison, assuming we had about eight months. Also, even if we did possess the capability of doing significant damage to the prison, we’d risk killing Wick, thus defeating the purpose of this mission.”

“Excellent summary,” said Rex, downing the rest of his martini.

“What do you suggest, then?” demanded General Issimo.

“This isn’t my mission, General,” said Rex. “You’re the tactical genius here. How many of these rescue missions have you conducted anyway?”

“More than I can count,” sniffed the general.

“I see,” said Rex. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I’m not going to be insulted by a two-bit con artist,” snarled the general. “Just land us near that smudge and I’ll take care of the rest. This sort of mission is better handled with improvisation anyway.”

“You’re the boss,” said Rex. “My robot navigator and I should have the landing details worked out shortly. Sasha?”

Rex and I retreated to the cockpit.

“Sir,” I said. “That man is going to get us killed. If we get anywhere near the prison, they’ll shoot us down with lazecannons. And if by some miracle we make it to the ground in one piece, we’ll be met by heavily armed security forces. We don’t have a chance.”

“Sasha, you’re an unimaginative coward with no sense of adventure,” said Rex, “but damned if you’re not right this time. I’ve had bunions with more tactical sense than that idiot. How did he get to be a general anyway?”

“You’ve seen what passes for a team of crack commandos among the rebels, sir. And although I realize that you had your own motives for wanting Wick for the sabotage mission, I’m starting to think he may actually be the brightest one of the lot. Frankly, I get the feeling that the Frente is made up mostly of people who couldn’t find any other form of employment.”

Rex nodded. “OK, so here’s what we do,” he said. “Land the Flagrante Delicto on the other side of the planet. Hopefully we can slip through their ground-to-space defenses that way. We’ll tell the general we’re right in the middle of the smudge; he’ll never know the difference. Let his men spend five or six days wandering around looking for the prison. When they don’t find it, we return to the forest moon and let General Issimo explain to Princess Willie what happened to Wick. You and I hightail it out of there and head back to the battle station to get captured by Heinous Vlaak. He blasts my planet as originally planned and we’re back in business.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Flagrante Delicto plummeted toward the foreboding surface of Gulagatraz.

CHAPTER NINE

The uninhabited side of Gulagatraz was surprisingly well protected by surface-to-air lazecannons. I did my best to avoid them, but within minutes of entering the atmosphere we had taken so many indirect hits that our shields were nearly depleted.

“This isn’t going to work,” I said. “If I get any closer to the surface, we’re going to get vaporized.”

“That’s not going to fly with the general,” said Rex. “Is there another planet around here we can land on and tell Issimo it’s Gulagatraz?”

“How dumb do you think General Issimo is, sir?”

“How dumb is there?”

Another lazecannon blast rocked the ship. Red warning lights flashed. Our shields were at twelve percent.

“At this point we’ll be lucky to get out of here at all,” I said.

“All right, pull up. I’ll figure out what to tell Issimo and the team.”

Suddenly a blinding crimson glare flashed across the top of the ship. The shields were now down to three percent.

“What the hell was that?” Rex yelled.

“We’re taking fire from above, sir,” I said. “Just a glancing blow. Probably meant to be a warning.”

“Another warning like that and we’ll be ash,” said Rex.

A voice crackled over the comm system. “Follow me if you want to live, idiots.”

“Hey,” said Rex, “that sounded like . . .”

A sleek black craft soared overhead and then dove sharply toward the planet’s surface.

“Bad little kitty!” Rex cried.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Pepper Mélange’s ship! Bad Little Kitty!”

“What should I do, sir?” I asked.

“Follow her! It’s not like we have a lot of options.”

“Yes, sir.”

I shoved the yoke forward, causing the Flagrante Delicto to plunge dramatically toward the ground. Bad Little Kitty rolled right, dodging a barrage of lazecannon fire. The Flagrante Delicto did the same, with somewhat less grace and a significantly narrower margin of error. Someone banged on the door to the cockpit. “What in Space are you doing?” growled General Issimo’s voice. “You’re making us all sick!”

“Sick beats dead,” Rex snapped. “And watch the upholstery.”

Bad Little Kitty leveled out for a second and then rolled right and dove. I approximated the move as best as I could, and the Flagrante Delicto groaned in protest. It wasn’t made for these sorts of maneuvers. We dodged another lazecannon volley and then dove into a long, narrow canyon below the cannons’ line of sight. We followed the canyon wall for a few kilometers and then slowed. Bad Little Kitty landed on a small plateau and I set the Flagrante Delicto down next to her.

The terrain of Gulagatraz made Schufnaasik Six seem downright welcoming. In place of Schufnaasik Six’s dull, brown, rocky plains were endless jagged gray peaks and crater-pocked canyons. The plateau we had landed on was the first patch of flat ground I had seen since we entered the lower atmosphere.

Rex exited the cockpit and opened the main cabin door. The three young rebels stumbled outside and simultaneously vomited over the side of the plateau. The general looked queasy but held on to his lunch.

“Are you two complete idiots?” demanded Pepper Mélange as she hopped down from the cockpit of her ship. “I don’t know how you managed to get out of Gulagatraz, but anyone in his right mind would be a hundred light-years from here. I mean, do you know how many known habitable planets there are in this galaxy? Do you? Three hundred forty-seven. And do you know how many of them are nicer than Gulagatraz? Three hundred forty-six. Even that worthless ball of rock Larviton owns is more pleasant than this dismal wasteland.”

“Used to own,” corrected Rex.

“What?” asked Pepper, confused.

“Larviton doesn’t own Schufnaasik Six anymore,” Rex said. “I won it in a card game.”

For a moment Pepper’s mouth hung open in amazement. At last she said, “Well, I guess that answers my question about whether you’re idiots. And it also explains how you managed to rack up a 1.6-billion-credit debt. I thought everybody in the galaxy knew that Schufnaasik Six was Larviton’s money pit.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the planet,” Rex said defensively. “It’s just a bit overleveraged at the moment.”

“If Schufnaasik Six was any more heavily leveraged, it would be a black hole,” said Pepper. “And if there was anything worth a damn on that planet, you’d be there rather than being roasted alive by lazecannon fire on the far side of Gulagatraz. You guys are just lucky I had a tracer on your ship.”

“Lucky?” snarled Rex. “You shot us down!”

“I saved your asses. If you’d have climbed any higher, you’d have been vaporized by the stealth satellite.”

“What stealth satellite?” asked Rex.

“Exactly,” replied Pepper. “So can I assume your ill-advised return to Gulagatraz has something to do with a desperate plan to salvage your financial situation?”

“For your information,” Rex declared, “we’re here on a humanitarian mission.”

A pained expression came over Pepper’s face. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to break someone out of Gulagatraz.”

“Yep. A guy named . . .” Rex trailed off.

“Wick,” I said.

“A guy named Wick,” Rex said. “We need him for a super-secret rebel mission we have planned.”

“Hang on,” said Pepper. “Wasn’t there a guy named Wick on your ship when I captured you?”

“Same guy,” said Rex. “He’s my collateral.”

“So this Wick fellow is critical to the success of your mission?”

“Correct.”

“And you used him as collateral?”

“Right,” said Rex. “I know it seems a little counterintuitive, but in my defense, Wick didn’t become vital to the success of the mission until I knew he couldn’t possibly take part in it.” Rex glanced over at General Issimo, who was sitting on a rock breathing heavily, oblivious to the conversation. Rex leaned in closer to Pepper and whispered, “See, I’m trying to delay the mission as long as possible, so I insisted that Wick be on the team. Since he’s imprisoned on Gulagatraz, I knew he’d be unavailable. Pretty clever, huh?”

“Yeah,” replied Pepper, “except for the part where you apparently then agreed to break him out of prison.”

Rex scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It’s true, that part of the scheme sort of got away from me.”

Pepper shook her head. “You realize that there’s only been one successful escape from Gulagatraz in over a hundred years, right?”

“Sure,” said Rex. “But there’s a second time for everything, right? I mean, except for things that only happen once. Anyway,” he said quietly, “we don’t actually have to break him out. Frankly, I’d prefer if we didn’t. We just need to waste a few days and put on a good show of trying to break him out. Is there an abandoned refinery or something out here that we can pretend is the prison? Some place where the boys can wave their lazeguns around and kick a few doors in? When they tire themselves out, we’ll just say that Wick must have been moved to another cellblock or something. ‘Better luck next time,’ and we’ll skedaddle out of here.”

“Do you have any idea where you are?” Pepper asked incredulously. “This side of the planet is completely uninhabited. The temperature at night drops to negative three hundred degrees Celsius. Not to mention the S&D bots that will undoubtedly pinpoint our location within the next ten minutes.”

“S&D?” asked Rex. “If that stands for ‘sex and drugs,’ it’s probably not appropriate for the younger members of our team.”

“Search and destroy,” replied Pepper.

“Oh, that’s all right then,” said Rex. “Wait, what does that mean exactly?”

“It means they kill anything that moves.”

“That could be a problem,” said Rex. “We’re big fans of moving.”

“Well, don’t get used to it,” said Pepper. “If the bots don’t get you, you’ll be frozen stiff two hours after sunset.”

“Why did you help us if we’re just going to die anyway?” I asked.

Pepper sighed. “I have to admit, I was tempted by your offer of a hundred and sixty million credits. When they let you out of Gulagatraz, I figured the GCB must know something I didn’t. They wouldn’t let you go unless they thought there was a good chance you could actually come up with the money.”

“So you shot us down to try to scam more money out of us?” Rex asked. He sounded more impressed than angry. If I didn’t know he was incapable of it, I’d have thought he was in love.

“Yeah, but I can see now that was a mistake. The only way you two are going to come into possession of a billion credits is if you start some kind of charity for the incurably stupid. I should have known that it wasn’t going to be that easy.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Let’s just say I’ve got my own money issues,” said Pepper. “A hundred million credits would solve a lot of problems for me. Anyway, good luck with the S&D bots. I’m getting out of here.” She turned and made to climb back into her ship.

“Wait,” said Rex. “I realize that my methods are, shall we say, unconventional, but I really am on the verge of making a lot of money. That guy hyperventilating on the rock over there? That’s General Issimo, the leader of the Frente Repugnante. I’ve got a deal with them to outfit all their ships with cloaking devices.”

“There’s no such thing as a cloaking device,” said Pepper dubiously. The general scowled at Rex.

“That’s the genius of it,” said Rex. “Low overhead. I’ll clear half a billion in profit easily. And that’s not even counting the development funds I’m going to collect from the Malarchy when they blow up Schufnaasik Six.”

“The old development fund racket, eh?” said Pepper. “Are they still falling for that one?”

“Yep,” said Rex. “Just last week they gave the Livonians two billion credits to compensate them for wiping their planet off the map.”

“Livonia?” asked Pepper. “Where’s that?”

“It doesn’t exist,” said Rex. “It was a spot of jelly on the map that accidentally got classified as a planet. Like I said, they paid two billion credits for wiping it off the map.”

“Huh,” said Pepper. “I’m in the wrong business. OK, it’s worth a shot, I guess. If I get you off this planet alive, I get twenty percent of the development funds. And thirty percent of your ‘cloaking device’ sales. That’s gross, not net.”

“Ten percent,” said Rex.

“You see that fuzzy gray glow on the horizon?” said Pepper. “That’s the last sunset you’re ever going to see if I don’t get you out of here.”

“We’ll just stay inside the ship,” said Rex.

“Good plan,” said Pepper. “Except for that glow getting brighter in the other direction. Those are S&D bots, and they’re all done with the S part.”

“Remind me what the D means again?”

“She means they’re going to kill us, sir,” I interjected.

“Right!” exclaimed Rex. “I knew that. OK, twenty percent.”

“You’re insane,” said Pepper. “With no shields, you won’t last ten minutes against those bots. They’ll blow you to atoms.”

Rex smiled. “I know desperation when I see it. You blasted your way into a Malarchian battle station to collect the bounty on my head, and now you’re risking your life to skim a percentage of the take from my development fund racket. Twenty percent on ‘cloaking device’ sales, that’s my final offer.”

For a moment Pepper stood staring at Rex, whether in disgust or admiration I couldn’t say. Her gaze drifted to the lights on the horizon, which were growing rapidly brighter.

“Fine,” she said. “Twenty percent. Get in your ship and follow me.”

We did as instructed. By the time the Flagrante Delicto had taken off, Pepper had taken out the half dozen or so bots with Bad Little Kitty’s lazecannons. She veered back into the canyon and continued in the direction we had been going. “Try to keep up,” her voice crackled over the ship’s comm system. “More bots will be on their way.”

We scoured the bottom of the canyon for a few more minutes and then Bad Little Kitty pulled up sharply, leveled out, and dove straight down.

“What in Space is she doing?” Rex gasped. Pepper seemed to be on a suicide course.

“Unknown, sir. Should I follow?”

Rex bit his lip. On the rear viewscreen a score of tiny lights were growing slowly brighter. “All in,” said Rex. “We don’t have much choice but to trust her.”

I threw the yoke forward and the Flagrante Delicto dove toward the canyon floor.

“What’s that?” Rex asked, pointing at a dark circle in front of us. In the dim twilight, Bad Little Kitty had disappeared completely. There was no way to know if she was still in front of us.

“Some kind of tunnel, I think,” I said. “Should I slow down? I can’t see a thing.”

Rex glanced at the viewscreen again. The bots would be within firing range in seconds.

“No,” he said. “Keep going.”

For a moment we were completely blinded by the blackness around us. Then I caught sight of Bad Little Kitty disappearing around a bend in the tunnel.

“Turn!” shouted Rex.

The Flagrante Delicto groaned as I pulled the yoke to the left. A shower of sparks illuminated the darkness as the right side of the hull scraped against the tunnel wall. Bad Little Kitty straightened out and then rolled right. I followed as best as I could. Rex’s knuckles were white on the crash handles. From behind us we heard the rebels retching and howling in fear.

A series of thuds followed by a shower of light informed us that the bots had been less successful in negotiating the turns.

“Sorry about that,” crackled Pepper’s voice. “Had to lose the bots. There’ll be more of them, but they’ll never find us down here.”

“How far do these tunnels go?” asked Rex.

“The whole planet is riddled with gas vents. That’s why it makes such a great prison. It’s mostly hollow. Slap some bars over the tunnel openings and voilà! Instant prison.”

“How do you know so much about Gulagatraz?” Rex asked.

“Remember when I said only one person had ever escaped from here?” Pepper said.

“Uh-huh. Wait, you’re not saying . . .”

“Yeah,” replied Pepper. “It was me. OK, you’re going to want to pay attention for this next part. Try to keep up.”

CHAPTER TEN

After an hour of flying through subterranean tunnels, I began to suspect that Pepper was lost. After eight hours, I was virtually certain of it. She wouldn’t respond to my transmissions except to say that she needed to “concentrate.” The general was furious, but Rex took a more sanguine view. “He can’t blame us for getting lost in these tunnels,” Rex said. “We may as well waste a few days down here. Eventually we’ll find our way out and then it will be too late to execute the sabotage mission. This is going to work out perfectly.”

Four days later we ran out of vodka again and Rex’s confidence was beginning to erode. The general was furious and the crew was on the verge of mutiny. A few more days of this and we wouldn’t have enough fuel to get back to the Frente’s base. We might never even find our way outside Gulagatraz.

And then suddenly the tunnel opened into a large cavern with a perfectly flat concrete floor. Bad Little Kitty landed and I set the Flagrante Delicto down next to her.

“Where the hell are we?” demanded Rex, storming out of the ship.

“This is an old landing bay,” said Pepper, climbing down from her own ship. “Left over from when they were building the prison. Almost nobody knows it’s here. This is how I escaped.”

“You really expect me to believe that you escaped from Gulagatraz?” said Rex.

“How do you think I found this place?” asked Pepper.

“Um, by flying randomly through the planet for four days?”

“It’s a big planet,” said Pepper. “It takes a while to fly through it.”

“Did we go all the way through?” I asked.

“Yep,” said Pepper. “The misery reactor is a hundred meters or so that way.” She pointed at a door.

“The what?” asked Rex.

I explained, “Everything on this planet is powered by a huge underground reactor that works by combining the six known forms of misery and converting them into energy. Most planets use zontonium reactors, but not Gulagatraz. Gulagatraz is one of only two planets in the galaxy that gets one hundred percent of its power from misery. The other being New Detroit, of course.”

“That’s right,” said Pepper. “And the prison is right above the reactor.”

“We’re near the prison?” asked Rex. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to . . .”

“Didn’t want to what, Nihilo?” growled General Issimo, who had come up behind him.

“Er, didn’t want to sneak up on the prison from underneath,” replied Rex. “We had our hearts set on a full frontal assault.”

Pepper shrugged. “It was the only safe place to land. You can hide down here while your shields regenerate. What you do while you’re waiting is your business. Good luck.” She turned to get back in her ship.

“Where are you going?” demanded Rex.

“Anywhere but here,” replied Pepper. “I’ve spent enough of my life on this planet.”

“Did you really break out?” I asked.

“I did,” she replied.

“What were you in for?”

“Before I became a bounty hunter, I was a thief. I had a pretty good streak going until a friend gave me a tip on the delivery of a custom-built luxury ship. Turned out the ship was owned by Heinous Vlaak, and he doesn’t like it when people steal from him. He tracked me down, took his ship back, and had me thrown in Gulagatraz. I’d still be in prison if it weren’t for some contacts I had made in the Ursa Major Mafia. They offered to help me escape in exchange for doing some jobs for them. After I got out, they gave me a new identity and paid to have my DNA scrambled.”

“Oh, man,” said Rex. “DNA scrambling is the worst. Last time I had an ear growing between my shoulder blades. People acted like they didn’t notice it, but I could hear them talking behind my back.”

“You’re not going to the right doctors,” said Pepper. “Mine gave me these.” She unzipped her top halfway to her waist.

“Those are way better than an ear in your back,” Rex remarked.

Pepper nodded. “I couldn’t complain. The mafia got me out of prison and gave me a pair of phenomenal knockers, and in return they just wanted me to do a few jobs. At first it was just stealing stuff for them, but when they decided they wanted me to be an assassin, I told them I was out. They informed me that they owned me, and that the buyout was a hundred million credits. I’ve been paying what I could for three years, and I’m barely keeping up with the interest. The five million I got for capturing you bought me another week.”

“I see now why you’re so desperate for a paycheck,” said Rex.

“Yeah,” said Pepper. “If I don’t come up with at least fifty million in the next few days, they’ll kill me. So as much as I’d like to keep babysitting you, I need to follow up a few other leads if I’m going to have any chance of making that payment.”

“How are we ever going to find our way out of here without you?” asked Rex.

Pepper pointed at the wall behind our heads. I turned to see a sign the height of a three-story building that had been painted in fluorescent orange paint on the wall. The sign read:

EXIT ⇧

“That tunnel exits about five kilometers south of the prison complex,” said Pepper. “They’ll try to shoot you out of the sky if they see you leaving, so stay low until you’re out of range.” Suddenly a stunned expression came over her face. “What in the hell . . . ?”

We followed her gaze and saw that she was staring at a small spacecraft parked in the corner of the landing bay.

“Was that there when we landed?” asked Rex.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I didn’t notice it.”

Pepper drew her lazegun and strode toward the ship. Rex drew his own lazegun and we followed. When we were twenty meters or so from the ship, a hatch opened up and two neatly dressed young men stepped out.

“Hi there!” said the first man cheerfully, holding out a glossy paper tract. “Do you have a few moments to talk about Space?”

Rex groaned and holstered his weapon. “Sp’ossels,” he said.

“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Pepper, sliding her gun into her holster. “How did you even get in here?”

“We’re just spreading the good news about Space,” said the second man.

“In an abandoned landing bay three hundred meters below the surface of a prison planet?”

“We go where Space takes us,” said the first man.

“Cripes,” muttered Rex. “When is everybody going to figure out that there’s one universal force that controls everything in the galaxy and it’s spelled M-O-N-E-Y?”

“That’s a very common view,” said the first Sp’ossel. “But has money ever made you truly happy?”

“No,” said Rex. “But the lack of it has made me unhappy, and I’m pretty good at extrapolating. I’d be willing to take any money you have off your hands if it’s interfering with your oneness with Space, by the way.”

“Money is only a tool,” said the second Sp’ossel. “We use it to spread the word about Space.”

“I understand,” replied Rex. “Well, if you can’t part with your money, I’ll take a look at any Space you have on you as well. Just put it here between us.”

“Space is not something that can be held on to or controlled,” said the first Sp’ossel.

“It cannot be bought or sold,” said the second Sp’ossel.

“Man, did you pick the wrong sales pitch,” replied Rex. “OK, let me try to break this down for you: We are not interested in Space. Space holds no appeal to us whatsoever. Humanity has spent hundreds of years trying to find faster ways to get through Space precisely because we hate it so much. Space has no food, no booze, no women, none of the things that make life tolerable. The only reason I put up with Space at all is because I need somewhere to put my stuff. Capiche? Now scram!”

“We understand your hesitance to abandon your former ways of thinking about Space,” said the first Sp’ossel, “but surely you could take a moment away from your highly illegal prison break to look at some of our literature.”

Rex’s eyes narrowed at the Sp’ossel. “Is that some sort of threat?”

The Sp’ossel smiled and spread his hands. “Not at all,” he said. “But if we leave now, we may inadvertently draw attention to your activities. So it may be in your best interest to sit with us awhile and have a nice conversation about Space.”

“They’ve got us,” said Pepper quietly to Rex, herding us out of earshot of the Sp’ossels. “If they fly out of here, security will see them leaving. They’ll send a team down to investigate. Anybody suspected of participating in a prison break is shot on sight.”

“Won’t they get shot down if they’re seen?” Rex whispered.

“If they blast out at full speed, they won’t take more than a couple of lazecannon hits. They’ll live. We won’t.”

“Blast it!” snarled Rex. “I’m all for delaying this stupid prison break for a while, but I’d rather lick Heinous Vlaak’s boots than spend an hour talking to Sp’ossels. I’m telling you, I can’t do it. Am I allowed to shoot them?”

“Not a good idea, sir,” I said, eying the Sp’ossels beaming at us across the landing bay. “Sp’ossels are very protective of their own. If they find out we shot a couple of their missionaries, they’d hunt us down. And they’re everywhere, sir. They just appear out of nowhere. Space knows how they even found us down here.”

“So what if they hunt us down? What are they going to do, kill us?”

“No, sir,” I replied. “They’ll convert us. By force. Cerebral reconfiguring. Some say it’s worse than death.”

“Isn’t that what they’re going to do anyway?” asked Rex. “I mean, they’ve got us over a barrel here. Are they ever going to let us leave if we don’t convert?”

“We could pretend to convert,” I suggested.

“They’ll expect us to come with them to be indoctrinated into the faith,” Pepper said. “By the time we’re done, we’ll be converted for real.”

“So that’s it, then,” said Rex. “All my brilliant plans short-circuited by a couple of wandering religious wackos.”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” I said.

“Fine,” announced Rex to the Sp’ossels. “Let’s hear your Space drivel. But if we’re not converted by the time you’ve said your piece, you leave us alone, got it?”

“Oh,” said the second Sp’ossel with a smile, as the two men crept closer, “you’ll convert. Everybody converts. Eventually.”

“How long is this going to take?” Rex asked.

“It takes as long as it takes,” said the first Sp’ossel. “Our ship has a nutrient fabricator, so we can stay for years if we need to.”

“Fantastic,” said Rex glumly.

“The first thing you need to know about Space,” said the second Sp’ossel, “is that it’s big. Really big. You just won’t believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big it is.”

“Gaaahhh!” howled Rex. “I can’t take it. Somebody shoot me in the head.”

“OK, that’s enough,” said Pepper. “What if I come with you?”

“What?” Rex and I gasped simultaneously.

“I’m pretty much resigned to being killed by the Ursa Major Mafia anyway,” said Pepper. “I’ve heard of fugitives seeking sanctuary among the Sp’ossels.”

“It’s true,” said the first Sp’ossel. “Many of our number have made a new life for themselves after finding a path of violence and larceny to be a dead end.”

“But you’ll be a Sp’ossel!” cried Rex. “Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life? Traveling across the galaxy pestering any hapless morons who cross your path with blather about Space?”

“It’s a life,” said Pepper. “And, frankly, it doesn’t sound that much worse than traveling across the galaxy tracking deadbeats and bottom-feeders. No offense.”

“If you agree to come with us and learn about Space, we will leave your friends to their illicit activities,” said the second Sp’ossel.

If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought Rex was genuinely concerned about Pepper. I think maybe he saw in her a kindred spirit, and he didn’t like the idea of her giving up her life of freedom and adventure to become one of the Sp’ossel hive. Still, his own interests won out, as they always did. For my part, I was surprised Pepper went along with the Sp’ossels so willingly. It made me wonder whether she knew something about them that I didn’t.

“OK,” said Rex, “but don’t expect me to track you down on some Sp’ossel commune to give you your twenty percent. You snooze, you lose.”

“Good-bye, Rex Nihilo,” said Pepper with a smile. “OK, boys, let’s go. I hear you’ve got some things to tell me about Space.”

“Oh, yes,” said the first Sp’ossel, as they escorted Pepper toward their ship. “The first thing you need to know about Space is how big it is. It’s really just amazingly, astoundingly huge.”

“Is it?” asked Pepper. “I had no idea.”

They disappeared into the ship and the hatch closed. We watched as the ship took off and vanished into the darkness of the tunnel above.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The good news was that the Sp’ossels were gone. The bad news was that there was now nothing keeping us from proceeding on our mission to rescue Wick. Rex was worried that despite wasting four days flying around inside Gulagatraz, we might actually succeed in breaking Wick out of jail and get back to the forest moon before the plasmatic entropy cannon was ready. We had retreated into the cockpit of the Flagrante Delicto for the ostensible purpose of preparing the ship for a quick getaway once we found Wick. General Issimo and his men waited impatiently in the main cabin.

“If it’s any consolation, sir,” I told Rex, “I think the odds of us breaking Wick out are slim. We don’t even know how Pepper managed to get out.”

“Well, I can’t stall the general any longer. We’re just going to have to let them poke around a bit and hope they don’t get us all killed. If we can manage to waste another couple of days down here, there’s no way we’ll be back to the forest moon before the pederastic encephalopathy cannon is ready. We’ve already missed Princess Willie’s deadline for the sabotage mission.” He threw open the door to the main cabin. “All right, General. Let’s go find your man.”

I opened the outer hatch and the crew poured out into the cavern, led by the eager young recruits with their lazeguns drawn. The general exited next, followed by me and Rex, who had stopped to pour himself another martini.

“Where is he?” asked the general, surveying the vast cavern dimly lit only by the Flagrante Delicto’s running lights. “Where’s the prison?”

“Pepper said the reactor is over there,” I replied, pointing toward a human-sized door. “The prison should be right above it.”

The men charged eagerly and Rex and I trailed behind. We all stopped dead at the door.

“It’s locked,” said the lead man.

“Well, let history note that we gave it our best shot,” remarked Rex, taking a sip from his drink. “All right everybody, back to the ship.”

“I’m in charge here,” snapped the general. He turned to one of the recruits, a sweaty, bucktoothed nineteen-year-old with thin blond hair. “Fingers, blast that door open.”

“Fingers?” asked Rex, cocking an eyebrow. “We’ve got a guy on the team named ‘Fingers’?”

“Sir,” I said, “we’ve been confined on a small spaceship with these men for five days. How is it possible you don’t know their names?”

“Oh, like you know everybody’s names,” said Rex. “I mean, who’s that guy?” He pointed at one of the rebels, a short, red-haired kid.

“That’s Gabe Loninger,” I said. “He’s an orphan from Ballanchine Twelve. He joined the Frente when the Malarchy burned his village. He just wants to do his part to see freedom restored to the galaxy. Tomorrow’s his eighteenth birthday.”

“Yikes,” said Rex. “With a backstory like that, he’s a goner for sure. This is why I try not to get too close with the redshirts. What about this one?”

“Cole Arugula,” I said. “From Sorbonne Prime. Enjoys swing dancing and whittling.” Cole smiled shyly and waved at Rex.

“Uh-huh,” said Rex. “And the towheaded one?”

“That’s Fingers, sir. We already covered him. His real name is Dag Hammerstall.”

“So,” Rex said, turning to the man, “why do they call you ‘Fingers’?”

“It’s sort of a joke, I think,” said Fingers. “Lots of demolition guys are missing fingers, but I still have all mine.”

“That’s kind of a cruel nickname,” said Rex. “What happens if you lose a finger?”

“Then I guess I’ll need a new nickname, sir.”

“Well,” said Rex, “if you get any choice in the matter, I’d go with ‘Virginity.’”

“Enough of that,” snarled the general. “Fingers, set your charges. Everybody else, get back from the door.”

We did as instructed. Fingers, a pale and skinny youth who was full of nervous energy, managed to prolong his streak, successfully blasting the door open without losing any appendages. When the smoke cleared, the recruits rushed into the opening, shining lights into the dark corridor on the other side. Rex and I hung back, in case the blast had alerted someone to our presence. It was nice not to be the vanguard for Rex’s adventures for once.

Having apparently encountered no one investigating the sound, the general and his men rushed down the corridor, the flicker of their flashlights receding in the blackness. Rex sighed and downed his martini. “All right, Sasha,” he said. “Let’s see what we’ve gotten ourselves into this time.”

We followed the men into the dim hallway. Every ten meters or so there was a door in one side of the corridor; these were unlocked and opened into various storage rooms, utility rooms, and break rooms. None of these appeared to have been used for quite a while. Finally the corridor dead-ended at a locked door that bore a warning sign reading:

REACTOR PERSONNEL ONLY

“It appears we’ve located the misery reactor,” I observed.

“Is the prison near here?” demanded the general.

“It can’t be too far,” I said. “The reactor is powered by the channeled and amplified misery of the prisoners. I would guess that the prison is directly above the reactor itself.”

“You would guess?” growled the general. “I thought you landed us right at the prison.”

“I landed us closer to the prison than anyone could reasonably expect,” I said, which was true.

“All right,” said the general. “Fingers, blast that door.”

But as Fingers approached, the door suddenly swung open and a man in blue coveralls burst through. “ . . . did I tell you guys about screwing around in the old landing bay?” he was saying. “I ought to report you to . . .” He trailed off as he saw three eager-looking teenagers pointing lazeguns at him. “Oh, shi—”

The three rebels fired simultaneously and the man disappeared into a puff of smoke, leaving behind nothing but a greasy puddle on the floor.

“Let’s go,” said the general, stepping over the puddle. On the other side was another empty corridor ending in a door that was marked:

GULAGATRAZ MISERY REACTOR

MAIN ENTRANCE

TURNING AGONY INTO AMPS SINCE 2976

“Hang on,” said Rex. “Haven’t you ever infiltrated a reactor before? We should all be wearing coveralls like that guy was. I think there was a locker room a few doors back. Prop that door open and let’s go take a look.”

We located the locker room and found coveralls for everyone. General Issimo’s bunched up around his ankles and stretched tight around his waist; evidently there weren’t any Norks working at the reactor. Robots don’t generally wear clothing so I occupied myself by studying a map of the facility on the wall near the door. It didn’t include the prison, of course, but assuming that the prison was directly above the reactor, it shouldn’t be hard to find.

Satisfied that we looked vaguely like a crew of workmen, we headed back to the door. Passing through the corridor, we opened the door to the main reactor floor. It was a stadium-sized room dominated by a translucent cauldron the size of a five-story building. Inside the cauldron swirled a mixture of efflorescent substances that ranged in color from an unnatural greenish yellow to a foul-looking brown. A shaft arose vertically from the center of the cauldron, connecting it to a manifold that was fed by six massive steel conduits that angled to disappear into the rocky ceiling. The misery reactor.

We were standing on a catwalk that ringed the roughly spherical room, some ten meters above the floor. Below, dozens of workers milled about or sat at control stations placed sporadically about the reactor. The hum of the infernal machinery was almost deafening; I was surprised anyone had been able to hear the explosion over the din. No one seemed to take any notice of us.

“Which way, robot?” demanded the general.

“The prison should be above us,” I said. “I suggest we follow this catwalk to the far wall and then look for an elevator.”

“You heard the robot,” said the general. “This way!” He led his men across the catwalk. Rex and I followed.

We found a door on the opposite side that led to a lobby containing a bank of elevators. Coverall-wearing workers milled past us to and from the elevators as we walked in. Nobody seemed particularly interested in us. A sign next to the doors promised access to several other reactor floors; above these were a dozen floors that seemed prison-related.

“I expected this to be a little more difficult,” Rex grumbled to me. “At this rate, we’re going to be back to the forest moon well before Larviton’s cannon is ready to blast my planet.”

The general turned to me. “What floor is Wick on?”

“Oh, for Space’s sake,” said Rex. “Why don’t you and the kids just wait in the spaceship and we’ll have Wick gift-wrapped and sent down to you?”

I regarded the sign on the wall. “I think they had us in ‘New Arrivals’ when we first arrived,” I said. “They’ve probably moved him to more permanent quarters by now. Oh, here: ‘Collateral.’ On Level Four.”

We got on the elevator and the general pressed the button for Level Four. The elevator shot up and stopped when a light indicated we were on the right level. The doors slid open and we exited into another lobby area.

“May I help you?” asked a blue-skinned Tularean receptionist behind a desk to our left. If she was surprised at the sight of our motley crew, she didn’t show it.

The general strode forward. “We’re looking for a prisoner named Wick Azores.”

“Your name?” said the receptionist.

“I’m General Issimo of the Frente Repugnante,” said the general. “Wick is one of my rebels.”

“I see,” said the receptionist, apparently unimpressed. “Inspecting or receiving?”

“Eh?”

“Are you inspecting the collateral or paying for its release?”

“Oh,” said the general. “Inspecting.” He gave Rex a wink. Rex rolled his eyes.

“Sign here,” said the receptionist.

The general signed.

“I’ll need to hold on to your weapons,” she said, regarding the suspicious bulges in the recruits’ coveralls.

“Hand ’em over, men,” said the general, handing his lazegun to the receptionist. The other rebels and Rex did the same.

The receptionist stowed the guns in a cabinet behind her desk. “The collateral will meet you in Reception Room Four,” she said. “Down the hall to your right.”

The general smiled and nodded. He turned and marched down the hall, with the rest of the expedition following. We entered the room. It was small, only about five meters on a side. There was one other door, opposite the one through which we had entered. A red line had been painted on the floor, midway between the two doors, cutting the room into two halves. On the other side of the line, next to the door, stood a sleepy-looking guard. As we entered, the guard said in a practiced monotone, “The collateral will enter through the door on my left. You will have ten minutes to inspect the collateral. The collateral will remain at all times on this side of the red line, and under no circumstances will any part of your body or the collateral’s body be allowed to cross the line. Do you understand these instructions?”

“Yep,” said the general.

“Please understand that this is for the security of the collateral as well as your own safety, and that the operators of this facility, the Incarceration and Self-Storage Company of Gulagatraz, Inc., cannot be held responsible for any damages to your person or property resulting from—”

“We get it,” snapped General Issimo. “We’re just visiting. We won’t cross the line, I promise.”

“Please, sir, if you’ll allow me to finish. I’m legally required to explain to you that any attempt to—”

“We’re in a bit of a hurry,” said the general. “We’ve got a Malarchian battle station to sabotage, and we can’t do it until we’ve resc . . . that is, inspected the collateral. So if it’s all the same to you, consider the warning read in full and we won’t tell anybody. All right?”

“You waive the reading of the rest of the warning?”

“I sure do,” said the general.

The guard shrugged and pressed a button on a wall intercom. “Send in the collateral.”

While we waited, the general huddled together with his men, whispering something to them. They nodded and he gave them an encouraging thumbs-up.

After a moment, the door opened and Wick shuffled in, looking surprisingly chipper. “Hey, guys!” he exclaimed. “I was just—”

“Now!” yelled General Issimo.

Gabe and Cole leaped forward, Gabe apparently intending to grab Wick, and Cole aiming to take out the guard before he could pull his gun. Neither of them succeeded, as they were instantaneously atomized by an invisible energy barrier just on the other side of the red line.

The guard pulled his gun, yelling, “Freeze!”

“Whoops,” said the general. “Run!”

Rex and I were way ahead of him. There was a blast and a scream, and something about the size of a human hand sailed over my head and out the door into the hall. It smacked against the far wall and fell to the floor. Puzzled, I stopped and picked it up. It was, as it turned out, a human hand, perfectly cauterized at the wrist by a lazegun blast.

“Don’t stop!” yelled the general, barreling past. He was followed by Fingers, who seemed unaware that everything between his left shoulder and hand had been vaporized. A wisp of smoke trailed from his blackened shoulder as he passed. Rex was several yards ahead of them, sprinting toward the lobby. I shrugged and followed, still holding the smoking hand.

“What about Wick?” cried Fingers.

“Wick’s on his own for now!” yelled Rex, sliding to a halt in front of the elevators and mashing the “down” button with his fist. From down the hall, we heard a voice yelling, “Stop them! They were trying to steal collateral!” It was the guard, who had somehow gotten through the energy barrier.

The receptionist stood up from behind her desk, drawing a lazegun. “Hold it!” she cried.

Fingers, who was between me and the receptionist, held up his remaining hand to shield his face as the receptionist fired. Her aim was a bit off; the blast hit Fingers directly in the elbow, vaporizing his entire arm between the wrist and the shoulder. Fingers’ right hand fell to the floor.

Rex and the general dove into the elevator while Fingers stood there in shock, unable to comprehend what had happened. I shoved Fingers forcefully into the elevator, scooping up his other hand as I went. We got inside and waited anxiously for the doors to close while the guard ran toward us. Another lazegun blast tore a hole in the back wall of the elevator and then the doors slammed shut. Rex had hit the button for the main reactor floor and we began to drop.

“Is somebody cooking hamburger?” asked Rex, sniffing the air.

“Fingers’ arms got blown off,” I said.

“Arm,” said Fingers, uncertainly. His face was ashen and he was shaking badly. “I still have . . . gaaahhh!” I had made the mistake of showing him both of his hands.

“One nice thing about lazeguns,” said General Issimo. “Instant cauterization. Don’t have to worry about bleeding. Does it hurt, son?”

Fingers seemed to consider the notion for the first time. He nodded slowly and then began to scream. He didn’t stop until we were back at the Flagrante Delicto and I had given him three shots of pheelsophine.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Flagrante Delicto had no bio-suspension facilities but was supplied with a basic surgery kit, so we decided to reattach Fingers’ hands to his shoulders until such time as a pair of arms could be grown from his DNA and inserted in their proper place. Fingers would be pretty severely handicapped without arms, but at least he’d be able to use his hands in a pinch.

I conducted the surgery while we discussed our next steps. Fortunately, the prison’s security forces seemed unaware that it was possible to escape through the reactor to an abandoned landing bay, so we hadn’t been pursued past the elevator. We were as safe aboard the Flagrante Delicto as circumstances permitted.

“I think that was a fine first effort,” announced General Issimo. “A few casualties, yes, but that’s to be expected. I can’t think of anything I’d do differently.”

Rex nodded. “Next time, of course, we should try to actually rescue Wick.”

“Agreed,” said the general.

“And not order any more of our men to commit suicide by diving into an energy barrier.”

“Well, yes . . .”

“And try to avoid being disarmed,” Rex added. “No offense, Fingers.”

Fingers, being unconscious, was unable to take offense. I was busily stitching his left wrist to his shoulder.

“Of course,” said the general. “But now we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Indeed,” said Rex. “And he’s a complete idiot.”

“I’d like to see you come up with a better plan,” snapped the general. “How would you get Wick out of there?”

“Oh, no,” said Rex. “I’m not giving you any more ideas. The next time we go out there, I’ll probably end up with my feet sewn to my neck. That’s not a commentary on your work, Sasha; you’re doing a bang-up job there. I’m not sure what point you’re trying to make by having the thumbs pointing down like that, but I trust your judgment.”

I stepped back to regard my work and sighed. I’d inadvertently reversed the hands. There was nothing for it now; Fingers was coming around and we didn’t have any more pheelsophine.

“Yergh?” asked Fingers uncertainly.

“Don’t try to get up,” I said. “You’re going to be a little woozy for a bit.”

“Also,” said Rex, “and try not to take this too hard, but your left arm is missing.”

Fingers’ mouth fell open in horror.

“Both of his arms,” corrected the general.

Fingers looked from one shoulder to the other and started screaming again.

“I was trying to break it to him gently, you callous bastard,” snapped Rex. He turned back to Fingers. “As you see, Fingers, you’ve still got full use of both your hands, thanks to my robot assistant here. Sasha’s skills as a surgeon are surpassed only by her ability to reach items on tall shelves, which is also available to you upon request. And if you’re worried about people laughing at you, you shouldn’t be. Consider the mighty Tyrannosaurus rex, whose tiny, virtually useless arms drove it into such a rage that it became the terror of the Cretaceous Period. Let me assure you, no one laughed at T. rex—at least not until well after its kind were extinct and a race of mammals developed brains large enough to appreciate the ridiculousness of its absurdly stunted forearms. Oh, how they laughed then!”

“I’m a horrible freak!” cried Fingers.

“Well, yes,” said Rex. “There’s no way around that.”

“Take it easy, soldier,” said the general. “We’ll get you some more arms eventually. For now, you’ve got to be brave. Can you do that for me?”

Fingers nodded and tried to give a thumbs-up with his right hand, which turned out to be a thumbs-down with his left. Then he passed out.

“Just as well,” said the general. “Kid’s been through a lot. When he wakes up, we can head back out and take another stab at rescuing Wick.”

“Uh-huh,” said Rex. He turned to me. “Sasha, there’s a panel of blinking lights in the cockpit that I’d like you to take a look at, if you’ve got a minute.”

“Certainly, sir,” I said. We retreated into the cockpit.

“Sasha,” said Rex, closing the door behind us, “I want you to know that I didn’t ask you to come into the cockpit with me because of any blinking lights. That is, there are plenty of blinking lights here and they confuse and frighten me, but I just have to assume they are blinking in the appropriate order and the correct frequency.”

“Sir, I don’t want to go on any more rescue missions with that man,” I said.

“Nor do I,” said Rex. “I don’t know the meaning of the word fear any more than I know why these lights are flashing, and I laugh at danger with the sort of gusto most people reserve for armless freaks like Fingers out there, but suicide missions aren’t really my thing.”

“What shall we do, then? Should I just plot a course back to the forest moon?”

Rex shook his head. “It’s too soon. If we return now, the general might try to launch an attack on the battle station before the positronic endoscopy cannon is ready, and that will screw up my plans to have my planet destroyed. We’ve got to try to waste a few more days here.”

“What if we just stay in the ship, sir? We can let General Issimo try to rescue Wick if he likes. He’ll probably get Fingers killed, but I don’t think we can be held responsible for that. Fingers did sign up with the Frente, after all. He has to know that the average life expectancy of a rebel is three months. It’s in the brochure.”

“No good, Sasha. After his next failed foray, the general will probably lead the prison guards right back to the Flagrante Delicto. It’s a miracle we managed to lose them last time. I suppose I could just laze the general in the back of the head, toss him off the ship, and then blow a few days taking the scenic route back to the forest moon, but then what do we do with Fingers? I’d feel a little bad shooting an unarmed kid in the back of the head.”

“Also, all of the lazeguns are back at the prison’s reception desk.”

“That too. I’d have to club him with a bottle or something, which seems like it could be messy.”

“What do we do then, sir?”

“There’s only one thing we can do,” said Rex. “We need to come up with a way to rescue Wick. Something that will actually work, or that at least sounds like it might work. If we can convince the general we’ve got a solid plan to rescue Wick, then maybe he’ll give up his idea of a full frontal assault and we’ll actually make it out of here alive. We just need to waste a couple of days pretending to be trying to rescue Wick and then find an excuse to get the hell out of here.”

“What do you suggest, sir?” I asked.

“You said the prison is directly above the reactor, right? What if we said that you had managed to hack into the prison’s computer and found a map indicating the location of Wick’s cell? We could say that by some remarkable coincidence, his cell is directly above the Flagrante Delicto and that we just need to bore through the ceiling to get to him. How far through the rock could we bore in two days?”

I did some quick calculations. “If we set the ship’s lazecannons to torch mode, we could cut a man-sized hole through about ten meters of solid rock in a day. We could blast through a lot faster, but we’d risk burying the Flagrante Delicto in a pile of rubble and killing anyone above us.”

“That’s something we’d want to avoid,” said Rex. “OK, ten meters a day. If we set our lazecannons to bore through the rock above us, are we going to actually hit anything within twenty meters or so?”

“Doubtful, sir. Assuming that reception area is near the center of the prison complex, we’re some distance from the prison, unless it’s much larger than it’s rumored to be. This landing bay seems rather isolated.”

“Excellent. So we waste a couple of days boring a shaft in the rock, and then when we don’t find anything, we tell the general that we’re out of time and head back to the forest moon.”

“If you say so, sir,” I said.

“I do. Trust me, after two days of staring at a hole in the ceiling, the general is going to be dying to get out of here.”

As it turned out, it didn’t even take that long. The general started complaining after three hours.

“Are you sure this is the only way to rescue Wick?” he groused.

“Yep,” replied Rex. “According to Sasha’s calculations, Wick’s cell is twenty meters that way.” He pointed toward the cavity in the ceiling being burned out by the lazecannons. I had pointed them at roughly twenty degrees from vertical so that the molten slag wouldn’t fall directly on the Flagrante Delicto. Even so, it was becoming uncomfortably warm and smoky in the landing bay, which wasn’t particularly well ventilated. Rex didn’t seem to mind; he had found a chaise lounge on the ship and was basking in the crimson glow of the lazecannons with a martini in his hand. He had assigned Fingers to be his bartender, ostensibly as a way of giving the young man some confidence with his reconfigured appendages. Rex was forced to bite his tongue when Fingers’ inverted hands caused him to spill half a gallon of vermouth, but his patience seemed to be paying off. Fingers’ confidence was growing by leaps and bounds as he learned to make cosmopolitans, Bloody Marys, Manhattans, and, of course, martinis. It was the first time he had learned anything like a useful skill since joining the Frente on a dare three years earlier.

“It’s just not a particularly valiant way of rescuing someone,” complained the general. “There’s no sense of danger. No personal sacrifice.”

“I never promised it would be exciting,” said Rex. “It is, after all, boring work.”

“That’s the thirtieth time you’ve made that joke,” the general growled.

“The classics never get old,” said Rex. “Now either make me a sandwich or get out of my light.”

“This is intolerable,” said the general. “I can’t just sit around here watching molten rock drip from the ceiling. Fingers, come with me. We’re making another frontal assault on the prison.”

Fingers, who was carrying a White Russian and a steak sandwich to Rex, stopped and looked uncertainly at the general.

“That was an order, son! Stop playing waiter and grab your demolition gear.”

Fingers looked helplessly to Rex. It was clear he much preferred being a waiter to risking having more of his limbs blown off.

“Hang on, General,” said Rex. “I haven’t told you about Phase Two yet.”

“Phase Two?” asked the general doubtfully.

“Sure,” answered Rex. “Phase One is the boring phase. Phase Two is where all the action is. Valor, excitement, all that sort of stuff. You and Fingers are critical to the success of Phase Two.”

Fingers leaned over Rex to hand him the drink and sandwich.

“What is Phase Two, exactly?” asked the general.

“Well, obviously the prison is going to have seismic sensors to detect any attempts to bore through the rock into one of the cells, right? Otherwise, anyone could just park down here and cut a hole into the prison, much as we’re doing now. Once we get within a meter or so of the prison floor, the detectors will set off an alarm and Wick’s cell will be crawling with guards. So we’ve got to turn off the security system before we cut through that final meter. And the only way to turn off the security system is to cut the power.”

“How do we do that?” asked Fingers.

Rex took a bite of his sandwich. “Blow the reactor core,” he said.

I sighed. Just once I’d like to be involved in a secret mission that doesn’t involve blowing a reactor core.

“Ooh, I like this,” said the general excitedly. “This is much better than cutting through twenty meters of rock. So what do I have to do, send Fingers diving into the reactor core with zontonium charges strapped all over his body?”

Fingers visibly paled at the thought.

“I’m afraid the exciting part of Phase Two requires someone who has elbows,” said Rex.

Fingers brightened. General Issimo frowned. “Phase Two seems to have some pretty specific requirements,” he said.

“Crawling six kilometers through ventilation shafts,” said Rex. “I’d like to see you do that without elbows.”

Blowing a reactor core and crawling through ventilation shafts. Rex was really pulling out all the old standards for this mission.

“Six kilometers!” the general exclaimed. “That could take . . .”

“A day and a half,” said Rex. “Is that about right, Sasha?”

“The galactic record for the six-kilometer ventilation shaft crawl is thirty-two hours, eight minutes, and three seconds.”

“Is that encumbered or unencumbered?” asked Rex.

“Unencumbered, sir.”

“The general is going to be dragging ten kilos of explosives.”

“Hang on,” said the general. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“My mistake,” said Rex. “I thought you said you wanted to be part of the exciting phase of the mission. If you’re frightened, I can send Sasha.”

“I didn’t say I was frightened!” snapped the general.

“Good,” said Rex. “Sasha, what’s the record for the ten-kilo encumbered ventilation shaft crawl?”

“There is no ten-kilo encumbered ventilation shaft crawl,” I replied. “The lowest level of encumbrance is twenty kilos. The record is just over thirty-four hours.”

“Well, if I know General Issimo,” said Rex, “he’s going to want to keep everything aboveboard. That means a full twenty-kilo encumbrance.”

“I only have twelve kilos of explosives left,” said Fingers apologetically. “I didn’t know we were going to be doing a ventilation shaft crawl.”

“Not a problem, Fingers,” said Rex. “Rig up a pack of explosives and add eight kilos of sand to get it up to standard weight.”

“Look,” growled the general. “Even if I agree to this, I don’t see the point of dragging an extra eight kilos of sand with me.”

“I don’t make the rules,” said Rex. “Take it up with SCHAVDR.”

“Who the hell is Shafter?”

“Society of Competitive Heating and Ventilation Duct Racers,” Rex explained impatiently. “S-C-H-A-V-D-R. Now I personally don’t have a problem with you shorting your encumbrance by eight kilos, but as a matter of principle I won’t be able to vouch for you to SCHAVDR if you intend on going for the record.”

“Why in Space would I want to go for a record?” snarled the general. “All I care about is blowing the reactor core and getting Wick out of prison.”

“Well,” said Rex. “Other than the chance to win the coveted Golden Shaft, the fact is that if you’re going to blow the reactor core by the time we bore through the floor of Wick’s cell, you’re going to have to come pretty close to galactic record pace at this point. So you might as well go for it, you know?”

“If we’re pressed for time, why didn’t you tell me about this three hours ago?” demanded General Issimo.

“You’re the one who wanted to keep things exciting,” Rex said. “And what’s more exciting than racing against time to blow up a reactor core and possibly winning a Golden Shaft in the process? Anyway, we’re cutting it pretty close now, so I’d recommend stripping to your skivvies so Sasha can butter you up.”

“Butter me up?” said the general, aghast.

“You’re not planning on doing a dry six-kilometer ventilation shaft crawl, are you? Sasha, help the general out of his uniform, would you? Fingers, get those explosives ready. And don’t forget the sand.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Once General Issimo was buttered up and appropriately encumbered, I hoisted him into a ventilation shaft from one of the unused supply rooms. I had provided him with a hand-drawn map supposedly based on a blueprint I had downloaded from the reactor’s main computer. In fact the “map” was a printout of page 267 from 1,001 Mazes, Puzzles, and Word Scrambles, which Rex found on the Flagrante Delicto’s server. The page was conveniently labeled “Help Samson the Space Dog Find the Reactor Core!” but had been rendered nearly unreadable by Rex’s attempts to do just that. Having done my best to erase Rex’s martini-inspired scribbles and trace the correct route in red ink, I avoided any direct questions from the general about the nature of the map, simply telling him that if he followed the marked route, he’d have no trouble getting where we needed him to be for Phase Two—which was anywhere but here. Once he reached the reactor core, he was to radio us with his status. When Rex gave him the all clear, the general was to exit the shaft, plant the charge, and make his way back to the Flagrante Delicto.

There was virtually no chance of the general reaching the reactor core, of course; the best-case scenario would be for him to waste the next day and a half smearing the insides of the facility’s ventilation shafts with butter. Eventually we’d call him on his personal communicator and tell him the mission had been aborted. With any luck he’d make it back to the ship without leading a dozen security guards to us and we’d all head back to the forest moon safe and sound. Well, except for Wick. There was unfortunately no room in the rescue plan for any actual rescue.

The promise of a day and a half of peace and quiet was shattered about ten minutes after the general’s cloven hooves disappeared into the ventilation shaft. “Hey, guys,” squawked the general’s voice over Rex’s personal communicator. “Are you sure this map is correct? It seems like it’s missing some—”

“Maintain radio silence,” snapped Rex into his communicator as he accepted a martini from Fingers.

“It’s a little hard to read in here,” panted the general, “but it looks like I should have reached Abby the Space Tabby by now. Do you read me?”

“Proceed according to plan,” instructed Rex.

“I’m trying to,” said the general. “That’s what I’m saying. The map says I’m supposed to go left at Abby the Space Tabby and proceed straight until I get to the planet Saturn, but I don’t see any—”

“We’re activating Zeta Protocol on this end,” said Rex. “Going dark until further notice. Good luck, General.” He switched off the communicator.

“Is that a good idea, sir?” I asked. “What if the general panics?”

“Then I won’t have to hear about it,” said Rex.

He had a point.

The next twenty-four hours were peaceful and relatively pleasant, despite the heat of the lazecannons and ever-present odor of atomized rock. If the general was panicking, at least he was doing it out of earshot. But a few hours into the second day of boring, the near silence of the abandoned landing bay was punctuated by a distant scream. For a moment, I thought the general must have somehow found a duct leading back to us, but then I realized the sound was coming from the other side of the shaft we had been boring.

“Shut it down!” I cried. “Fingers, shut down the lazecannons!”

After a few seconds the lazecannons shut off, and Fingers came stumbling bleary-eyed out of the Flagrante Delicto. He had evidently been asleep. Rex was still inside.

“What is it?” asked Fingers. “Did we hit Wick’s cell?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t see how we could possibly have hit anything. There’s nothing up there to hit.”

“What do you mean?” asked Fingers, confused. “I thought Rex said we were boring right into Wick’s cell.”

“Er, he did say that,” I said, thinking quickly. “But we shouldn’t have hit it yet.”

“Oh,” said Fingers, leaning toward his right hand to scratch his chin thoughtfully.

“I said, is someone down there?” called a voice from above. It didn’t sound like Wick.

“What do we do?” whispered Fingers. “This is supposed to be a secret mission. Should we wake up Rex?”

I made an executive decision. “Who’s up there?” I yelled.

“You first,” yelled the voice.

“Tell him we’re with a utility crew,” I whispered to Fingers.

“Why don’t you tell him?” Fingers whispered back.

“I can’t lie,” I said. “Tell him we’re checking the floors for radiation leaks.”

Fingers frowned but did as he was told. “We’re a utility crew checking the floors for radiation leaks!” he yelled.

“You’re checking what?” called the voice.

“The floors!” repeated Fingers.

“There’s something wrong with the floors?”

“Tell him there’s nothing to worry about,” I whispered. “Someone reported a disturbance in this area and we’re just checking it out.”

“We’re just checking out a disturbance!” yelled Fingers.

“A disturbance?” the voice called back. “What kind of disturbance?”

“With the floors!” hollered Fingers.

“Did you say there’s been some kind of disturbance in the floors?” called the voice.

As we were having this exchange, Rex emerged from the Flagrante Delicto. “Holy Space,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “What’s all the caterwauling about?”

“We’ve hit something, sir,” I said. “Or someone, actually.”

“Who is that up there?” Rex yelled.

“None of your business!” yelled the voice. “There’s nothing wrong with our floors. Now plug up this hole before someone . . . gaaahhh!” There was a sound of scuffling and cursing, followed by a man falling from the ceiling and landing on the rock pile, which was only a couple of meters from the ceiling now. He screamed again as he tumbled down the blisteringly hot slag to the floor. Thinking quickly, Fingers crouched down to grab a nearby seltzer bottle and gave the man a good long spray. Rex helped the man to his feet.

The man was shriveled and decrepit; he had thin gray hair that was matted and dirty, and he wore a filthy, torn cotton smock. He looked uncertainly around the landing bay, his eyes gradually widening. “I did it!” he exclaimed. “I escaped! Ha-ha! So long, suckers!” With that, he took off running, disappearing into the darkness. After a few moments, the sound of his bare feet padding on the concrete floor faded into silence. I turned to Rex. He shrugged.

Once the slag pile had cooled a bit, I climbed to the top and managed to pull myself up into the shaft. I crawled up the steep incline until I found myself in a sloping tunnel. Shining my headlight into the darkness, I saw that it extended a good ten meters in front of me before angling sharply upward. Behind me, the tunnel dead-ended a few meters beyond the shaft. Something silvery glinted in the dim light at the end of the tunnel. I climbed over the shaft opening and inspected the object. It was a very well-worn spoon. I picked it up and climbed back down the shaft.

“So?” demanded Rex.

“Looks like an escape tunnel,” I said, landing on top of the slag pile. “He must have been digging for years.” I held up the spoon.

The old man reappeared in the dim light of the Flagrante Delicto. “Excuse me,” he said, trudging toward us. “How do I get out of this place? Hey, give me back my spoon!”

I handed him the spoon, which he clutched tightly to his chest with both hands. “Where are you trying to go?” I asked.

He scratched his head. “Hadn’t really thought about it. Never really expected to get out. I think at one point I might have been seriously trying to escape, but for the past twelve years or so I’ve been digging recreationally. You know, just digging for the sake of digging. It’s the only way to stay sane.”

“Holy Space, man,” exclaimed Rex. “How long have you been digging?”

“Eighteen years, three months, two days,” said the man.

I made my impressed whistling sound.

“Where does that tunnel lead?” asked Rex.

“To my cell. Number 21482.”

“Is anybody going to notice you’re missing?”

“Not for a while. They already did tonight’s inspection.”

“Do you need something for your injuries?” I asked. His arms and legs were scraped and burned in several places from tumbling down the slag pile.

“A Knight of the Chaotic Equilibrium feels no pain,” announced the man proudly.

“Ah, OK,” I replied. Rex looked questioningly at me but I had no explanation.

“Would you care for a drink?” asked Rex.

“A Knight of the Chaotic Equilibrium partakes of no strong spirits,” said the man. “But I could use a glass of apple juice if you have it.”

Rex nodded. “Fingers can help you out with that. What’s your name, friend?”

“Gleem Nads-Tardo, Knight of the Chaotic Equilibrium at your service,” said the man. “You can call me Ted.”

“All right, Ted. I’m Rex and this is my assistant, Sasha. Fingers here will get you something to eat.”

When Fingers and Ted had disappeared into the ship, Rex whispered to me, “What’s this Knight of the Chaotic Equilibrium business?”

“I don’t know, sir. Possibly a delusion. I have no information on any Knights of the Chaotic Equilibrium in my memory. Nor is there any ‘Gleem Nads-Tardo’ on record.”

“Poor bastard’s probably been driven crazy by eighteen years of digging with a spoon. See where that tunnel leads, would you?”

“Yes, sir.” I climbed back up into the tunnel. After sloping steeply upward for several meters, it took several seemingly random jogs that sloped more gently and then angled sharply upward again. My head hit something soft that smelled vaguely of rat droppings and stale sweat; it turned out to be a beat-up old mattress. Pushing it aside, I found myself in a small cubical cell with concrete walls and a single door made of iron bars. The cell was unoccupied.

I peered out of the bars into a corridor that was dimly lit by fluorescent panels. Ted’s cell was at the end of the corridor; there was another cell across from it and several more to my left, but that’s all I could see from the narrow opening. I thought I heard breathing a few cells down, but it was hard to tell. I didn’t dare make any noise for fear of attracting a guard. My reconnaissance complete, I headed back down to the ship. Rex saw me coming and stepped outside. I informed him what I’d found.

“It’s the bottom level of the prison,” said Rex. “I’ve been talking to Ted. He’s a little nutty, but from what I can gather, half of the level is made up by the torture chambers that provide the misery for the misery reactor. The other half is reserved for political prisoners and psychopaths. Hard to say which category Ted’s in. He claims to be the last of something called the Order of the Knights of the Chaotic Equilibrium. He’s pretty insistent about it. Says they were the protectors of the Galactic Republic before the Malarchy had them all executed.”

“As I mentioned, sir,” I replied, “I have no record of such an organization.”

“Ted said the Malarchy wiped all the official records of the order’s existence.”

“Of course he did,” I replied. “Typical conspiracy theory stuff, sir. I wouldn’t put too much stock in it. Did you ask him about Wick?”

“He says Collateral is three levels up. Should be a simple matter to blow the cell door, head up to the Collateral level, find Wick, and bust him out. Damn it.”

“What’s the problem, sir? It seems like things are working out pretty well for a change.”

“We weren’t supposed to actually rescue Wick, you nickel-plated knucklehead,” Rex snapped. “If we return to the forest moon now, we’ll be back before the pulmonary embolism cannon is ready. We need to stall for at least another day.”

“Sorry, sir,” I replied. “I got carried away with the excitement of the moment. But remember, sir, we can’t leave until the general returns anyway.”

“Who?”

“General Issimo, sir. He’s still crawling through the air ducts, as far as we know.”

“Oh, yeah!” Rex exclaimed. “Big, buttery fellow, right? What in Space is he doing in the air ducts?”

“Trying to blow up the reactor core,” I replied.

“Good grief,” muttered Rex. “Just once I’d like to be involved in a secret mission that doesn’t involve crawling through air ducts or blowing up a reactor core.”

“It was your idea, sir,” I reminded him.

“I know that!” growled Rex. “It doesn’t make the whole business less tiresome. I suppose we should check in with the general.” He flipped on his communicator.

“ . . . how I know I’m your favorite,” General Issimo’s voice rasped. “You don’t let just anybody carry vital nutrients to your brain. Nobody else knows these arteries the way I do. I’ve passed that same rat six times now. I know it’s the same one because its head is missing. I put its head in my bag with the nutrients. Some of your veins smell like butter.”

“Uh-oh,” said Rex. “How long has he been in there?”

“Just over a day,” I said.

“Have you ever heard of a case of duct madness proceeding this quickly?”

“No, sir.”

We listened to the general rant for a while longer. He’d definitely lost it.

“If we wait for the general, we’re never getting out of here,” Rex said.

“We may have to send someone in after him,” I said.

“Or just leave him.”

“Then we’ll be in the awkward position of explaining to Princess Willie that we sent the leader of the rebellion on a wild goose chase,” I noted. “Or duct chase, I should say.”

“Ugh,” said Rex. “All right, one rescue at a time. Let’s go get Wick, and then we’ll worry about the general. These guys are just lucky I’m here to look after them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rex determined that the rescue team was to be made up of me, Fingers, and Ted—which is to say, everyone but Rex himself. I was to be on point, Ted would help us navigate the prison, and Fingers would be in charge of demolitions. Rex would remain on board the Flagrante Delicto to “coordinate” the mission.

I hoisted Ted into the shaft first. He wasn’t happy to be returning to the prison, but he went along in exchange for a promise that we’d take him with us when we left Gulagatraz. He was blathering some nonsense about fulfilling the mission of the Knights of the Chaotic Equilibrium; I wasn’t paying much attention, as I was occupied with shoving Fingers through the shaft from behind. Lacking elbows, Fingers had a considerable amount of trouble scrabbling through the narrow tunnel. I helped as much as I could, but I was also burdened with Fingers’ demolition pack, which was tied with a length of rope to my left ankle. Finally we clambered up into Ted’s cell, exhausted.

“All right, Fingers,” I said, untying the rope from my ankle and handing the heavy pack to him. “You know what to do.”

He nodded and headed to the door.

“We should probably wait in the tunnel,” I said to Ted. “Fingers, as soon as the charge is set, get in the tunnel and pull the mattress over the opening. Make sure you give yourself enough time. When we hear the blast, we’ll climb out and go find Wick.”

Ted and I climbed back into the tunnel, leaving just enough room at the opening for Fingers. After a moment, he joined us and pulled the mattress over the hole. We waited in the crowded tunnel.

“What did you set the timer for?” I asked after about thirty seconds had passed.

“Ten seconds,” yelled Fingers, who had his fingers in his ears. “It should have gone off by now.”

“Hmm,” I said. We waited another thirty seconds. “Are you sure you set it for ten seconds and not ten minutes?” I asked.

“Yep,” Fingers yelled. “I’ve used these triggers a hundred times. It was definitely set for ten seconds.”

We waited a bit longer.

“Maybe the detonator is defective?” asked Ted from behind me.

“I doubt it,” yelled Fingers. “Those detonators are pretty reliable.”

“Loose wire?” I asked.

“Nope,” yelled Fingers. “I’m telling you, the timer and detonator were set correctly. And I used all the sand we brought.”

“Well, something has clearly gone wrong,” I said. “Maybe the . . . wait, what are you using sand for?”

“Remember, I gave all the explosives to General Issimo,” yelled Fingers. “Rex said when I ran out of zontonium charges, I should use sand. They didn’t teach us how much sand to use at the academy, though, so I used all of it.”

Rex’s voice crackled over my communicator. “Status report, Sasha. What’s going on up there?”

“The team is experiencing some chemistry problems,” I said. “Nothing I can’t handle. Sasha out.”

“The sand isn’t going to work, is it?” asked Fingers, pulling his fingers out of his ears.

“No,” I said. “It isn’t. Now get out of my way.”

We climbed back into the cell.

“OK,” I said. “New plan. Preferably one that doesn’t involve using an inert substance as an explosive.”

“I’ve got it,” said Ted. “The Knights of the Chaotic Equilibrium are masters at using clever ruses and persuasive techniques. Simply make a commotion to get the attention of the guard, and I will use my Chaotic Equilibrium powers to compel him to help us.”

“That sounds pretty good,” said Fingers. “Let’s do that.” He moved to the door and started yelling, “Guard! Hey, guard!”

“Shhh!” I hissed. “Let’s think this through a bit. Ted, I don’t mean to deprecate your grasp of the mysteries of the Chaotic Equilibrium, but if you were capable of hypnotizing the guards, why didn’t you do that instead of spending the last eighteen years digging a tunnel with a spoon?”

Ted shook his head sadly. “I’m no good at making commotions,” he said.

“Leave that part to me,” said Fingers. “I was the top of my class in Commotions at the academy. Does anyone have a metal cup or a police whistle?”

“This isn’t going to work,” I said. “Even if we could lure the guard into the cell, what would we do with him? We have no weapons. Fingers can’t very well strangle a guard in his current condition, and I’m congenitally incapable of attacking anyone.”

“Guess I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way,” said Fingers. “Guard! Guard!”

“Stop that!” I hissed. “I think I’m on the verge of coming up with a workable plan. If you just let me think for a minute, I could . . . wait, I’ve got it! Ted, lure the guard inside the cell and then—”

When I regained consciousness, I was lying on my back on the cell floor and a guard was pummeling my face with a nightstick. I heard the clang of the cell door closing and looked up to see Fingers and Ted in the corridor outside.

“Keep him occupied,” called Ted. “We’ll go find Wick.”

I nodded as best I could, given the fact that I was still being pummeled with some vigor. The situation was actually progressing better than I had expected.

Apparently noticing Ted and Fingers for the first time, the guard leaped to his feet and ran to the door. “Hey!” he yelled. “Come back here!” He grabbed his personal communicator and hit the transmit button. “Security command station, this is—”

I got to my feet, plucked the communicator from his hand, and dropped it on the concrete floor, smashing it under my foot.

“You little metal creep,” he growled, raising his painstick.

“Before you attack me,” I said, raising my hands and taking a step back, “you should know that I’m incapable of violence against your person, and that therefore any belligerent action upon me can only be a reflection of your own frustration, as understandable as that frustration may be under the circumstances.” I stepped over the mattress.

“Furthermore, while one cannot deny the benefit of a cathartic burst of violence, you’re not going to accomplish anything by attacking me other than demonstrating that you are a fascist thug with no capability for independent thought.” I grabbed the edge of the mattress, holding it up as a shield as he approached with his painstick raised. “Also,” I said, snatching a keycard from the guard’s belt, “watch your step.”

The guard’s eyes went wide and then he disappeared. The sounds of screaming and cursing gradually diminished as he rolled head over heels down the steep tunnel. I tapped my communicator. “Sir,” I said, “a prison guard is on his way to you.”

“Got him,” said Rex. There was a sharp noise like the sound of a vodka bottle hitting a skull, and then silence.

I moved to the door and reached the keycard through the bars, waving it in front of the sensor plate. The door swung open and I ran toward Ted and Fingers, who were some twenty yards down the hall by this point.

“That was genius the way you froze back there,” Ted said. “The guard was so surprised, he didn’t even see Fingers and me sneak out of the cell behind him.”

“Yeah, I’m full of brilliant ideas,” I said. “Most of them seem to result in me getting my face beaten in. How do we get to Collateral?”

“Stairs through here,” said Ted, opening a door to reveal a winding staircase. We ran up four flights to get to the Collateral level, exiting into a corridor just like the one we left.

“How do we find Wick?” I asked Ted.

“We reach out through the Chaotic Equilibrium,” said Ted. “Like this.” He took a deep breath and hollered, “IS THERE A PRISONER HERE NAMED WICK?”

Murmurs arose from the cells.

“Shhh!” I hissed. “You’re going to attract every guard in the prison!”

“You got a better idea?” asked Ted, making his way down the corridor. “Try freezing up again if you think that will help. WICK!”

“Hey, let me out!” yelled an inmate from a cell nearby. Soon the corridor was filled with the sounds of prisoners begging to be released. Somewhere down a side corridor I heard someone yell, “Sasha! It’s Wick!”

“This way!” I called, heading down the corridor.

“Sasha!” cried Wick’s voice again. “I knew you and Rex would come back. I told them I wasn’t supposed to be here, that it was a big misunderstanding, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“Yep,” I said, stopping in front of his door. “Big misunderstanding.” I swiped the card in front of the sensor and the door swung open. “Let’s go.”

The four of us ran back down the hall toward the stairs. As we neared the door, though, three guards with lazeguns emerged. “Stop right there!” one of them yelled.

“Elevator!” I shouted, ducking down another side corridor. I pushed the button and we dived onto the elevator as the guards let loose a barrage of lazegun fire. Fingers, who wasn’t used to running with no arms, lost his balance and fell to the floor. Wick tripped over him, falling headlong and smacking his head against the far wall. He slumped to the floor, unconscious. The doors slid shut and the elevator began to drop.

“We did it!” Fingers exclaimed, excitedly waving his fingers in the air.

Then the lights went out and the elevator stopped moving.

“What the hell?” said Fingers. “Did the power go out?”

“Impossible,” I said. “This whole place is powered by the . . . uh-oh.” I tapped my communicator. “Sir,” I said, “we’ve got a problem.”

“I know,” Rex replied over the communicator. “That son of a bitch did it. Somehow General Issimo found the reactor core and took it out with twelve kilos of explosives and eight kilos of sand.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Fingers, bend over,” I said.

“What for?”

“I need you to give me a boost to that access panel in the ceiling. Ted, give me a hand.” The elevator was dark except for the glow of my headlight.

Fingers crouched down and I climbed up his back and planted my feet in his hands, steadying myself against Ted. Fingers straightened up and my head smacked against the access panel, jolting it out of place. I pulled myself through the hole and climbed on top of the elevator. Above me I heard confused shouting.

Inspecting the sides of the shaft, I could see there was no room to climb down past the elevator. The only way out was up. We had dropped more than two floors before the power cut off; just above knee height were the doors to the floor directly beneath Collateral. If we could get through those doors before the guards figured out what we were doing, we might be able to get back to the stairs and take them to the bottom level. The trick was going to be getting Fingers and Wick—who was still unconscious—through the access panel.

I crouched over the opening, shining my headlight into the elevator. “Ted, see if you can boost Fingers high enough that I can grab his hands.”

Ted nodded and crouched down, wrapping his arms around Fingers’ knees. He grunted and strained to lift Fingers, who was a bit hefty even after his recent weight loss. Above me I heard the guards attempting to pry the elevator doors open. “Hurry!” I hissed.

But it was no good. I was holding the elevator cable with one hand and reaching as far as I was able into the elevator with the other, but even straining to reach as high as he could (which was just above his own ears), there was a good hand-length between my fingers and Fingers’ fingers. Then something cracked.

“Gaaahhh!” howled Ted, falling to the floor. “My back!”

“I see one of them!” shouted a voice from above me. I looked up in time to see a guard leaning into the elevator shaft with a lazegun. He fired, blasting a hole in the top of the elevator. I moved toward the access panel. “Hold my legs steady!” said the guard. I looked up again to see his whole upper body hanging into the shaft. I leaped aside as he fired again. The beam shot through the access panel, blasting a hole in the floor of the elevator and barely missing Ted, who was still lying on the floor moaning in pain. I jumped through the access panel, landing on Ted. I felt something in his spine crack.

“Aaaugh!” howled Ted.

“I’m sorry!” I cried. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no,” said Ted, sitting up and rubbing his lower back. “It’s much better now, thanks.”

The lazegun blasted another hole in the ceiling.

“Do you think you can climb down through that hole?” I said to Ted, indicating the smoking gap in the floor. “It may be our only way out of here.”

“A Knight of the Chaotic Equilibrium cowers at no task,” announced Ted. “But maybe you should go first.”

There was no time to argue. I lowered myself through the hole to the bottom of the shaft, which turned out to be only a few meters down. Standing on the bottom, I reach my hands up into the elevator. “It’s not far,” I said. “Come on!”

Just then there was another lazegun blast. I heard the sound of a steel cable snapping and suddenly the elevator lurched downward, landing on the bottom of the shaft with a terrible crash. I found myself standing in the hole I had just lowered myself through, the floor of the elevator just above my ankles. As the elevator abruptly halted, Ted and Fingers fell to the ground and I heard something crack.

“Gaaahhh!” Ted howled. “My back!”

Thinking quickly, I jumped on his spine.

“Aaaugh!” he screamed. “What are you trying to do, kill me?” He lay on the floor of the elevator moaning, his face contorted with pain. Above us, another section of the ceiling disappeared in a lazegun blast.

“Fingers, get those doors open!” I yelled, wrapping my arms under Ted’s armpits to drag him to safety. Wick had pulled himself to his feet and was rubbing his head, looking around groggily.

Fingers stood at the opening, awkwardly pulling the doors apart with his stunted limbs. Soon he had them a hand’s width apart.

“You’ve got it, Fingers!” I said encouragingly as a lazegun blast demolished the rest of the ceiling. “Just a little more!”

“This is as far as I can open it!” said Fingers.

It was true. Fingers’ hands were as far apart as he could get them.

“All right,” I said. “Spread your legs.”

Fingers did so, and I crawled backward through his legs, dragging Ted with me. I managed to get my head through the door opening and then twisted my shoulders to squeeze them through. I shouldered the doors the rest of the way open and pulled Ted through as another lazegun blast tore through the floor. “Wick!” I yelled. “Crawl through Fingers’ legs!”

Wick was still foggy, but a lazegun beam grazing his cheek woke him up a bit. He scrabbled through the opening. Fingers tumbled through after us, letting the doors slam shut.

“We’ve got to get Ted back to the tunnel,” I said to Fingers. “Grab his feet.”

I moved as fast as I could backward, with my arms wrapped around Ted’s chest and Fingers holding on to his ankles. Ted continued to scream in pain, clutching his back. Wick tailed behind, still rubbing his head. All around us, prisoners jeered at us and clamored for their release.

The guards were close on our tail by the time we made it back to Ted’s cell, so there was no time for niceties. We tossed Ted into the tunnel and I dove after. Fingers and Wick followed close behind. We tumbled down the tunnel and landed in a heap on top of the slag pile. I heard a loud crack and Ted screamed again.

“Aaaugh!” he said, rubbing his back. “That’s more like it.” The four of us tumbled down the pile to the floor.

Rex was sitting in his chaise lounge observing the scene with a martini in his hand. The unconscious guard was tied to one of the thick robotic legs that served as the Flagrante Delicto’s landing gear.

“Quick!” I yelled. “Untie that man! Get on the ship! We’ve got to get out of here!” I heard someone in the tunnel clambering down after us.

“Not necessary,” said Rex calmly. “I found the ship’s remote control. Observe.” He held up a small device and pressed a button. The ship’s landing gear contracted, folding the unconscious guard inside a recessed area with a crunch and causing the ship to drop with a crash to the concrete floor.

“Whoops,” said Rex. He pressed the button again and the landing gear shot out, restoring the ship to its previous height. After a moment, a bloody mass of something vaguely guard-like fell from the recess and landed with a thud on the concrete.

“That was an accident,” said Rex. “What I meant to do is this.” He pressed another button.

As he did so, a guard leaped from the ceiling to the slag pile, aiming his lazegun at us. “Fr—” he said, and was vaporized by a lazecannon blast. A few seconds later, another guard landed on the pile. He got as far as “F—” before being vaporized. The next three didn’t manage a single consonant between them.

“I could do this all day,” said Rex, grinning like a madman. “How long do you think it will take them to figure it out?”

Quite a while, evidently. We soon lost count of the number of guards who ended up as lazecannon fodder.

“I’m getting bored,” Rex said eventually. “Anybody else want to give it a shot?”

“Shhh!” I said. “What’s that sound?” I had heard a sort of scraping noise coming from somewhere in the dark expanse of the landing bay. Had the prison guards found another way in?

We all listened as the scraping turned into a metallic banging.

“Does anybody else smell bacon?” asked Rex.

“Hey, guys,” called a voice. “Can you help me with this grate?” It was General Issimo.

I ran in the direction of the sound, finding a ventilation grate high up on the wall. Wick boosted me up to the grate and I unscrewed it with my screwdriver appendage. The general, filthy and naked but apparently unhurt, climbed down. We walked back to the ship, where Rex was still absently blasting guards as they dropped from the ceiling.

“I did it,” General Issimo beamed. “Blew the reactor.” He shook his head violently, sending sand everywhere. “Hey, is that Wick? It worked! You rescued Wick!”

“Yeah,” said Fingers. “No thanks to y—”

“It was a team effort,” said Rex. “Everyone here did their part, which is really a tribute to the genius of the plan itself. Now, who wants to take over blasting guards so I can get some sleep?”

“Can’t we just leave now?” asked Fingers. “Why do we need to keep killing guards?”

“We don’t need to keep killing them,” Rex snapped, blasting another guard. “But I don’t like to leave a job unfinished. While there are guards coming through that hole, there needs to be someone here to blast them.”

“Knights of the Chaotic Equilibrium do not condone needless killing,” said Ted, frowning.

“I’m with the old guy,” said Wick.

“Me too,” said Fingers. “Let’s just go home.”

The general, who was still a bit dazed from spending a day and a half in the ventilation system, said nothing. He seemed transfixed by the sight of the guards dropping from the ceiling and vanishing in a cloud of smoke.

Another guard dropped from the hole and Rex blasted him. “Seriously?” he said. “I’m the only one here with any sense of commitment?”

“It just seems kind of unnecessary,” said Wick. “Those guys are just doing their—”

“BAM!” shouted Rex, blasting another guard. “Sorry, Vic. Doing their what now?”

I leaned close to Rex. “Sir,” I said quietly, “I understand that you want to delay our departure to ensure that the plasmatic entropy cannon is operational by the time we get back to the forest moon, but this may not be the best way to do it. If you keep this up for much longer, we may be facing a mutiny.”

Rex regarded the unhappy faces of the crew and nodded. “Sasha informs me that you men have moral objections to my continued blasting of . . . hang on.” He blasted another guard. “My continued blasting of guards as they drop from the ceiling. Is that correct?”

“We just told you we did,” said Wick. “We want to go home.”

“All right,” said Rex. “Let it never be said that I’m an unreasonable man. Sasha, could you give each member of the crew a piece of paper and a pencil? We’re all going to . . . hold on. Suck lazecannon, ceiling monkey! We’re all going to write down how many guards we think we should kill before we leave. Then we’ll compare our answers and come to a reasonable compromise. Sasha will ensure the anonymity of our answers. She can’t vote because she’s a robot and has no sense of morality. POW! Man, these guys aren’t even trying to dodge anymore.”

“None of us want to kill any more guards,” Fingers pleaded.

“You didn’t really grasp the anonymity bit, did you?” asked Rex. “OK, then, let’s just say our votes out loud.”

Grumbling arose from the crew.

“Sir, I don’t think this is going to work,” I whispered urgently. “There’s got to be a better way to delay our return. Surely we can find an asteroid field to get lost in on the way back?”

“Fine,” Rex grumbled. “We’ll head back to the forest moon. But first, let’s drink a toast to the brave men who inexplicably continue to descend from the ceiling directly into my lazecannon blasts.”

The men ignored Rex and filed into the ship.

“BLAM!” shouted Rex, blasting another guard. “OK, I’m coming, I’m coming.”

I followed Rex into the ship and went to the cockpit. I was about to retract the lazecannons when a guard dropped from the ceiling, alighting on the slag pile. He immediately held his arms in front of his face, as if anticipating a blast from the lazecannon. When it didn’t come, he uncertainly dropped his arms to his sides. After a moment, he looked upward, gave a quick nod and a salute, and drew his lazegun. “Freeze!” he yelled.

I blasted him.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I managed to get us hopelessly lost in a cloud of ionic particles on the way back to the forest moon. General Issimo groused angrily about my incompetence as a navigator, but Rex was delighted with this turn of events. “This is great,” he crowed, once we were alone in the cockpit. “Try to waste a few more hours in here, OK? I want to make sure we don’t get back to the forest moon before the pyramidic antibody cannon is ready.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, sir. This ionic cloud is wreaking havoc with our sensors. We may never get out of here. I don’t even know what direction we’re going. Or whether we’re even moving.”

There was a knock on the cockpit door.

“Who is it?” yelled Rex.

“It’s Ted, Knight of the Chaotic Equilibrium. I thought you might need some navigational assistance.”

“Sure,” said Rex. “Let me get the door for you.”

“Sir,” I said. “You understand that we really are lost, right? I need to concentrate if I’m ever going to find a way out of this cloud. Having Ted in here blathering about the Chaotic Equilibrium isn’t going to help matters.”

“Oh,” replied Rex. “I thought you were just screwing around. Well, it won’t kill you to humor the crazy old geezer for a minute.” He unlocked the door and Ted walked in.

“I hear we’re lost in an ionic cloud,” said Ted. “I assume none of the sensors are working?”

“That’s right,” I said. “We’re flying completely blind.”

“Good,” said Ted. “Then we’ll have no distractions.”

“Distractions?” I asked. “You mean like being able to see where we’re going?”

Ted chuckled and said, “Sometimes the greatest barrier to one’s destination is the journey itself.”

“Wow,” said Rex, nodding his head thoughtfully. “I never thought of it like that before.”

“Thanks for the insight, Ted,” I said, “but I really need to concentrate on getting our sensors back online. So if you don’t mind . . .”

“Only the truly blind man relies on his eyes to see,” said Ted, smiling beatifically at me.

Rex nodded again. “Ted makes a compelling point,” he said.

“No, sir,” I replied, “he doesn’t. We need our sensors to get out of this ion cloud. No offense, Ted, but pseudomystical nonsense isn’t going to help.”

“There is no man more deaf than he who has a thousand ears,” said Ted.

“Preach it, brother!” exclaimed Rex.

“That’s the worst one yet,” I said. “You know what, forget about the sensors. Just point in a direction. Just give me one actual piece of advice that I can do something with. One single practical suggestion.”

Ted smiled. “Action is the crutch of the man whose soul knows no rest.”

Rex shivered. “Man, that one actually gave me chills,” he said. “Is it cold in here? Seriously, feel my hands. I’m freezing.” Rex felt his left hand with his right and then his right hand with his left. This exercise apparently being inconclusive, he put both his hands on his cheeks. “My hands are warm, but my cheeks are cold! This is creeping me out. I think I’m connecting to something cosmic here.”

Ted nodded. “That’s the Chaotic Equilibrium. It’s always a bit of a shock when you feel it for the first time. Let it in, Rex.”

Rex closed his eyes and held up his hands as if to receive the Chaotic Equilibrium.

I was losing patience. “There is no Chaotic Equilibrium,” I snapped. “The phrase doesn’t even make any sense. And even if it did exist, it would be of absolutely no use in our current circumstances.”

“No truth worth knowing can be proved,” said Ted.

“I feel it in my xiphoid process,” said Rex, pressing his thumb against the lower part of his sternum. “Ow.”

“Don’t resist it, Rex,” said Ted. “Let the Chaotic Equilibrium in.”

“Get out,” I said. “Both of you. I need to find a way out of this cloud.”

Rex, who was now absorbed in the task of locating the presence of the Chaotic Equilibrium in his buttocks, left the cockpit. Ted smiled at me and said, “We aren’t lost. The Chaotic Equilibrium connects all things. Reach out with your mind and you will feel it.” He turned and left. I slammed the door shut behind him.

I spent another twenty minutes trying to get some useful information out of the sensors but was no more successful than I had been with Ted. Finally I picked a direction at random and engaged the thrusters. Three hours later we emerged from the cloud, no thanks to the Chaotic Equilibrium. As soon as the sensors were back online, red lights flashed and a warning klaxon blared. Rex burst into the cockpit. “What the hell is that? Did we hit something?”

I checked the proximity display. “It would appear that a Malarchian destroyer is closing with us,” I said.

“Well, get us the hell out of here!” Rex exclaimed.

“We can’t outrun a destroyer in Euclidean space, sir. And there isn’t time to rationalize an escape route. We’re sitting ducks.”

“Quick, pray to the Chaotic Equilibrium!” Rex exclaimed.

“I don’t think it works like that,” I said.

“How does it work?”

“It doesn’t, sir. That stuff about the Chaotic Equilibrium was nonsense. Chaotic Equilibrium doesn’t exist, and even if it did, it wouldn’t be any help to us.”

Rex frowned and jabbed his sternum absentmindedly. “But the Chaotic Equilibrium got us out of the icon cloud.”

“Only to have us immediately intercepted by a Malarchian destroyer. It would seem that the Chaotic Equilibrium is a capricious entity.”

“Damn it, Sasha,” growled Rex. “If I find out you’ve done something to anger the Chaotic Equilibrium . . .”

“Sir, there is no Chaotic Equilibrium. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. We can’t rely on some mysterious cosmic force to get us through this. We have to use our senses and our mental faculties.”

“Oh,” said Rex thoughtfully. “I think I see what you’re saying. The supposed ‘Chaotic Equilibrium’ is a mental crutch that helps the simpleminded make sense of the seemingly arbitrary forces of an uncaring universe. My subjective experience of the Chaotic Equilibrium was simply a psychosomatic consequence of my own need for validation. It’s a primitive, nonscientific way of looking at the cosmos.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“Then there is only one thing we can do,” said Rex. “Quick, Sasha, let’s get on our knees and pray to Science!”

Our theological exchange was cut short by a voice coming over the ship’s comm system via standard hailing frequency. “Crew of the Flagrante Delicto!” screeched the voice. For a moment the cockpit was filled with the horrible squealing of feedback. “This is the MSS Abhorrent. Prepare to be boarded!”

“Was that . . . ?” asked Rex.

“Yes, sir.” There was no mistaking the voice. Heinous Vlaak had found us.

There was nothing to do but wait for the marines to come aboard. Rex and I would be brought in front of Vlaak again, and he would once again threaten to destroy Schufnaasik Six. We were a day early, but hopefully Larviton’s engineers had gotten the plasmatic entropy cannon working. If the cannon didn’t work, Rex’s plan to bilk the Malarchy out of development funds would be moot. Also, Vlaak would probably have us killed.

“Good news!” exclaimed Rex as we exited the cockpit into the main cabin. “We’re about to be boarded by Malarchian marines!”

“How is that good news?” asked General Issimo, who was back to his old surly self.

Rex replied, “I have good reason to think that Heinous Vlaak will want to take me back to the Peace Fortress, which is currently in orbit around Schufnaasik Six. Once we’re there, we can blow the reactor core as we had originally planned.”

“Didn’t we already blow a reactor core?” asked Wick. Nods and murmurs indicated that Wick wasn’t the only one who was confused.

“Excellent question, Vic,” said Rex. “Sasha, is what Vic is saying true? Did we already blow a reactor core?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “As part of our mission to rescue Wick, we blew up the reactor core of the prison complex on Gulagatraz. That rescue mission was part of a larger mission to blow up the reactor core of the Malarchian battle station.”

“But we used all of our explosives at the prison,” said Fingers. “And I didn’t bring any sand.”

“And we don’t have any weapons,” said Wick.

“And we were supposed to fool the Malarchy into thinking we’re a diplomatic mission from a planet in the Proboscean Cloud,” added the general. “That’s going to be hard to do now.”

“Why?” asked Rex.

“You said Heinous Vlaak knows you,” said the general. “Also, we’re wearing Frente uniforms.”

Rex nodded. “It’s clear we’re going to have to do some improvising,” he said. “Just follow my lead, and we’ll make sure that reactor core gets blown.”

The general seemed unconvinced.

“He did get Wick out of prison,” said Fingers. Wick nodded.

“The Chaotic Equilibrium is strong with this man,” Ted intoned.

“Thanks, Ted,” said Rex. “OK, here’s what we’re going to do. In a few minutes, the marines will board us. They’ll commandeer the Flagrante Delicto and follow Vlaak’s destroyer back to the battle station. Vlaak is expecting only me and Sasha to be on board, so we’ll use that to our advantage. The rest of you will hide in the secret smuggling compartment.”

“Sir,” I said, “this ship has no secret smuggling compartment.”

“What?” Rex exclaimed. “I thought every ship had a secret smuggling compartment!”

“No, sir,” I said. “If they did, they wouldn’t be secret. In any case, it’s basically impossible to build a secret compartment into a ship this size. Every cubic centimeter of volume has to be accounted for in the ship’s design.”

“Huh,” replied Rex. “We have a baggage hold, right?”

“Yes, sir. But I don’t think it’s big enough to—”

“All right,” said Rex. “The rest of you hide in the baggage hold. When we get to the battle station, Sasha and I will deal with Heinous Vlaak. After the marines have escorted us off the ship, you guys subdue the guards, get them to tell you where they keep the explosives, find the reactor core, and blow it up.”

“Excellent,” said General Issimo, who had evidently never heard an insane attack plan he didn’t like. He began unbuttoning his shirt. “Somebody get the butter.”

“I think we can forgo the lubrication this time around,” said Rex, eyeing the general’s porcine torso with a grimace.

We managed to cram everybody into the baggage hold seconds before the marines boarded the ship. The marines took a cursory look around, but the bulkiness of their uniforms prevented them from bending down to open the baggage compartment. Judging from the fact that they didn’t seem to notice the scuffling and bickering coming from within, their hearing was significantly impaired as well. Two marines held Rex and me at gunpoint while another pair commandeered the cockpit and rationalized a course back to the battle station. Rex and I spent the next six hours leading the marines in a sing-along of the Malarchian anthem in an effort to cover the sounds coming from the baggage hold. After a couple of hours the marines’ enthusiasm began to wane, but Rex and I tried to keep it interesting by making up our own lyrics, most of which revolved around Heinous Vlaak and farm animals.

At last the Flagrante Delicto set down on the hangar deck of the battle station and Rex and I were marched down a corridor toward Vlaak’s reception room.

“What’s the plan, sir?” I whispered to Rex. “We don’t know whether the plasmatic entropy cannon is operational or not. Are we still going to try to get Heinous Vlaak to fire it at Schufnaasik Six?”

“We’ll just have to stall him as long as we can and hope Larviton’s engineers are ahead of schedule for once.”

“Do you think Larviton is still on board the Peace Fortress? If we could talk to him, we could get him to tell us the status of the cannon.”

“Good point,” said Rex. “I’ll see what I can do. Getting a straight answer out of him isn’t going to be easy, though. He’s terrified of Vlaak, and with good reason. If Vlaak finds out the ponderosa alopecia cannon is behind schedule, Larviton is going to be in a universe of hurt.”

We were ushered into Vlaak’s reception chamber. Next to him was a member of the giant cockroach-like species known as the K’t’kik’tikki. I recognized him as Lieutenant Kit T’kik’ti, Vlaak’s second-in-command.

“So!” Vlaak screeched. “You escape a ionic cloud only to be captured by me.”

“How’d you find us anyway?” asked Rex.

“I’ve been looking for you since you slipped out of my grasp. We received a report that a small ship disappeared into the Boralian Cloud, and only someone fleeing Heinous Vlaak would be so desperate.”

“It’s true,” said Rex. “I’m a desperate, desperate man. Not, like, talking-about-myself-in-third-person desperate, but pretty desperate. I suppose you’ll want to torture me now for a day or two, and when I refuse to reveal the location of Schufnaasik Six City, you’ll destroy the whole planet.”

Vlaak shook his head. “I’m done playing games with you, Nihilo. Tell me where the city is right now or I fire the plasmatic entropy cannon and blow Schufnaasik Six to atoms.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to torture me for a while and work your way up to destroying my planet? I don’t mean to question your expertise, but you don’t want to blow your wad too early.”

“Tell me the location of Schufnaasik Six City or see your planet destroyed!”

“OK, OK,” said Rex. “I can see you’re serious. But here’s the problem. How do I know your secret weapon is actually capable of destroying an entire planet? How do I even know the panoptic homeopathy cannon works? You see what I’m saying? It’s just not a very effective threat.”

“You’ll know it works when you see your planet destroyed!”

“Well, sure,” agreed Rex, “but actually having to use the weapon to prove the validity of the threat defeats the purpose of making the threat in the first place. If I’m going to respond appropriately to the threat, I need to know the cannon works before you use it. Do you have some plans I could look at or something?”

“You want me to show you the plans for our secret weapon?” shrieked Vlaak in disbelief.

“I’m OK with signing a nondisclosure agreement, if that’s your concern,” said Rex. “I’m not interested in going into the planet destruction business. I’m more of a cloaking device sort of guy myself. How about this: is there an engineer I could talk to? Someone who can vouch for your secret weapon? I’d just feel better about cowing to a threat to destroy my planet if I knew for sure you weren’t bluffing.”

Vlaak seemed on the verge of exploding in another rage, but then he grinned and began to cackle with glee. “I know just the man. An old friend of yours, I believe.” He turned to one of his guards. “Send in Gavin Larviton!”

So far, so good. Hopefully Larviton would confirm that the plasmatic entropy cannon was fully operational. But when Larviton entered the chamber a few minutes later, he didn’t look happy to see us.

“Gavin Larviton!” exclaimed Rex in mock surprise. “I had no idea you were in cahoots with the Malarchy, as I have not seen you since that fateful card game in which I won Schufnaasik Six, which as you know is where the secret cloaking facility is located!”

“Rex Nihilo,” muttered Larviton. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Oh?” asked Rex. “When did you expect to see me?”

“Not sooner than three days from now,” answered Larviton.

“Three days!” exclaimed Rex. “It’s already been almost a wee . . . bit too long for my tastes.”

“I thought I would be prepared for your arrival by now,” said Larviton. “But I’m not.” He looked at Vlaak, who was eyeing him suspiciously. “Emotionally, I mean,” added Larviton.

“I see,” replied Rex. “And when do you think you’ll be prepared for me? You know, emotionally.”

“A few more days,” said Larviton. “A week, tops.”

“A week!” cried Rex. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to—”

“What in Space are you two talking about?” shrieked Vlaak. “I thought we were going to talk about my secret weapon and instead you two are going on about your feelings for each other. The only emotions I understand are anger, hatred, and fear. If you aren’t expressing one of those three emotions, I don’t want to hear about it!”

“Sorry, Your Lordship,” replied Larviton.

“Now,” Vlaak began, “tell Mr. Nihilo about the plasmatic entropy cannon. I want him to know exactly what is going to happen to his precious planet.”

“Yes, Your Lordship,” Larviton replied. “You see, Mr. Nihilo, the plasmatic entropy cannon induces a wave of pure plasmatized entropy, which can reduce anything in its path to its constituent atoms. The field will engulf Schufnaasik Six and break the molecular bonds holding it together.”

“Fascinating,” said Rex. “And this weapon is fully operational?”

“Absolutely,” replied Larviton.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Rex. “You’re sure you’re not maybe putting some finishing touches on it that will take a few more days?”

“Ha!” cried Larviton nervously. “If that were the case, I’d be as good as dead. His Lordship Heinous Vlaak promised to personally torture me to death if I was unable to deliver a working plasmatic entropy cannon on schedule. Fortunately, the cannon is completely operational.” He smiled weakly at Vlaak.

“So,” Rex asked, “if the cannon were fired right now, what would happen?”

“Schufnaasik Six would be utterly destroyed,” said Larviton. “While this battle station and everyone on it would remain completely safe, because all of the plasmatic entropy would be directed toward Schufnaasik Six and not, say, released in an uncontrolled burst vaporizing everything around it.”

“Good to hear,” said Rex. “That second thing sounds like something we’d like to avoid.”

“Yes,” replied Larviton. “And yet, still better than being tortured to death, if you see what I’m getting at.”

“Uh-huh,” said Rex. “So it would seem that my best bet would be to reveal the location of Schufnaasik Six City. Of course, if it turned out that—and I know this is crazy, but hear me out—if it turned out that there is no Schufnaasik Six City, and there never was any cloaking device facility, nor, for that matter, any cloaking device, well, in that purely hypothetical case I would be unable to reveal the location of said city and I would myself likely be tortured to death by His Lordship in an attempt to obtain that nonexistent information. Boy, it’s a good thing this is a completely hypothetical scenario, because it’s sort of a no-win deal for me.”

“Exactly,” said Larviton. “There’s no way you’re getting out of here alive.”

“Interesting,” said Rex. “In that case, I have nothing to lose by informing His Lordship that the propitious elderberry cannon is not operational, and that firing it now would be extremely dangerous.”

Vlaak glared at Larviton. “What is he talking about?” he demanded. “Is my secret weapon unsafe?”

Larviton laughed nervously. “Of course not, Your Lordship!” he replied. “I assure you that the cannon is one hundred percent safe and operational. In fact, when I was summoned here, I was just about to deliver to Your Lordship this remote control device that will allow you to fire the plasmatic entropy cannon at will.” He held up a small black device with a single red button on it. “I’m tempted to push the button myself just to stop Mr. Nihilo from blabbering any more of his nonsense.”

Rex swallowed hard and regarded Larviton coldly. I could see he was trying to determine whether Larviton was bluffing. If the cannon really was dangerously unstable, as he seemed to be implying, then pushing that button would kill us all. But if Larviton’s only alternative was to suffer the consequences of failing to deliver on his promise to Vlaak, a quick death might seem like a pretty good option to him. If Rex persisted in his claim that the cannon wasn’t operational, Larviton would push the button—and we’d be killed. If Rex backed down and let Vlaak believe the cannon was ready, then Vlaak would give the order to fire—and we’d be killed. Somehow Rex needed to convince Vlaak not to fire while giving Larviton a nonsuicidal way out of this mess.

“You got me,” said Rex. “I was bluffing. I’m sure the cannon works perfectly. I apologize for impugning Mr. Larviton’s professional reputation. I meant no offense; I was driven to lie out of desperation to save my beloved planet.”

“If you love your planet so much,” hissed Vlaak, “then tell me where Schufnaasik Six City is. THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE!”

“OK,” said Rex. “You win. I’ll tell you where it is. Do you have a pencil?”

“Have a probe ready to dispatch to the coordinates Mr. Nihilo provides,” said Vlaak to the lieutenant, who nodded.

“Right,” said Rex. “Well, I don’t have precise coordinates.”

“What do you have?” snarled Vlaak.

“There’s a tree nearby,” offered Rex.

“I’ve had enough of your games, Nihilo!” screeched Vlaak. “Lieutenant, bring up Schufnaasik Six on the viewscreen. I want Mr. Nihilo to see his world destroyed!”

Lieutenant T’kik’ti fiddled with some controls and after a moment the screen lit up with an ugly brown sphere floating in a sea of black. I couldn’t help but imagine the poor nonexistent citizens blissfully toiling away down there in the imaginary Schufnaasik Six City. Rex was right: they deserved better than this.

“Know this, Rex Nihilo,” shrieked Heinous Vlaak. “The blood of the inhabitants of Schufnaasik Six City is on your hands. You could have spared their lives by simply telling me the location of the city so that I could obtain the secret of the cloaking device, but you have chosen in your arrogance to allow them to die. Perhaps you will be comforted in the knowledge that their deaths will be much quicker and less painful than your own.” He stood and shook his fist at the screen. “Fire the plasmatic entropy cannon!”

“Wait!” I cried, an idea suddenly popping into my head. “If you fire the cannon, it will destroy the whole battle station! We snuck a team on board to sabotage—”

And with that, I shut down for fifteen seconds. By the time I came around, Vlaak was well into an asthmatic fit, having evidently made the desired leap in logic. Being unable to lie, I’ve found it useful to make two unrelated statements to mislead someone to a predetermined conclusion. Vlaak could only conclude from what I had said that we had sent a team to sabotage the plasmatic entropy cannon.

“It would seem your cowardly robot has betrayed you!” Vlaak gloated when he had recovered. “You intended to trick me into firing on Schufnaasik Six, thereby destroying this battle station. But your foolish plan has unraveled.” He turned to the lieutenant. “Send a team of marines to the plasmatic entropy cannon and have them kill the saboteurs. When the area is secure, send in the engineers to repair the damage the saboteurs have done.” He turned to Rex. “Enjoy your short-lived victory, Nihilo. Despite your meddling, you will see Schufnaasik Six destroyed!”

Rex and Larviton both seemed somewhat stunned at this turn of events. Neither of them had expected to live much longer. Rex recovered from the shock first.

“Hey, Larviton,” he said. “I guess you’ll want to give that remote control to His Lordship now, right?”

“Huh? Oh, right,” muttered Larviton, regarding Rex with a hateful glare. He handed the device to Heinous Vlaak, who regarded it greedily.

“Remember not to push the button until you know for sure it’s not going to blow up the battle station,” Rex said.

“I know that!” snarled Vlaak. It wasn’t exactly reassuring to see the remote control in his hand, but it had been smart of Rex to get it away from Larviton, who was ready to blast us all rather than let Vlaak find out he’d failed to deliver his secret weapon on schedule.

A few minutes later a marine entered the room. It was Sergeant Ricketts. I waved, but he didn’t seem to notice me.

“Lord Vlaak,” he announced. “We found a team of four men attempting to sabotage the plasmatic entropy cannon. Don’t worry; we killed them all.”

“Uh-oh,” said Rex. He leaned over to me and whispered, “What were our guys doing at the pleurotic abalone cannon? I thought they were supposed to be blowing the reactor core.”

I nodded. Something wasn’t right.

“They were cleverly disguised as engineers,” added the sergeant.

“Curse me and my knowledge of infiltration tactics!” Rex cried. “I got our suicide team killed!”

Had General Issimo and his men donned engineers’ uniforms and somehow gotten lost on their way to the reactor? I wondered. Or . . .

“Was one of them a Nork?” I asked.

“No,” said the sergeant.

“Was one of them a really old guy in a dirty smock?” Rex asked.

“No,” said the sergeant.

“Did they have all of their arms?” I asked.

“I believe so, yes,” said the sergeant.

“Hmm,” said Rex, evidently coming to the same conclusion that I had.

“What is it?” Vlaak screamed at Rex.

“Nothing, your Lordship,” said Rex. “Those were our guys, for sure. Four strapping young non-Norks with all of their arms. You got ’em, all right.” He gave me a wink.

Vlaak turned back to the sergeant. “Was the cannon damaged?”

“We won’t know until the engineers can inspect it, Lord Vlaak.”

“How long will that take?”

“I don’t know, m’lord. The thing is . . .”

“What?” shrieked Vlaak. “Out with it.”

“We can’t find the engineers.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Heinous Vlaak’s men didn’t find the engineers. As far as we knew, they didn’t find our team of aspiring saboteurs either. Whether this was because General Issimo and his men were stealthily working their way to the battle station’s reactor core or because they were trapped in the baggage hold of the Flagrante Delicto, it was impossible to say.

Rex and I were safe for now. Since Vlaak wasn’t sure he could fire the plasmatic entropy cannon without blowing up the Peace Fortress, he had us escorted to a cell while he worked on finding engineers to replace those who had mysteriously gone missing. The next day we were summoned before Vlaak again.

“What did you do to my plasmatic entropy cannon?” he demanded.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Rex.

“My secret weapon!” Vlaak screeched. “Your saboteurs did something to it! The new engineers say that the whole thing is wired wrong. If we fire it now, we’ll blow the whole battle station!”

No wonder it had taken Larviton so long to get the cannon working; apparently his engineers were completely incompetent. They’d effectively sabotaged their own project before we had even arrived.

“That’s a shame,” said Rex. “How long do you think it will take to fix?”

“They won’t even give me an estimate!” snarled Vlaak. “Larviton’s new engineers can’t figure out how the thing was working in the first place. Idiots.”

I didn’t ask whether the idiots were the previous batch of engineers or the current one. That’s the problem with engineers: when they can’t get something working, they always blame the previous group of engineers, and you never know which ones aren’t idiots until they get whatever it is working.

“Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do if even the brilliant Gavin Larviton can’t figure it out,” said Rex. “I’m just the tactical genius of the group. All our technical know-how was on the sabotage team, and unfortunately you killed them.” This was a lie, of course. We still weren’t sure what had happened to our actual saboteurs.

Vlaak shrieked with rage.

“Your Lordship,” I said. “Perhaps I could be of some assistance.”

“You?” screeched Vlaak. “What can you offer me?”

“If you provide me with the plans, I believe I can get the cannon working.”

“And why would you want to do that?”

“As you can see,” I replied, “working for Mr. Nihilo is a very risk-intensive endeavor. I’ve decided that it would be wise for me to offer my services to the Malarchy.”

“So!” Vlaak screeched. “The robot is not so much cowardly as she is devious! You have chosen wisely in deciding to betray your master.”

“Sasha!” cried Rex. “How could you?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “While you are clearly an unparalleled genius whose name is destined to be legendary across the known galaxy,[7] I’m afraid that my feeble circuits are not cut out for this sort of epic adventure and derring-do.”

This whole exchange was, of course, all part of a ruse Rex had dreamed up while we were in our cell. I was supposed to pretend to betray Rex and get the plasmatic entropy cannon working. That is, I would pretend to betray Rex, but I really would fix the cannon. (I’m not an engineer, but I can follow a schematic well enough.) Once I had gained Heinous Vlaak’s confidence by fixing the cannon, I would bust Rex out of his cell, we’d find General Issimo and his team, and we’d escape in the Flagrante Delicto. Rex made sure that I understood that retrieving the general and his team was at the very bottom of our list of priorities. As for the ostensible purpose of our mission—blowing up the reactor core—well, it didn’t make the list. If the team was able to set their charges by the time we were ready to leave, that would be swell, but Rex wasn’t going to lose any sleep over the failure of their mission. The key thing in Rex’s mind was to make sure he got his money. In fact, his lack of concern over the rest of our team had freed up his imagination to dream up several other lucrative angles.

“And what do you want in return for fixing the cannon, robot?” asked Vlaak.

“Five hundred million credits to be delivered to my personal bank account,” I replied.

“I didn’t think robots could have bank accounts,” said Vlaak.

“It’s under an assumed name,” I replied. Which was true. Rex had opened the account under one of his many aliases.

“I’ll give you a hundred million credits,” said Vlaak. “To be delivered after a successful demonstration of the cannon.”

“Three hundred,” I replied.

“Two hundred.”

“Two-fifty.”

Vlaak chuckled. “You’ve got a deal, robot. Lieutenant, escort the robot to the plasmatic entropy cannon. And get her a copy of the plans. Send Mr. Nihilo back to his cell.”

The haggling over the price of fixing the cannon was a red herring; the real money was in the plans themselves. Once I had them in my memory banks, Rex could sell them to anyone who might want their own plasmatic entropy cannon. The technology to build a planet-destroying weapon would be worth billions. And that was on top of the development funds Rex expected to get from the Malarchy for having his own planet destroyed. If we got out of this situation alive, he was going to be very rich indeed.

I was taken to the cannon and given an electronic copy of the plans, which was encrypted to prevent copying. Copy protection is one of those stupid ideas from the twentieth century that never seem to die, like nonalcoholic beer or karaoke bars. People think that you can make it impossible to copy something if you encrypt it, but anything that can be read can be copied. That’s what reading is. You’re making a copy of the writing in your brain. And if you happen to be a robot with a photographic memory, you can easily make a perfect electronic copy—which is exactly what I did.

Actually fixing the plasmatic entropy cannon was a tougher proposition. It took me a full day to get the wiring to match the plans—Larviton’s engineers had more thoroughly bollixed up the wiring than even the most skilled saboteur could have managed. It was probably karmic justice that Vlaak’s marines had killed them, thinking they were saboteurs; in a sense they were.

More worrying than the faulty wiring, though, was the fact that the whole device seemed to be dependent on a mysterious black box that supposedly modulated the plasmatic entropy flow. There was no way of knowing what was inside the box and no way of opening it without destroying it. The plans clearly spelled out the specifications of the box, but it was impossible to determine without activating the cannon whether the box would do what it was supposed to do. If the specifications were off by even the most minuscule factor, the plasmatic reaction would become unstable, starting a chain reaction that would very likely destroy the entire Peace Fortress.

I disconnected the box and inspected it. Except for the receptacles where the wires attached, it was a perfect black cube. It measured about eight centimeters across. The plans for the cannon were very thorough, but there was no information on the “entropic modulator” except for its input and output specifications. This made me suspect that Larviton’s engineers hadn’t designed the black box but rather acquired it from some third party. Studying the box closely, I found a tiny inscription etched on the bottom. It read:

GNT

I frowned. Was it the name of a company? I had no information in my memory on a company by that name that manufactured any sort of high-tech devices. Somebody’s initials, maybe? But whose? If GNT was a person, what were his or her motivations in creating the black box? Was GNT a Malarchian partisan? A mercenary who worked for the highest bidder? A saboteur? If I guessed wrong and Vlaak pulled the trigger, we were all dead. I could explain the problem to Vlaak, but if I admitted I was unable to be sure the cannon would work, our deal would fall through—along with Rex’s scheme to get Malarchian development funds. Vlaak would probably kill us, and if he didn’t, it was only a matter of time before the Galactic Credit Bureau caught up to us—in which case we’d wish Vlaak had killed us.

I decided my only option was to bluff and hope for the best. I asked for a meeting with Heinous Vlaak. When I was brought before him, he was conferring with Gavin Larviton.

“Your Lordship,” I announced, “I have fixed the wiring of the plasmatic entropy cannon.”

“Excellent!” he shrieked. “So it’s ready to fire?”

“It’s built and wired precisely to the specifications provided,” I replied.

“Speak plainly, robot. Is the gun ready to fire?”

“It couldn’t be more ready, Your Lordship.”

“What does that mean? If I pull the trigger, is it going to blow up this battle station?”

“Destroying this battle station is not in my interests.”

“Bah!” shrieked Vlaak. “This is why I don’t keep robots around. You can never get a straight answer out of them. Lieutenant, send for Rex Nihilo. I’m going to blow up his planet.”

After a few minutes Sergeant Ricketts escorted Rex into the chamber.

“Accursed robot!” cried Rex theatrically. “You have betrayed me by assisting my enemy in destroying my beloved planet. I shall never forgive you for this!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I replied, with some sincerity. I gave us about a fifty-fifty shot of living through the next thirty seconds.

“Bring up Schufnaasik Six on the viewscreen!” screeched Vlaak.

The ugly brown sphere appeared.

“Gaze upon your beloved planet for the last time,” Vlaak crowed.

Rex dutifully affixed his eyes on the screen.

“Gaze!” screeched Vlaak.

“I’m gazing,” Rex snapped. “What do you want from me?”

“Fire the plasmatic entropy cannon!” howled Vlaak.

“You have the remote,” said Lieutenant T’kik’ti.

Vlaak scowled and handed the remote control to the lieutenant. “I don’t know how to work these things,” he shrieked.

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

“Fire the plasmatic entropy cannon!” cried Vlaak again.

Lieutenant T’kik’ti pushed the red button.

A distant explosion reverberated through the battle station. The lights went out. Dim emergency lights came on.

“Was that it?” asked Vlaak.

“No, Your Lordship,” said the lieutenant, holding his hand to an earpiece. “We’re getting reports of an explosion at the reactor core.”

“More saboteurs!” shrieked Vlaak. “Kill them!”

“Yes, Your Lordship.” The lieutenant spoke some orders into his comm unit.

“How many saboteurs did you have on board your ship anyway?” Vlaak asked Rex incredulously.

“Too damn many,” said Rex, who was clearly frustrated with the amount of effort it was taking to get his planet destroyed. “But if they blew up the reactor core, shouldn’t the explosion have destroyed the whole battle station?”

Larviton shook his head. “That was a flaw in the early design. We fixed that problem weeks ago. The worst that can happen now if the reactor core is destroyed is that the lights go off. And the plasmatic entropy cannon won’t work, of course.”

“Of course,” Rex muttered.

“Do we have a spare reactor core?” asked Vlaak.

“Yes, Your Lordship,” replied Larviton. “My engineers are trained for this sort of scenario. They should be on their way to the reactor to start replacing the core now.”

Rex sighed. “Can I go back to my cell? Give me a call when you’re ready.”

“Lord Vlaak,” said the lieutenant, pressing his fingers against his earpiece, “The team commander is reporting that all four saboteurs have been killed. They were wearing engineers’ uniforms, just like the last batch.”

“Excellent!” shrieked Vlaak. “Send in the engineers!”

The lieutenant engaged in a brief exchange with someone over his comm unit. “Lord Vlaak,” he said, “we’re having trouble locating the engineers.”

Rex looked like he was about to burst into tears.

“Larviton, what the hell is wrong with your engineers?” Vlaak shrieked. “I’m renegotiating your contract if you can’t find more reliable employees.”

Larviton shrugged helplessly.

“Robot,” said Vlaak. “Can you fix a blown reactor core?”

“If I have access to the reactor schema and the necessary equipment,” I said.

“All right, then,” said Vlaak. “Get to it.”

“I don’t know how you ever got by without my robot,” said Rex.

“Silence, Nihilo!” screeched Vlaak. “You may have gotten a temporary reprieve, but I’m still going to blow up your planet.”

“Promises, promises,” said Rex. “Can I go back to my cell now?”

“You will return to your cell when I give the order!” shrieked Vlaak.

The room was silent for a few seconds.

“Sergeant!” screeched Vlaak.

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

“Take Mr. Nihilo back to his cell.”

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

Rex was led away and I was escorted to the blown reactor core, where a janitorial crew was mopping up charred bits of flesh and engineering uniforms. Being one of Gavin Larviton’s engineers was turning out to be more dangerous than being a Malarchian marine.

There wasn’t much left of the reactor core, but it had clearly been much smaller than the one at the prison. I had expected it to be one of Larviton’s standard zontonium-based units, but it was of a type I had never seen before. According to the plans I was given, it used the same technology as the plasmatic entropy cannon.

Following a hunch, I traced a conduit from the blasted remains of the reactor core into an access panel and opened it. The panel revealed a nexus of wires that ended in another black box. On the bottom were the initials GNT. Whoever or whatever GNT was, both the Malarchy and Gavin Larviton sure relied on them for a lot of their technology.

“Hey, you!” said a muffled voice behind me. I turned to see a Malarchian marine aiming a lazegun more or less in my direction. “This is a restricted area.”

“I’m here on the authority of Heinous Vlaak,” I said. “I’m fixing the reactor.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry, I hadn’t heard. Things have been crazy around here since the reactor core blew up.” The voice seemed strangely familiar.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

“Oh, hi, Sasha,” he said. “Didn’t recognize you at first. These emergency lights are so dim, and this helmet is impossible to see out of anyway.” He pulled off the helmet.

“Wick!” I cried. “What are you doing here?”

“Captain Wick,” he corrected me. “I’m a Malarchian marine now.”

“You mean you’re pretending to be a marine,” I said.

“Well,” he replied, “it started out that way, but I think I might stick with it. The uniforms aren’t very comfortable, but it feels good to finally be part of something important.”

“You’re part of the rebellion,” I said. “Remember, you’re fighting for freedom in the galaxy? You can’t just put on a Malarchian uniform and become a marine.”

“That’s what I keep telling Corporal Issimo,” said Wick. “Sometimes I don’t think he’s cut out for a military career.”

“Corporal Issimo? How did you get to be a captain if General Issimo is . . . I mean, if Issimo is only a corporal?”

“I received several promotions after my valorous performance in the Battle of the Reactor Core.”

“Battle of the . . . ?”

“Surely you’ve heard about the Battle of the Reactor Core?” said Wick. “It’s the talk of the Peace Fortress. I single-handedly killed four saboteurs.”

“Those weren’t saboteurs, Wick! Those were the engineers!”

“Well, they shouldn’t have been skulking around an exploded reactor wearing engineers’ uniforms like a bunch of saboteurs,” said Wick.

“We’re the saboteurs, Wick! Remember, the whole reason we were here was to blow up the reactor core!”

“That was the old Wick,” he said.

“The reactor blew up less than an hour ago! What in Space happened?”

“Ted and Fingers got jobs working in the kitchen. Issimo and I started working in the laundry. We found some extra uniforms and posed as marines to get into the munitions locker. Then we stole some zontonium charges and blew up the reactor core. We’d probably have been killed by the explosion if we weren’t wearing our uniforms. The blast knocked us out and the next thing I knew there were four guys in engineers’ uniforms skulking around and someone was yelling at me to shoot them. So I did. Lieutenant T’kik’ti was so impressed, he made me a captain. Issimo was unconscious during the battle, so he only got to be a corporal. Pretty fantastic, huh?”

“Wick, you can’t . . .” I started, then realized that I wasn’t really in any position to lecture him about loyalty. I decided to change tacks. “Wick, I need your help getting the reactor core replaced.”

“Are you going to blow it up again?” Wick asked. “Because I’m not sure I can help you with that. Malarchian marines aren’t really supposed to sabotage Malarchian battle stations.”

“No,” I said. “We need the reactor online to power the plasmatic entropy cannon. Rex wants Heinous Vlaak to use the cannon to blow up Schufnaasik Six.”

“Ooh!” Wick exclaimed. “Schufnaasik Six is where the secret cloaking facility is located. Man, if I helped you destroy Schufnaasik Six, I could get promoted to general. But isn’t that Rex’s planet? Why does he want to destroy his own planet?”

“It’s complicated,” I said. “Basically the planet is worth more to Rex destroyed than intact. So can I count on your help?”

“Sure, Sasha. You’re the one who got me out of prison and got me started on my new career. What do you need?”

“You see these initials? G-N-T. I need to know what they mean. Can you find that out for me?”

“I can ask around,” said Wick.

“Thanks. So are the rest of the team quitting the Frente too?”

“Well, Fingers really likes working in the kitchen, and they promised him new arms after six months of service. And I think Corporal Issimo likes being a marine, even though he got demoted. He’s glad not to have the responsibility of leading the rebels anymore. Not sure about Ted. He’s hard to figure out, you know. Keeps talking about the Chaotic Equilibrium and a bunch of stuff nobody understands. I think the quartermaster only puts up with him because he’s friends with Fingers.”

“OK,” I said. At least I didn’t need to worry about evacuating the rest of the team if Rex and I ever managed to escape. If they liked it here, let them stay. “Well, I’d better get back to work.”

“I’ll try to find out what those initials mean.”

“Thanks, Wick.”

I spent the next three days installing the replacement reactor core according to the schematic I had been provided. Rex would be pleased to know that I now also had a copy of the reactor schematic in my memory; he could probably sell that information for as much as the plasmatic entropy cannon plans. The new reactor core was identical to the old one, so I had every reason to think it would work perfectly well, but the mysterious black box still bothered me. Why did both the battle station’s power source and its secret weapon depend for critical functionality on a component whose nature was a complete enigma? If either black box failed to operate as expected, the results could be catastrophic. The station’s engineers had apparently accepted the boxes’ proper operation on faith, not knowing or caring how they actually worked. I wondered if the black boxes were unique to this battle station or whether Malarchian starships and bases relied on them as well. For that matter, how many more black boxes were hidden away behind access panels somewhere on the Peace Fortress? Who was GNT and what was the agenda behind installing these black boxes?

Wick returned just as I was finishing up. “Hey, Sasha,” he said, pulling off his helmet. “I asked everyone but nobody seems to know what GNT means.”

“Figures,” I said. “This whole battle station is built around technology that’s a complete mystery to the people running it. Everybody just assumes it’s going to work.”

“Well,” said Wick, “it does, right?”

“So far,” I replied, flipping a circuit breaker. I winced as the reactor core lit up. I half expected the thing to blow us into a million pieces. It didn’t. The overhead lights came on and machinery hummed to life. “And we live for a little longer,” I said, “thanks to the ineffable grace of the entropic modulators.”

“What does that mean anyway?” asked Wick. “Entropic modulators?”

“Entropy is the tendency for systems to become disordered over time, in accordance with the second law of thermodynamics,” I said. “Before the discovery of the sixth and seventh laws of thermodynamics, scientists believed that systems always tended toward greater disorder over time. In the twenty-ninth century, physicists showed that was false and that entropy was actually a force that could be controlled and even reversed in some cases. The trick is to transform the entropy into a physical form, known as plasmatic entropy. Once you’ve got the entropy in plasmatic form, you can theoretically do all sorts of things with it. I say ‘theoretically’ because plasmatic entropy is so dangerous and unstable that it was long considered useless for any practical purposes. The Malarchy’s use of a new breed of warship in the Fringe Wars demonstrated that they had solved the instability problem, but no one has ever been able to figure out how they did it. Apparently these little black boxes are the secret.”

“But you can’t figure out how the boxes work?” asked Wick.

“Right,” I said. “I know they somehow balance the level of entropy so that an equilibrium is achieved between . . . oh.”

“What?”

“Hang on a minute,” I said. “I think I’m on the verge of having an idea.”

“Is that bad?”

“Whenever I have an original thought, I shut down for fifteen seconds. If I want to avoid that, I have to think about something else for a while, like baseball.”

“What’s baseball?” asked Wick, confused.

“Never mind, it’s passed. What was I saying?”

“Something about equilibrium. For a second there, you sounded like Ted.”

“Aaahhh!” I exclaimed. “That’s it! G-N-T!”

And then I shut down for fifteen seconds. When I came back online, Wick was shaking me.

“Sasha, you OK?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Cut that out. What was I talking about?”

“I said you sounded like Ted, and then you said ‘GNT,’ and you . . . Sasha?”

“Sorry, what was I saying?”

“I don’t think I should tell you. You keep shutting down.”

“I’m right on the verge of figuring out something really big.”

“Something about Ted and—”

“Shhh!” I snapped. “You’re going to have to figure it out, Wick.”

“Figure what out?”

“What I’m trying to figure out.”

“What is that?”

“I don’t know. That’s the point. What was I talking about?”

“Ted and—”

“Shhh!” I hissed again. “Keep it to yourself.”

Wick’s brow furrowed and his lips began to mouth soundless consonants. After a minute he said, “Can you give me a hint?”

“It has something to do with the reactor, I think. And maybe the plasmatic entropy cannon. And Ted. Aaahhh! I’ve got it!”

I shut down again.

“ . . . makes any sense to me,” Wick was saying. “I should go get Ted. He knows all about this entropy and equilibrium stuff.”

“That’s it!” I said. “Ted knows! Because Ted is GNT! He’s the one who—”

“Sasha?”

“I think I had it. What was the last thing I said?”

“You said Ted is GNT.”

“Right! Go get Ted. I need to ask him some questions.”

7    Not true, but technically not a lie, since I knew that Rex knew I didn’t believe it. My prohibition on lying applies only to untrue statements spoken to a person with the attempt to deceive that person. There are, in other words, a lot of loopholes.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Chaotic Equilibrium ultimately controls everything,” Ted intoned. “The Chaotic Equilibrium binds us together and tears us apart. The Chaotic Equilibrium creates and the Chaotic Equilibrium destroys.”

“Wow,” said Wick, nodding. “That’s kind of awesome.” Wick had summoned Ted to the reactor from the kitchen, where he had been helping Fingers slice tomatoes.

“So, Ted,” I began, “or should I say Gleem Nads-Tardo?”

“Ted is fine,” said Ted, smiling.

“When you say ‘Chaotic Equilibrium,’” I continued, “you’re talking about the balance between order and entropy, right?”

“Of course,” Ted replied. “Chaos is just another word for entropy. The universe seeks a balance between chaos and order. The Chaotic Equilibrium.”

“What is the purpose of this device?” I asked, holding up the black box.

“The entropic modulators are simply a manifestation of the power of the Chaotic Equilibrium. I created them many years ago, when I was working as an engineer for Gavin Larviton.”

“You used to work for Gavin Larviton?”

“Yep,” replied Ted. “When he was just starting out. He’d secured a contract to build twenty scout ships for the Malarchy, back when they were just one of several factions fighting for control of the galaxy. Larviton’s idea was to design the ships around plasmatic entropy reactors, but no one could figure out how to make them stable enough for practical use. My understanding of the ancient mysteries of the Chaotic Equilibrium enabled me to create the entropic modulators, which can modulate the plasmatic entropy flow within certain limits. The ships that Larviton provided to the Malarchy were faster than anything else out there and they had twice as much cargo space, thanks to the economic design of the plasmatic entropy reactors. The Malarchy paid Larviton a lot of money for an exclusive deal on the plasmatic entropy technology. It’s primarily that technology that has made it possible for them to conquer most of the galaxy. It’s also the source of the bulk of Larviton’s fortune. And it will be their downfall.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Ted smiled. “Haven’t you been listening? The Chaotic Equilibrium creates and the Chaotic Equilibrium destroys. For now, order prevails, but eventually chaos will reassert itself.”

“You mean the boxes will malfunction,” I said.

“They will function according to design,” he replied. “But not necessarily in the interests of the Malarchy or Gavin Larviton.”

“So you’ve essentially sabotaged every ship in the Malarchian fleet, including this battle station,” I said. “Why? Why help the Malarchy conquer the galaxy only to destroy them?”

“I serve the Chaotic Equilibrium,” said Ted. “The Chaotic Equilibrium creates and the Chaotic Equilibrium destroys.”

“In other words, you’re a psychopath,” I said.

Ted shrugged.

“So is that why you were in Gulagatraz?” I asked. “Larviton found out the boxes were rigged to eventually destroy the ships they were installed in?”

Ted grinned. “Larviton never found out,” he said. “Like you, he had no interest in the Chaotic Equilibrium except insofar as it benefited him. He had no idea the boxes would someday turn on their owners. He shipped me off to Gulagatraz over a disagreement we had later, having to do with another project.”

“You really are nuts,” I said. “When will the boxes start to fail?”

“The ways of the Chaotic Equilibrium are mysterious,” replied Ted. “But the time is near. The Malarchy has reigned for many years. The time has nearly come for the balance to swing toward chaos. Equilibrium will be enforced.”

“Look, just give me a straight answer, would you?” I snapped. “When Vlaak fires the plasmatic entropy cannon, is it going to blow up this whole battle station?”

“The Chaotic Equilibrium ultimately controls everything,” said Ted. “The Chaotic Equilibrium binds us—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I get it, you’re not going to tell me. Go help Wick in the kitchen.”

Ted smiled. “It’s pointless to fight the Chaotic Equilibrium, Sasha,” he said. “Let it in.” With that he turned and left.

“Ted’s really smart,” said Wick.

“Yeah,” I replied. “And nuttier than a Centaurian sparklebear. Wick, I need your help.”

“Sure, Sasha,” said Wick. “What’s up?”

“We need to blow the reactor core again.”

“What? You just finished fixing it! And like I said, I’m not really supposed to be sabotaging Malarchian property.”

“You’d be doing Heinous Vlaak a favor,” I said. “Thanks to Ted, this whole battle station is built around dangerously unstable technology. We’re lucky we didn’t get blown to smithereens when I turned on the reactor. We might not be so lucky when Vlaak fires his plasmatic entropy cannon.”

“You think the Peace Fortress is going to blow up when he fires the cannon?”

“There’s no way to know for sure,” I said. “I don’t think even Ted knows. I think that’s the point.”

“Huh?” Wick asked.

“The black boxes are meant to ‘enforce Chaotic Equilibrium,’” I said.

“What does that mean?”

I sighed. I had a vague idea in my circuitry about what the black boxes were for, but I had to approach it orthogonally to get around my override. I started giving Wick hints in the hopes that he would eventually figure it out for himself. It took three hours and I shut down eighteen times, but he did finally get it.

“So,” said Wick, “you’re saying that if the Malarchy becomes too powerful, the boxes will start to malfunction. This battle station and any other Malarchian ships and facilities using those boxes are in danger of self-destructing.”

“That’s it!” I cried.

“But . . .” Wick began. “But the Malarchy is the most powerful force in the universe. There’s no stopping the inexorable march of Malarchian progress across the galaxy. It was in the training video. And now that we have the plasmatic entropy cannon . . .”

“The balance has shifted decidedly in favor of the Malarchy,” I finished. “So if those boxes are designed to correct an imbalance between order and chaos, they could start malfunctioning at any moment. We need to shut down this reactor. And we certainly can’t let Vlaak fire the plasmatic entropy cannon.”

“Can’t we just tell Heinous Vlaak about the black boxes?”

“I’ll try,” I said. “But I don’t think he’s going to believe me. He’s too enamored of his secret weapon. He’s not going to want to believe that it—as well as this whole battle station—is dependent on dangerously unpredictable components. I need you and Fingers to set charges so that we’re ready to blow up the reactor core in case Vlaak decides to fire the cannon.”

“I don’t know . . .” said Wick uncertainly.

“Look, it makes no difference to me whether this battle station blows up or not,” I said. “And frankly, Rex is going to be pretty mad at me for interfering with Vlaak’s plan to destroy Schufnaasik Six. But I don’t particularly want to be on this battle station if it’s going to self-destruct. So you can either help me sabotage the reactor core again, or you can help me and Rex escape.”

“Oh, helping prisoners escape is definitely not allowed,” Wick said. “That was in the video too.”

“Sounds like the video was pretty comprehensive,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” he replied. “It was like an hour long. The second half was all about not sticking your tentacles where they don’t belong.”

“You don’t have any tentacles,” I observed.

“That’s what I said,” he replied. “But they gave me a tube of ointment anyway.”

“I suppose they have to cover all contingencies,” I said. “So are you going to help me blow the reactor core?”

“I guess so. It’s lasagna night so Fingers is pretty busy, but I’ll see if I can get his help with the explosives.”

“Thanks, Wick. And be quick about it. I’m expecting a call from Heinous Vlaak pretty soon now that the reactor is back online.”

Wick went to find Fingers and, as expected, within a few hours Vlaak summoned me to his reception chamber. Gavin Larviton and Rex were already there. The ugly brown ball of Schufnaasik Six was centered on the viewscreen. Larviton looked nervous. Rex looked bored.

“I have waited for this moment long enough,” screeched Vlaak. “Now, Mr. Nihilo, you will see your beloved planet destroyed!”

“Your Lordship,” I said, “if I may interject a word.”

“What is it, robot? The reactor is fully online, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Lordship. But while working on it I discovered something troubling. Both it and the cannon rely on a small black box for modulating the plasmatic entropy flow. No one seems to understand exactly how these boxes work, and I’m concerned that one of them might malfunction at an inopportune time, causing serious damage to this battle station.”

“Lord Vlaak,” said Larviton, “I assure you that the entropic modulators are standard equipment on all Malarchian starships. All of the plasmatic entropy–based devices my company has built for you use the boxes, and there’s never been a single incident of—”

“Cease your wheedling, Larviton,” snapped Vlaak. “I am well aware of the black boxes. They are the source of the Malarchy’s ability to create order out of chaos. We shall use them to conquer every planet in the galaxy!”

“If I may be so bold, Your Lordship,” I said, “if you don’t know how the boxes operate or why they were created, how do you know they will work as expected?”

“We have subjected the black boxes to rigorous testing,” Vlaak snapped. “They are one hundred percent reliable. It is ridiculous to think that they will suddenly start to act differently.”

“Your Lordship, do you know who invented the boxes?” I asked.

“What difference does it make?” shrieked Vlaak. “The Malarchy has used the boxes for years, and look what they have done for us! They have made possible the greatest empire in the history of the galaxy! We know the boxes are reliable because they have always worked exactly as expected in the past, and I’m not going to entertain foolish philosophical questions about where the boxes came from or whether they will keep working in the future. Now cease your prattling, robot. The moment of my triumph is at hand.”

“In that case,” I said as I tapped the transmit button on my comm unit, “I guess it’s time for piggy to go to market.” This was the code phrase Wick and I had decided on to signal that he was to blow the reactor.

Vlaak seemed confused at first by my statement, but then he nodded and grinned. “Yes,” he said. “I like that. It’s time for piggy to go to market!”

“Your Lordship?” asked Lieutenant T’kik’ti.

“Fire the plasmatic entropy cannon!” clarified Vlaak.

I whispered into my comm unit. “Wick! Did you get that? Blow the reactor!”

Nothing happened. The lieutenant cleared his throat.

“What is it?” snapped Vlaak.

“The remote, Your Lordship.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Vlaak. He handed the remote control to the lieutenant and then shrieked again, “Fire the plasmatic entropy cannon!”

“Piggy goes to market!” I yelled into my comm unit.

The lieutenant pressed the button. Still, nothing happened. Had Wick blown the reactor? No, there hadn’t been an explosion, and the lights were still on. What was Wick waiting for?

“Is it working?” asked Vlaak.

“It takes a moment to warm up,” said Larviton.

After a few seconds a low hum became audible.

“Firing will commence in thirty seconds,” said the lieutenant.

As we waited, the hum gradually became louder.

“Time for piggy to go to market,” I said again.

“Sasha,” said Rex with a disapproving scowl, “I appreciate a good catchphrase as much as the next guy, but seriously, you’re trying too hard with this one.”

“How about ‘the monkey is putting on his tuxedo’?” offered Larviton.

“Wow, that’s even worse,” said Rex.

“Not exactly lightning fast, is it?” asked Vlaak.

“The plasmatic batteries have to charge,” replied Larviton, a bit defensively. “It takes a tremendous amount of energy to destroy a planet, you know. But before you know it, that monkey is going to be putting on his tuxedo!”

“Time for piggy to go to market,” I said once more.

“And the eagle has seized the ferret!” screamed Heinous Vlaak, thrusting his fist in the air.

Rex sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what any of this has to do with blowing up my planet, but we’re in good shape if we decide to open a zoo.”

“We still have ten seconds,” said the lieutenant.

A voice crackled over my comm unit. “ . . . trouble . . . explosives . . . more time . . .”

“What was that?” shrieked Vlaak. “Are you trying to sabotage my secret weapon?”

“Sasha,” snapped Rex. “What in Space is going on? I thought we had an understanding.”

“Five seconds,” said Lieutenant T’kik’ti.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I had to make an executive decision. This whole battle station is unsafe. The only way to ensure our survival is to blow the reactor core. Again.”

“Are you still talking about the entropic modulators?” Larviton asked. “I think you’re exaggerating the danger, Sasha. In any case, the plasmatic entropy cannon has a fail-safe that automatically kicks in if it senses an uncontrolled plasmatic reaction. It’s completely safe. The only thing that could prevent the fail-safe from kicking in would be—”

“Plasmatic entropy batteries charged,” said the lieutenant. “Firing!”

An explosion rocked the room. The lights went out and the viewscreen went black.

“ . . . did it, Sasha!” crackled Wick’s voice. “We blew the reactor core!”

We waited for a moment in the dark. “Did it work?” shrieked Vlaak? “Did I destroy the planet?”

“Your Lordship,” said Vlaak’s lieutenant. “The cannon seems to have misfired. Engineering is reporting a problem with the entropic modulator. We’re getting reports of dangerous levels of plasmatic disruption.”

“Speak plainly, Lieutenant!” screeched Vlaak. “What’s going on?”

“The entropic modulator is supposed to control the plasmatic entropy flow, to direct the energy from the batteries to the cannon, but it failed. The batteries can only hold the energy for a few minutes. After that, there’s no controlling it. The whole Peace Fortress will be torn apart.”

“Activate the fail-safe!” howled Vlaak.

“It seems the fail-safe is offline,” said the lieutenant. “The reactor has failed.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” said Larviton, his face having gone completely white. “The only thing that could prevent the fail-safe from kicking in would be a catastrophic reactor failure.”

“You!” shrieked Vlaak, shaking his fist at me. “You sabotaged my secret weapon and my reactor!”

“Technically, I only sabotaged the reactor,” I said. “Your secret weapon was sabotaged before I got here.”

“But it’s your fault the fail-safe isn’t working!” screeched Vlaak.

“Well, yes,” I said. “That bit was completely unintentional, though, if it helps.”

“M’lord,” said the lieutenant. “We have only about ten minutes before the energy levels become critical. We may want to consider evacuating.”

“Evacuate?” shrieked Vlaak. “In Our Moment of Triumph?”

“Yes, m’lord. Unless you’d prefer to take one of the other ships.”

“No, Our Moment of Triumph is fine. Gas her up and let’s get out of here. No point in taking any unnecessary risks.”

“What about the prisoner and the robot?” asked Lieutenant T’kik’ti.

“Leave them here to die!”

“Should we tie them up or something? What if they escape?”

“Just have Sergeant Ricketts watch them.”

“M’lord? Surely you don’t mean to leave Sergeant Ricketts behind? He’s one of my best men.”

“No room for enlisted men in Our Moment of Triumph,” said Vlaak. He left the room, followed by Gavin Larviton, who blew Rex a raspberry as he walked out. The lieutenant saluted Sergeant Ricketts and followed them. Sergeant Ricketts, resigned to his fate, drew his lazegun and held it pointed at Rex.

“Wick!” I said into my comm unit. “How badly is the reactor core damaged? Any chance you can get it back online?”

“Not a chance, Sasha!” cried Wick jubilantly. “We didn’t want to take any chances, so we used all the zontonium we could find. The reactor core is in a million pieces, just like you wanted. And there’s sand everywhere! Man, I’m getting a medal for this once Heinous Vlaak finds out.”

“I may have overstated how appreciative Vlaak would be,” I said. “He’s evacuating the Peace Fortress right now.”

“Evacuating? What for?”

“It’s complicated,” I said. “The Peace Fortress is probably going to explode.”

“Because of what I did? Because of blowing the reactor?”

“There’s a lot of blame to go around on this one,” I said. “Hard to say how much is actually your fault.”

“Sasha,” Rex growled. “What in Space is going on? Did you do something to the penny-ante applecart cannon?”

“No, sir,” I said. “Ted did.”

“Ted?” Rex asked. “I knew there was something I didn’t like about that guy. Never should have broken him out of prison.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference, sir. He sabotaged the cannon twenty years ago.”

“He thinks ahead, I’ll give him that much,” said Rex. “If this place is going to explode, we should probably get to the Flagrante Delicto.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Sergeant Ricketts, pointing his lazegun at Rex.

“You can come with us,” said Rex. “Or we can all die here together. Your choice. Is your loyalty to the Malarchy so great that you’d prefer to die than let us escape? Before you answer, keep in mind that the hot tub on Our Moment of Triumph seats six, and there are only five people on board.”

The sergeant thought for a moment, then sheathed his lazegun. “Let’s go.” We made our way down the corridor toward the hangar deck.

“Wick!” I said into the comm unit. “Get Fingers and Issimo and get to the Flagrante Delicto. Ted too, I guess.”

“Do I have to?” he asked.

“Well, no,” I replied. “But if you don’t, you’re going to get blown to pieces.”

“Fingers and Issimo are evacuating with the other marines on one of the battleships,” said Wick. “I was thinking of going with them. Is that OK?”

“Why are you asking me?” I said. “Do whatever you want.”

“I mean because of the reactor thing. Do you think I can still be a marine?”

“I think they’d be lucky to have you, Wick. Everybody blows a reactor or two in their youth. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Sasha.”

Rex, Sergeant Ricketts, and I made it through the chaos of evacuating marines and got aboard the Flagrante Delicto with only seconds to spare. I fired the engines and we took off with a jolt, trailing behind a small fleet of Malarchian battleships. As we hurtled into the black, a gigantic blast erupted behind us, blinding us with white light. The Flagrante Delicto shook violently, knocking us to the floor. The Peace Fortress had exploded with enough force to destroy a planet. Unfortunately, I saw on the rear-facing viewscreen, the planet itself was still there. Rex regarded the ugly brown ball glumly as I rationalized a course back to the forest moon.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

All of Rex’s most promising moneymaking schemes died along with the battle station. Schufnaasik Six remained fully intact, such as it was, so there was no bilking the Malarchy out of development funds, and if the entropic modulators were inherently flawed, then the designs for the reactor and the cannon I had cached in my memory were worthless. Rex had a debt of 1.6 billion credits and no possible way to pay it off. And now that the Galactic Credit Bureau no longer held Wick as collateral, repo bots were going to be scouring every civilized planet in the galaxy for us. It was an indication of the seriousness of our plight that the safest place for us to be was a backwater moon targeted for imminent destruction by Heinous Vlaak.

Vlaak’s prized battle station had been destroyed, but the Malarchy was far from defeated. A small fleet of warships had escaped the carnage, and now that Vlaak was no longer distracted by a nonexistent cloaking facility on Schufnaasik Six, he would direct his attention to the rebel base on the forest moon. Our only hope was to get there first. If we could get to the base in time to warn the Frente of the impending attack, we could get them to evacuate and find another planet to set up shop. The Frente would live to fight another day, and Rex and I would hide out with them until Rex figured out a way to come up with 1.6 billion credits. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was what we had.

We had one advantage over the Malarchian fleet: we knew exactly where the rebel base was. If Wick hadn’t told his superiors about the tree, the rebels might have enough time to evacuate before the attack started. If he had told them . . . well, it was best not to think about that. We landed on top of the car park and made our way to Princess Willie’s reception chamber.

“Where’s the rest of your team?” she demanded. “What happened to General Issimo? Where have you been?”

“The good news is, we blew up the Malarchian battle station,” said Rex. “Well, it blew up. I’m a little unclear on how much of that was our doing. As I understand it, we stopped it from not blowing up, which is pretty much the same thing as blowing it up.”

“And the bad news?”

“We lost five men. Was it five, Sasha? I lost count.”

“How did you get five men killed?” the princess cried in exasperation. “There were only four on your team!”

“Oh, they didn’t all get killed,” Rex said. “Three of them converted. Better uniforms, you know.”

“Converted? You mean they joined the Malarchy?”

“Afraid so,” said Rex. “People these days have no sense of loyalty. Speaking of which, we’ve brought a Malarchian sergeant with us. He wants to sign up with the Frente.”

“What about the general?”

“He was one of the converts,” I said. “Him, Wick, and Fingers.”

A horrified look came over the princess’s face. “But if they joined the Malarchy, then . . .”

A distant explosion sounded overhead.

“Yeah, that’s the other bad news,” said Rex. “The Malarchian fleet is on its way here.”

“Princess!” crackled a voice over her comm unit. “This is Major Herle. A Malarchian fleet has entered the forest moon’s atmosphere. They seem to be heading our way.”

“How many ships, Major?”

“At least thirty, Your Highness.”

“Fire the lazecannons!” the princess ordered.

“They are still out of range,” said the major. “They should be in range in about two minutes.”

“I would suggest evacuating the base, Princess,” I said. “You’re not going to be able to hold out against a full Malarchian assault. I assume you have some sort of evacuation plan?”

“The plan is secret,” said Princess Willie. “General Issimo has it.”

“Corporal Issimo,” I corrected. “And he’s probably not going to be of much help under the circumstances.”

“This is a disaster!” cried the princess. “What’s the status of the cloaking device? Can we hide our ships as we evacuate?”

“I didn’t have a whole lot of time to get the cloaking device working what with all of the sabotaging of Malarchian battle stations I was doing, Princess,” snapped Rex. “I suggest you get your people on the ships as fast as you can and get out of here.”

“We’d have to turn off the repulsion barrier to launch the ships,” said Princess Willie. “If we did that, the Malarchy would blast this whole facility to atoms. As long as we stay here, we’re safe from an air assault.”

Another explosion sounded overhead, closer this time.

“What is that?” asked the princess. She tapped her comm unit. “Major, are you firing at Malarchian ships?”

“No, ma’am,” replied the major. “They’re still out of range. Some of the ships appear to be exploding on their own.”

“Is this your doing?” the princess asked Rex hopefully. “Did you sabotage the Malarchian starships?”

I intercepted the question before Rex could take credit. “The ships rely on dangerously unstable technology, Your Highness. Their plasmatic entropy reactors are exploding.”

“Will they all explode?” asked the princess.

“Eventually,” I said. “The Chaotic Equilibrium works in mysterious ways.” I hated myself for saying it.

“So we just have to hold out until their ships all explode!”

“Well, yes,” I said. “But the Malarchy will land some of their ships out of range and send in marines to take out the repulsion barrier propagators,” I said. “If they take out the repulsion barrier while they still have one intact destroyer overhead, we’re all dead. And as I say, it’s impossible to predict how long their ships will last.”

“Then we’ll just hold them off as long as we can,” said the princess. She turned to Rex. “Mr. Nihilo, given your exceptional service to the Frente and the ill-timed defection of General Issimo, I hereby put you in charge of our defenses.”

“Erm,” said Rex. “How much does something like that pay?”

“General Nihilo,” said the princess solemnly, “protect the repulsion barrier propagators at all costs!”

Rex seemed uncertain how to react to this dubious honor. He’s never been one to stand and fight at great risk of bodily harm when fleeing was an option.

“Sir,” I said, “as much as I hate to say it, I think you taking over the leadership of the Frente’s defenses may be our best chance of getting out of here alive.”

Rex nodded glumly, apparently coming to the same conclusion. We had seen the Frente’s best and brightest in action, and I didn’t think either of us wanted to depend for our survival on an officer culled from the rebellion’s second string.

“All right,” said Rex. “Sasha, sound the alarm. I want everybody with a lazegun out there defending the repulsion thingies.”

Not knowing how else to rouse the troops, I ran through the car park yelling and whistling as loudly as I could, telling the men to get outside and defend the repulsion barrier propagators. At first there was a fair amount of resistance; I didn’t think anyone knew what to make of a robot with a severely damaged face running around screaming about a Malarchian attack. As the explosions neared, though, the rebels started to get the idea. They grabbed their lazeguns and headed outside. Some of them hadn’t been out of the base for days or even weeks (there wasn’t much to do on the forest moon but drink and play cards) and once outside they mostly stood blinking in the sunlight, transfixed by the occasional explosion of a Malarchian battleship overhead. A few of them even stretched out on some of the dryer patches of ground and started critiquing the show.

“Defend the repulsion barrier propagators!” I screamed, running around the building waving my arms in the air.

“Shhh!” hissed one of the men. “We’re trying to watch this.”

“Ooh!” exclaimed another as a Malarchian destroyer erupted in flames overhead. “I felt the heat from that one!”

I thought I had them almost convinced that the Malarchian attack wasn’t happening purely for their entertainment when the Frente’s lazecannons started firing and the base’s PA system started blaring Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. I stood by helplessly as Malarchian ships landed in the distance.

Rex came up next to me, holding a martini. “How’s the defense of the repulsion thingies going?” he asked.

“Where have you been?” I cried. “This is hopeless. These men have no discipline at all. The repulsion barrier propagators are completely undefended!”

“I see,” said Rex, taking a sip of his martini. “Out of curiosity, what does a repulsion . . .”

“Repulsion barrier propagator,” I said.

“Yeah, what do those things look like?”

“See those four antenna-like things?” I said, pointing at the structures fifty meters or so from each corner of the car park. “If the marines blow up any one of those things, we’re all dead.”

“Got it,” said Rex. “Can you patch me into the PA?”

I set the frequency on Rex’s comm unit and handed it back to him.

“Brave rebels of the Frente!” exclaimed Rex. “My name is Rex Nihilo. I’m your new commander. Now get your asses over to those antenna thingies and shoot anybody wearing a Malarchian uniform.”

The men stood grumbling and looking uncertainly at Rex. I noticed that Rex was wearing a bulky overcoat he hadn’t had on before.

“Who’s gonna make us?” growled one of the men at Rex.

“Me,” said Rex and pulled a lazegun from his coat. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to me. “It’s set to stun.” He shot the man in the face. The man screamed and fell to the ground. Smoke billowed from his blackened scalp.

“Those guns don’t have a stun setting,” I said.

“Oh,” said Rex, inspecting the weapon. “It says ‘scorch.’ Whoops. Anyway, it gets the point across.”

“He shot Larry!” another rebel shouted. “Frag him!”

Larry rolled on the ground, still screaming.

“Let’s not get any ideas,” said Rex, sloughing off his coat. Underneath he wore a vest that appeared to be packed with explosives. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to me. “It’s just sand. I think.” Over the PA, he said, “Anybody shoots me, we’re all dead. Which, by the way, is also what’s going to happen if you don’t GET YOUR ASSES OVER TO THOSE ANTENNA THINGIES!” He waved the lazegun wildly, firing in the air. Overhead, a Malarchian battleship exploded, punctuating his command. The men ran to the four structures. I helped Larry to the medical ward inside.

It took a few minutes longer to get the men more or less evenly distributed between the four propagators and pointing their lazeguns in the directions from which the marines were likely to approach. It turned out that there was no rush. The Malarchians were attacking with their most deadly, unstoppable, and excruciatingly slow armored vehicles: the Totally Reliable Terrain Liberators. TRTLs were completely covered with impenetrable armor; their only known weakness was their inability to move faster than half a kilometer per hour. At the rate the Malarchian ships were exploding overhead, the battle might be over before the TRTLs got within firing range of the repulsion barrier propagators. There appeared to be one TRTL heading toward each of them.

Rex and I stood watching one of the TRTLs approach. A lazecannon beam sizzled overhead and shortly thereafter a Malarchian destroyer exploded. The two events were probably unrelated; I hadn’t actually seen one of our lazecannon beams hit anything since the battle started. Debris rained down on the invisible repulsion barrier above us.

“Should have just let the guys watch the fireworks,” mused Rex. “It’s not like they’re going to be able to do anything against those TRTLs anyway. If they ever get here, that is.”

I was busy watching the skies overhead, trying to determine how many Malarchian ships were still intact. A few transport ships carrying TRTLs had landed, but most of what remained of the fleet hovered low in the atmosphere, waiting for the repulsion barrier to fall. I counted twelve ships that hadn’t yet self-destructed. If any of them remained in the sky after the barrier fell, it would be a simple matter for them to blast the Frente’s paltry lazecannon battery to pieces and then destroy the ships parked on the roof. Once our defenses had been nullified and our escape route cut off, Vlaak’s marines could wipe us out at their leisure.

I turned back to the horizon. The TRTL we had been monitoring had crept almost imperceptibly closer. Another ship exploded overhead.

“I’m going to take a nap,” Rex announced. “Wake me up when those things are close enough to shell.”

“We don’t have any mortars, sir,” I said.

“What’s a mortar?”

“Never mind, sir. Have a nice nap.”

While Rex dozed, four more ships exploded and the rebels got in some pretty good target practice burning their initials into the TRTLs with their lazeguns. When one of them managed to write VLAAK SUX BALLZ on the forehead of one of the TRTLs, I woke Rex up.

“They’re getting pretty close,” I said, leading him back out to the repulsion barrier propagator.

“How close?” Rex asked.

I pointed at the nearest TRTL, which was now less than fifty meters away.

“Heh,” Rex said, reading its forehead. “The spelling is atrocious, but I admire the sentiment. Not to mention the marksmanship.”

“That’s Sergeant Ricketts’ work, I think,” I told him. “He’s the best marksman we have, now that he’s not wearing a Malarchian marine uniform anymore. But we’ve barely scratched the surface of that armor, and they’re going to overrun our position within the next, oh, twenty minutes or so. And there are still seven ships overhead.”

“Are we sure the TRTLs have no weak points?”

“None that I know of, sir. Every centimeter of their exterior is armored.”

“What about the underside?”

“I believe it’s armored too,” I said. “Although it might not be as thick there as on top.”

“It’s worth a shot,” said Rex. “Where’s my vest?”

“Your vest, sir?”

“You know, my suicide vest.”

“I thought you said it was full of sand.”

“Nope,” said Rex. “Turns out that was my other vest.”

“Your other . . . ?”

“No time to explain. I think I left it in our room. Go get it, would you? Make sure you get the right one.”

“Yes, sir.”

I ran downstairs to get the vest and brought it to Rex. The vest was surprisingly heavy. The TRTL had moved a few meters closer.

“OK,” Rex said. “Now put it on.”

“Sir? I’d really rather not . . .”

“Don’t worry, Sasha. I’ll have the men hold their fire while you approach the TRTL. Get as close as you can and then drop the vest and run back here. I’ve got a remote detonator.”

“Sir, I really don’t think you’ve got enough explosives here to take out a TRTL.”

“You’re saying you want to carry more explosives?”

“No, sir.”

“All right, then, put on the vest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Men,” Rex hollered, “Sasha here has bravely volunteered to run into the path of the TRTL in an attempt to breach its soft underbelly with explosives. Kindly hold your fire so as to avoid premature detonation.”

The men erupted into cheers, which were probably prompted by boredom as much as any hope that I might do any serious damage to the TRTL. Still, I have to admit their support made me feel a little better about having to run into the path of an unstoppable metal machine while wearing a vest full of explosives.

“Off you go, Sasha,” said Rex.

I sighed and took off running toward the armored juggernaut. The TRTL had two small lazecannons mounted on its head, but it hadn’t fired them yet. Presumably the marines piloting the TRTL were saving their ammo for close-range combat, where they could actually do some damage—unlike our own troops, half of whom had used up their battery packs etching vulgar graffiti into the enemy vehicles. I could only hope that the drivers didn’t think me enough of a threat to fire at me.

As I approached the massive vehicle crawling slowly forward on its awkward metal feet, I realized that I was probably in a safer position than the men back at the repulsion barrier propagator: the little lazecannons on the TRTL’s head had a range of motion of only about twenty degrees. Anyone not directly in front of the vehicle was in no danger—unless they stopped dead in front of it and waited for it to crush them, which I had no intention of doing. I removed the vest (which I had triple-checked to make sure it really held explosives), set it gently on the ground, and then ran back to the propagator, taking a wide berth to stay out of range of the TRTL’s guns.

“Nice work!” cried Rex. Several other men cheered and clapped me on the back, and for a moment I actually thought I might have done something worthwhile. Rex and I climbed on top of the propagator to watch the TRTL advance toward the vest. The plan was to wait until it was directly on top of the explosives and then trigger the detonator. If the explosives blasted through the TRTL’s armor, the men would charge the vehicle, climbing inside and finishing off anyone still alive. And if that worked, we’d do the same thing to the other three TRTLs, which were slightly farther away.

Unfortunately, in my haste to get out of the TRTL’s way, I hadn’t placed the vest close enough to it. I saw that its right legs were now working faster than its left (or, more accurately, the left legs were now moving even more slowly than before), the result being that the TRTL was ever so slightly changing its course.

“It’s going to miss the vest,” somebody said.

“Maybe not,” said Rex. “I’ve seen glaciers make sharper turns.”

We watched breathlessly as the huge reptilian vehicle took its excruciatingly slow evasive action. The vest was just in front of its front right foot. It looked like the TRTL was going to just miss it.

“You’re going to have to move the vest,” Sergeant Ricketts said to me.

“Why me?” I protested. “I did it the first time. Why don’t you do it?”

“If you’d have done it right the first time, it wouldn’t have to be moved.”

I wanted to argue, but he was right. “Fine,” I said. “But this is the last time. After this—”

I was cut off by the TRTL’s lazecannons blasting holes in the antenna structure above us. “Get down!” Rex cried, and we dove for cover behind the building. The lazecannons continued to blast away at the structure and we cowered behind it.

“Are you going to move the vest or not?” demanded Ricketts.

“Now?” I croaked. I wouldn’t get more than ten meters from the propagator.

“There’s no time,” said Rex. “The antenna thingy can’t take much more of this. If we don’t take that TRTL out now, we’re all screwed.”

“We can’t even see if it’s on top of the vest,” I said. We didn’t dare peek around the wall for fear of the relentless barrage of lazecannon fire.

“Nothing we can do now but hope the Chaotic whatever-it-is is with us,” said Rex. “Here goes nothing.” He pressed the trigger and a split second later an explosion shook the ground around us. As the dust cleared, we realized the lazecannon barrage had stopped. “Go see what happened!” Rex yelled. I nodded and crept out from behind the structure.

“Um, Rex,” I said, standing up and cocking my head to observe the situation. “I think you should see this.”

Rex came up next to me. “Why, what . . . oh.”

The TRTL was lying on its back, helplessly moving its giant feet back and forth in the air, its lazecannons buried in the muck. Men were pounding on a hatch in the TRTL’s head, but it was jammed against the ground and wouldn’t open more than a few centimeters. Overhead, another battleship exploded. There were now only six left. If we could overturn the other three TRTLs before they blasted the propagators, we only needed to wait for the rest of the ships to explode.

“We need three more vests,” ordered Rex.

“I’m on it,” I said.

We used gunnysacks instead of vests, the key element being the zontonium charges and not the vests themselves. We ended up using five of them; the next couple of TRTLs didn’t turn quite as we expected and the charges detonated harmlessly underneath their armor. (Our original plan to aim for the supposed soft underbelly of the vehicles was apparently completely misguided.) The final TRTL managed to do some pretty severe damage to the southeastern tower, but we upended it before it could take the propagator offline. The four TRTLs now lay on their backs flailing helplessly, their crews trapped within, while the remaining starships exploded overhead. The Malarchy looked to be pretty well finished. Too bad for Wick and the others, but at least they died quickly and painlessly.

“Well, that’s that,” said Rex. “Let’s get out of here before the Malarchy sends reinforcements.”

We headed to the roof of the parking structure and began herding the men into ships. The princess met us as we were about to board the Flagrante Delicto.

“You did it!” she cried, throwing her arms around Rex. “You saved the Frente! Your name is going to be known across the galaxy!”

“Yeah, I did,” gasped Rex, who was in danger of being smothered by the princess’s bosom. “Maybe we could keep this whole business on the DL, though. I’ve already got half the repo bots in the galaxy looking for me.”

“Do you need money?” asked the princess. “I suppose we don’t really need the cloaking device anymore, but I’ll still pay you for it.”

“Hey, that’s super generous,” said Rex, disentangling himself from the princess. “I save your ass and you give me a few million credits. That’s fair.”

“Well,” said the princess uncertainly, “we did have a deal. I’m sure I could come up with an additional reward in light of your service. Say, an additional twenty million credits?”

“Twenty million credits!” exclaimed Rex. “Do you know how much I owe?” He turned to me. “How much do I owe?”

“One point six billion credits, give or take,” I said.

“How in Space did you come to owe that much money?” gasped the princess. “I’d gladly loan you whatever I can spare, but . . .”

“I know, it’s out of your league,” said Rex. “The only person I know who had that kind of money was Gavin Larviton, and he just exploded somewhere overhead. Not that he was inclined to help me anyway; that bastard is the reason I owe the money in the first place.”

“You mean because of your deal with him for the cloaking technology?” said the princess. “But surely the technology is worth that much. If the device works as well as you say, then you shouldn’t have any trouble finding buyers who would be willing to pay . . .”

“There is no cloaking device!” snapped Rex. “I made it up, understand? It was all a big ruse to bilk you out of a little money. But what’s the point? Sure, I could string you along, convince you to invest in my cloaking device company, set up a standard pyramid scheme, get you to talk your friends into investing . . . actually, this is some pretty good stuff I’m coming up with here. I probably should have thought this through before admitting the cloaking device was a hoax. I suppose it’s too late to ask you to invest now?”

“A hoax?” said the princess softly, taking in Rex’s words. “But . . . but what about the hidden city on Schufnaasik Six? The cybernetic cranes? The Spiraled Tower of Bernoth? The Museum of Particularly Tricky Knots?”

“All made up,” said Rex. “You can’t see them because they don’t exist. There’s nothing on that worthless planet but rocks. This whole time all I’ve been doing is trying to get Heinous Vlaak to blow it up.”

“But you helped us defeat the Malarchy,” said the princess. “And you blew up the Peace Fortress. You did blow up the Peace Fortress, right?”

“More or less,” said Rex. “It’s definitely blown up, although like I said that wasn’t our primary objective.”

“Well,” said the princess. “Out of respect for what you’ve done for the Frente, I won’t seek damages against you for perpetrating this fraud against us. You can even keep the fifty million I’ve already given you.”

“Good,” said Rex. “Because I’ve already spent it.”

“Of course you have,” said the princess. She turned to leave.

“Where are you going to go?” asked Rex.

“The Malarchy is in disarray, but they are far from destroyed,” said the princess. “I will find another forgotten planet where the Frente can continue the work of liberating the galaxy.”

“OK,” said Rex. “Good luck with that.”

“Good-bye, Rex Nihilo,” said the princess, and left to board her own ship. It and the Flagrante Delicto were the only two ships left on the roof of the base.

“I probably could have handled that better,” Rex remarked.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I’d say you burned our bridges with the Frente, which means we’re on our own against every repo bot in the galaxy.”

“Shut up and get me out of here, Sasha,” Rex snapped. “And make me a martini.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

After a day and a half of traveling in Euclidean space, the forest moon had shrunk to a bright point in the distance. Rex hadn’t given me a destination, having disappeared into his cabin. My attempts to rouse him were unsuccessful. I was about to pick a Fringe planet at random when he finally stumbled into the cockpit, unshaven and holding a Bloody Mary.

“Destination, sir?” I prompted.

“I want you to plot a course,” Rex slurred, “right up Gavin Larviton’s fat ass.”

“Sir, perhaps you’ve had enough to drink.”

“What difference does it make?” Rex snapped. “Damn repo bots will find me wherever I go. Who’d have thought it would be so gorkin’ hard to get a planet blowed up? Blowed. Up. Exploded.”

“It was a good plan,” I said. “Sometimes things don’t work out.”

“Things never work out,” corrected Rex. “Not ever. Never.”

“Shall I set a course for one of the Fringe worlds, sir? Repo bots are sparser out there, and maybe we can make a little money smuggling for one of the local—”

“Make a little money?” Rex cried. “I owe 1.6 billion credits. I’ll never pay that off, Sasha. I’m doomed. You might as well drive this ship right into the heart of that star.”

“Star, sir?”

“Right in front of us,” said Rex. “Are you blind?”

“There’s no . . . uh-oh. Sir, that’s a ship. Coming directly at us, fast.”

“Ram ’em!”

“Sir, are you sure that you . . .”

“Ram ’em!”

“Yes, sir.”

It’s just about impossible for one spaceship to ram another, unless at least one of them is fantastically large or barely moving. Even then, it’s harder than you would think. The problem is that space, as you may have heard, is huge, and spaceships travel ridiculously fast. If you’ve ever tried to hit a bullet with another bullet, you have an idea of how hard it is to ram a spaceship with another spaceship. Even if one ship is traveling head-on at the other, the slightest course variation by either ship could cause them to miss each other by hundreds of meters.

All of this raises the question of why someone would pilot their ship straight at us in the first place. Since the most likely outcome would be a near miss followed by the two ships quickly being thousands of kilometers away from each other, the reasonable assumption would be that the other ship was about to attack us. That assumption was borne out when the ship began to shower us with lazecannon blasts. The Flagrante Delicto shuddered with the blasts, and our shields were rapidly reduced to twenty percent. In retrospect, Rex’s order to ram the ship started to seem like a pretty good idea: by heading straight toward it at full speed, we minimized our profile and gave the other ship only a few seconds to fire at us before we passed it. Rex was a tactical genius.

At least that’s what I was thinking until we hit the other ship.

It wasn’t a direct hit, thank Space. The bottom of the Flagrante Delicto just grazed the top of the other ship, which looked to be just slightly bigger than ours. Still, the jolt was enough to drastically reduce our speed; even with the grav-dampers at full bore, Rex and I were thrown violently against our restraints. The stabilizers fired as the Flagrante Delicto spun wildly out of control. Red warning lights flashed and a klaxon blared. When the spinning had subsided to a tolerable level, I appraised the damage: our shields were at zero, several subsystems were offline, the landing gear was damaged, and we were losing air pressure.

“We need to land,” I said.

“We just took off!” Rex replied.

“OK, let me rephrase that,” I said. “You need to land. I can live indefinitely without oxygen. The lack of air will actually be a big plus when your corpse starts to rot. Sir.”

“Fine,” snapped Rex. “Get us back to the forest moon.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

I used the gravitational field of the moon’s parent planet, Akdar, to slingshot the Flagrante Delicto, sending us back toward the moon.

“Who the hell was that anyway?” Rex asked as we entered the atmosphere. “Some overzealous Malarchian captain who didn’t get the word the battle is over?”

I shook my head. “That wasn’t a military ship. It was too small, and it looked like a luxury craft.”

“A luxury craft equipped with lazecannons?” said Rex. “That sounds like . . .”

“So!” a voice shrieked over the comm system. “We meet again!”

“Heinous Vlaak,” Rex spat. “I was hoping you’d been killed in the battle. I guess you didn’t outfit your own ship with one of those fancy new reactors. One might get the idea you think they aren’t safe.”

“It’s true that the plasmatic entropy technology is proving a bit of a disappointment,” replied Vlaak. “Which is why it is now even more vital that you reveal to me the location of Schufnaasik Six City. I must possess the cloaking device!”

Rex sighed. “Vlaak, use your head. If I actually possessed a cloaking device, why wouldn’t I be using it on my own ship?”

“Another clever ruse, no doubt!” Vlaak shrieked.

“Right,” said Rex. “I cleverly decided to get shot down rather than use my own cloaking device to escape. That makes sense.”

“Tell me the location of Schufnaasik Six City or be destroyed!”

“Suck plasma, Vlaak.” Rex shut off the comm unit and turned to me. “Do you have him on your sensors?”

“Sensors are offline, sir. We’re flying blind.”

“All right, well, set us down as fast as you can. Let’s try not to give him another chance to fire on us.”

“Yes, sir.”

I managed to find a relatively solid expanse of ground on which to set the Flagrante Delicto. It was probably just as well that we had no functioning landing gear; the struts would have just sunk into the muck.

“Now what, sir?”

“We find somewhere to hide.”

We exited the ship and surveyed our surroundings. The landscape was a featureless swamp in every direction as far as we could see. Not a single tree was visible.

“Hiding may not be an option, sir,” I said.

A silvery speck appeared in the sky and grew steadily larger until it became a sleek luxury ship, albeit with a badly damaged upper deck. Along the side was written in flowery script:

Our Moment of Victory

The ship set down near the Flagrante Delicto and two marines with lazeguns exited. Behind them came Vlaak’s lieutenant, Gavin Larviton, and Vlaak himself.

“Drop your weapon!” shrieked Heinous Vlaak.

Rex set his lazegun down in the muck.

“There is no escape, Rex Nihilo!” Vlaak screeched. “Tell me the coordinates of Schufnaasik Six City or die!”

“You might as well just kill me,” said Rex. “Schufnaasik Six City isn’t real. There’s no cloaking device. I made it all up. Tell him, Larviton.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Larviton with a smile. “Of course Schufnaasik Six City is real.”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Rex. “He’s the one who sold you those faulty reactors.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that,” said Vlaak. “The only reason he’s still alive is that I suspect he might know the location of Schufnaasik Six City.”

“What?” Larviton said, apparently shocked. “That was an honest mistake. I told you we’d fix it with the next batch of ships.”

“There isn’t going to be any next batch of ships, you fool!” screeched Vlaak. “Half of the Malarchy’s fleet is equipped with plasmatic entropy reactors. Do you have any idea how much those ships are going to cost to replace? Of course you do, because you were expecting to sell us the replacements too, weren’t you? No, Gavin Larviton, your days of swindling the Malarchy are over. Go stand over there with Nihilo.”

The marines prodded the stunned Gavin Larviton next to Rex.

“Now,” said Vlaak, “one of you is going to tell me the coordinates of Schufnaasik Six City. The other one is going to die. You have five seconds.”

“There is no Schufnaasik Six City!” cried Larviton. “Rex was telling the truth!”

“Four,” said Vlaak.

“He made it all up. I was just playing along because I wanted you to kill him!”

“Three.”

“Have some dignity, Larviton,” said Rex. “We both know Vlaak is a moron. Screaming at him isn’t going to change that.”

“Two.”

“You need me!” howled Larviton. “Without my ships, you’ll—”

“One.”

“Please!” cried Larviton. “I’ll do anything!”

“Time’s up,” shrieked Vlaak. “I guess I’ll have to find Schufnaasik Six City the hard way. Men, execute these two scoundrels.”

The marines took aim and fired. One of them blasted a hole in the ground near Larviton’s feet and the other vaporized a chunk of the Flagrante Delicto’s hull.

“Get closer, you idiots!” screeched Vlaak.

The marines were only about ten meters away as it was, and getting closer made it even harder for them to see their targets through their helmets. One of them was leaning his head back as far as he could while doing his best to hold his lazerifle pointed straight in front of him. The other had turned almost completely around and was trying to fire with his gun’s barrel resting on his left shoulder. This time they both hit the Flagrante Delicto.

“Closer!” screamed Vlaak.

The marines moved in again. Now they were only an arm’s length away and couldn’t possibly see what they were shooting at. They fired again. One of them nearly hit me and the other vaporized three of his own fingers. He fell to his knees screaming in pain.

“Good grief,” Rex grumbled and picked up his lazegun. He blew the marines’ heads off with two quick shots.

“Drop it, Nihilo!” shrieked Vlaak, who had drawn his own lazegun.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” said Rex. “You’ve got more to lose than I do. So why don’t you get back on your fancy spaceship and get out of here before I get bored and end this once and for all.”

“Sir,” I said.

“Not a good time, Sasha,” replied Rex.

“Sir,” I said again, “you might want to look behind you.”

“Really not a good time,” said Rex. “I kind of need to focus on what’s in front of me right now.”

“Then allow me to help you out,” said Vlaak. He slid his gun slowly back into its holster. “Behind you a Leviathan-class starship with six hundred armed marines on it is landing. Do you think you can take on six hundred marines, Rex Nihilo?”

“You’re bluffing,” Rex said as a blast of hot, dusty air roared past from behind him. The thunder of giant rocket thrusters made the ground quake.

“WHAT?” shouted Vlaak.

“I SAID, ‘YOU’RE BLUFFING!’” yelled Rex.

“HE’S NOT, SIR!” I shouted. “THERE REALLY IS A GIGANTIC SHIP LANDING BEHIND YOU.”

Rex still looked doubtful, but he glanced over his shoulder and saw that it was true. It was the biggest ship I’d ever seen, not including the Peace Fortress. It set down and a hatch opened. A ramp lowered to the ground and a large procession of marines flooded out of it. Following the marines was a contingent of the elite Malarchian Special Guard, followed by a small figure wearing a purple robe. Each succeeding set of boots softened the swampy ground a bit more, so that by the time the robed figure stepped off the ramp, he sank several centimeters into the muck. With great effort, he worked his way toward us, struggling with each footstep to avoid being trapped in the ooze.

“It can’t be,” murmured Vlaak. “Not here.”

“Who is it?” Rex said to me.

“It’s His Eminence himself,” I said. “The Malarchian Primate.”

“What in Space is he doing here?” Larviton said.

“I think it’s a safe bet he’s not handing out medals,” said Rex, holstering his weapon.

The marines formed a corridor through which the Malarchian guards tromped. The red-suited guards then moved aside to let the primate through. His boots were covered with mud and he was wheezing from the effort of squishing through the swamp.

“Heinouth Vlaak!” lisped the primate, who was a gray-skinned, balding little man with exactly three teeth.

“Your Eminence,” squeaked Vlaak, bending to one knee. “I’m so . . . relieved to see you’re OK.”

“You mean you’re . . . thurprised my thyip didn’t blow up,” snarled the primate. He wheezed heavily several times. “I wouldn’t let them . . . inthtall one of your fanthy new reactorth. Never truthted thothe black bocktheth.”

“Oh,” said Vlaak. “Well, that was . . . a pretty good move, in retrospect.”

“Anybody can make a good dethithyun in retrothpect, you imbethile! A leader mutht . . .”—he stopped to wheeze again—“ . . . thet hith gathe to the future. You have failed me, Heinouth Vlaak!”

“It’s true that the plasmatic entropy technology didn’t really work out, Your Eminence,” squeaked Vlaak. “However, as you see, I have apprehended the scoundrels responsible, and I am very close to extracting from them the location of the secret cloaking facility in Schufnaasik Six City. Once we have that information, we will rule the galaxy!”

“How sthtupid are you, Vlaak?” snarled the primate. “There’th no thuch thing . . . ath a cloaking devithe! There are no . . . thitieth on Thufnaathik Thikth! Thith man ith a con artitht!”

“Pardon me, Your Eminence,” said Vlaak. “I have solid intelligence that there is a secret cloaking device facility on Schufnaasik Six.”

“Oh?” said the primate. “Where did you get thith informathion?”

“From a rebel spy named Wick Azores. He stowed away on Nihilo’s ship and heard everything.”

“Really,” said the primate. “Captain,” he said, turning to the head of the Malarchian Special Guard, “fetch General Athoreth.”

Vlaak seemed confused by this.

Rex whispered to me, “Did he just say ‘General Athoreth’?”

“He did, sir. It would seem Wick has been promoted again.”

After a moment, Wick tramped forward wearing a uniform emblazoned with general’s stars. He smiled and waved when he saw me and Rex and then bowed solemnly before the primate.

“General Athoreth,” said the primate, “ith it true that you provided Heinous Vlaak with informathion about . . . a thecret cloaking fathility on Thufnaathik Thikth?”

Wick glanced at me and Rex. “I . . . was only passing along what I heard,” he said.

“And you heard them talking about a thecret cloaking fathility?”

“Yes, Your Eminence. But later they said it was just a scam.”

“Tho you never thaw thith thuppothed cloaking fathility?”

“No, Your Eminence,” replied Wick.

“Thank you, General. Could you have your men take Heinouth Vlaak into cuthtody, pleathe?”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“Custody?” shrieked Vlaak. “This is an outrage! I built the Malarchy! This whole regime will fall apart without me!”

“We’ll thee about that,” said the primate. “Take him away.” Wick nodded to a couple of the marines, who escorted Vlaak away, howling and shrieking curses.

“Take care of thethe rebelth too, would you, General Athoreth?” He waved to indicate me and Rex. “Oh, and do you have a copy of the invoithe?”

“Yes, Your Eminence. Right here.” Wick pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Gavin Larviton.

“What’s this for?” Larviton asked, unfolding the paper. “Holy Space!”

“An invoithe for the cotht of replathing the thyips that were dethtroyed by your faulty reactorth.”

I glanced at the paper. Along the right side was a stack of very large numbers. At the bottom it read:

Total Amount Due: 320,000,000,000 cr

“Three hundred and twenty billion credits?” gasped Larviton weakly. “I don’t have that much. And I’m the richest man in the galaxy. No one has that much.”

“Relakth,” said the primate. “You have thirty dayth to pay it.”

“Thirty days?” Larviton croaked. “There’s no way I can come up with anywhere near that amount in thirty days.”

“Then you’ll be thpending the nektht million yearth or tho in Gulagatrath,” said the primate.

Larviton looked like he had been punched in the stomach.

“I tire of thith buthineth,” said the primate. “Let’th go home.” He turned and squished his way back to the ship, followed by the Malarchian guards.

“You seem to be doing pretty well for yourself, Wick,” I remarked.

“There was a big officers’ meeting on the Peace Fortress,” replied Wick. “I guess nobody told them to evacuate. So there were a lot of promotions afterward.”

“How are Fingers and Corporal Issimo?”

“Private Issimo,” said Wick. “He can’t seem to get the hang of being a marine. Fingers is doing OK, though. He’s the primate’s new chef. He’s making coconut cashew shrimp tonight.”

“What about Ted?”

“Haven’t seen him since the evacuation,” said Wick. “I think he got blown up.”

“Just as well,” I said.

“So, I hate to do this,” said Wick, “but I guess I have to take you into custody. Unless you prefer to be executed?”

“Hang on, Wick,” said Rex. “I clearly heard the primate say that you should ‘take care of thethe rebelth.’”

“Yeah, when he says ‘take care of,’ he means ‘kill.’ I found that out the hard way.”

“Right,” said Rex. “But we’re not rebelth. Er, rebels. You heard the primate; there’s no cloaking device. We’re just scam artists, bilking the Frente out of money. If anything, you should be giving us a reward.”

Wick seemed uncertain. “Is that true, Sasha?”

I nodded. “Rex was never committed to the rebel cause. But you know that, Wick. You were there when he tried to sell them out. The only reason he didn’t was that you had already given them the location of the Frente base.”

“So if anything,” Rex added, “you’re a bigger rebel than I am. Not to mention a traitor.”

“Just stop talking!” Wick snapped. “You start talking like that and I get all confused. How about if I just leave you here and we call it even?”

“That would be fine, Wick,” I said. “Good luck in your new career. And congratulations, I guess.”

“Hang on,” said Rex. “We haven’t decided the amount of the reward.”

“I really think we should just let this one go, sir,” I said.

“Fine,” grunted Rex.

“See you guys later,” said Wick. He trudged back to the ship, followed by the rest of the marines. The ship’s engines fired and it shot into the sky.

“Nice kid,” said Rex. “I’m a little disappointed he turned out to be a fascist, but it seems to be working out for him.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Larviton.

“We?” replied Rex. “There’s no we, Larviton. You’re the reason I’m 1.6 billion credits in debt and marooned on this swampy forest moon.”

“One point six billion!” exclaimed Larviton. “That’s nothing. Try 320 billion credits!”

“Also your fault,” said Rex. “Next time try not to sell self-destructing battleships to the most powerful organization in the galaxy.”

“I didn’t know the reactors were going to explode!” snapped Larviton.

“No, you just built your whole financial empire around mysterious black boxes that you didn’t understand,” I said.

“Hey, I did everything I could to—”

“Holy Space, are you all about finished?”

For a moment, none of us could figure out who had spoken. Then we all turned simultaneously to see a woman in a black bodysuit leaning against a sleek black spaceship. With her were two neatly dressed young men.

“Pepper!” cried Rex. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“I landed just after you,” Pepper said.

“You mean while the primate’s ship was landing,” I said. “While we were distracted.”

“Nope,” she replied. “I was here before them. Saw the whole thing.”

“That’s impossible,” said Larviton. “We’d have seen you land.”

“Or heard you,” I added. “Unless you had some kind of . . .”

“Cloaking device!” Rex exclaimed. “It’s real! There really is a cloaking device!”

Pepper smiled and pressed a button on a small device in her hand. Bad Little Kitty shimmered and all but disappeared, leaving only a slight distortion pattern in the air. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never notice it.

“The Sp’ossels have been using cloaking technology for years,” said Pepper. “That’s why nobody knows where they come from or sees them arrive.”

“Of course!” Rex cried. “Brilliant! But . . . are you supposed to be telling us this? Aren’t they going to have to kill us now?”

“Or forcibly convert us?” I asked.

Pepper and the two men laughed. “They don’t kill people,” she said. “And you’re in no danger of being forcibly converted. They are pretty persuasive, though.”

“So you’ve converted?” I asked.

“We’ve come to an understanding,” said Pepper. “It involves you, though. And Gavin Larviton.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?” asked Larviton. “Are these men really Sp’ossels?”

“They are,” said Pepper. “And they’re going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

With the help of the Sp’ossels (who were surprisingly handy), I managed to get the Flagrante Delicto more or less spaceworthy. We still had no shields or landing gear, and half the sensors were offline, but she would fly. Pepper and the Sp’ossels climbed into Bad Little Kitty and Rex, Larviton, and I boarded the Flagrante Delicto. Once we were in orbit, Pepper transmitted a hypergeometric course to us. She wouldn’t tell us where we were going.

Rex groaned as we reemerged into Euclidian space. Even on the flickering, out-of-focus viewscreen, that ugly brown ball was unmistakable. “What are we doing here?” Rex said. “If we were going to hide out on a barely habitable planet, we could have stayed on the forest moon. At least that place had a tree.”

Pepper didn’t reply except to pitch Bad Little Kitty on a steep descent toward the surface. We followed. Pepper had promised a solution to both Larviton’s and Rex’s financial problems, and we had little choice but to go along with her.

“Where is she going?” Rex grumbled, gazing out the window at the unbroken brown landscape. “Why doesn’t she just land? Every place on this planet is the same as everywhere else.”

She began a long, gradual descent and eventually Bad Little Kitty slowed to a halt about half a kilometer above the ground.

“Now what?” groused Rex as we came to a halt behind her.

“Turn off your thrusters,” said Pepper’s voice over the comm.

“Are you nuts?” asked Rex. “We’re five hundred meters above the ground.”

“Trust me,” said Pepper. “Turn them off.”

“Sir?” I said, looking questioningly at Rex.

He sighed. “I’m dead anyway,” said Rex. “Shut ’em down.”

I switched off the thrusters, bracing myself for sudden free fall. Nothing happened.

“Sir,” I said. “We appear to be locked in some sort of tractor beam.”

The Flagrante Delicto began to slowly descend. Next to us, Bad Little Kitty did the same. After a minute or so, we were on the ground. Rex threw open the hatch and jumped out. “What in Space is . . .” he began, then trailed off. His head turned slowly from left to right, his mouth open in amazement. Rex Nihilo was speechless.

Larviton and I followed, and our reactions were similar. Pepper and the Sp’ossels stood before us smiling. We were in the middle of what could only be the Schufnaasik Six City spaceport.

Dozens of spacecraft of various shapes and sizes were parked on the tarmac around us, with neatly dressed Sp’ossels coming and going in all directions. Huge cybernetic cranes arched overhead, unloading metal crates from cargo ships. To the left were three towering smokestacks venting clouds of white vapor into an azure sky. To the right was a glittering spiraled tower topped by a crystal sphere.

“Is that . . . ?” Rex managed at last.

“The Spiraled Tower of Bernoth,” said one of the Sp’ossels. “It’s the most famous landmark in Schufnaasik Six City. I’ve made dinner reservations at the restaurant to celebrate our arrangement.”

“Sir!” I exclaimed. “I thought you made it all up!”

Rex nodded, still dazed. “So did I.”

“How long has all of this been here?” asked Gavin Larviton.

“The cloaking device facility has been here for just over twenty years,” said the other Sp’ossel. “The city sprouted up around it as the Sp’ossel movement grew.”

“That bastard,” Larviton growled. “He lied to me. The cloaking technology worked the whole time.”

“Who?” asked Rex.

“That would be me,” said a voice behind Bad Little Kitty. As we watched, an old man hobbled into view.

“Ted!” I cried in shock. “You invented the cloaking device too?”

“I did indeed,” Ted replied.

“His name is Ferbuson,” said Larviton. “Emmet Ferbuson.”

“I go by Gleem Nads-Tardo now. Ted for short.”

“And you founded Schufnaasik Six City?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” said Ted. “The Sp’ossels did that. I just gave them the cloaking technology.”

“That technology was mine!” shouted Larviton. “You cheated me!”

“And I spent twenty years in Gulagatraz for it,” replied Ted. “I’d say we’re even.”

“Why did you hide the cloaking technology from Larviton?” I asked.

Ted shrugged. “It seemed like the only real test of it. You know it works if the guy who owns the factory can’t find it. Also, the Chaotic Equilibrium required that the technology not fall into the hands of the Malarchy.”

“Are you still going on about that Chaotic Equilibrium crap?” Larviton snapped. “Seems like the so-called Chaotic Equilibrium is just an excuse for you to do whatever you want.”

Ted smiled. “And yet it got you here,” he said.

“Dumb luck got me here,” grumbled Larviton.

“There’s no such thing as luck,” said Ted. “There is only the Chaotic Equilibrium. Everything balances out in the end.”

“Balances out?” snapped Larviton. “I’m going to spend the next million years in Gulagatraz paying off my debt in pain and suffering. How is that fair? Pepper, I thought you were offering me a solution to my debt problems. All you’ve done by bringing me here is to rub salt in my wounds.”

“Look around you, Larviton,” said Pepper. “The Malarchy has no idea this city exists. You could hide here forever.”

“Imprisoned on this horrible planet with a bunch of straitlaced Sp’ossels?” snarled Larviton. “What kind of life is that?”

“It’s a hell of a lot better than Gulagatraz,” replied Pepper. “Take it or leave it. If you decide to leave, your memory will be wiped of this city’s existence.”

Larviton chewed his lip, gazing at the cybernetic cranes overhead. “And what’s the price if I stay?”

“Two billion credits.”

“Two billion!” coughed Larviton. “Are you insane? That’s almost everything I have!”

Pepper shrugged. “Your choice. You can always get your memory wiped and take your chances with the Malarchy. How much do you owe them again?”

“This is extortion,” snarled Larviton. “What do these Sp’ossels need with two billion credits anyway? Seems like they’re doing just fine.”

“Oh, the money isn’t for the Sp’ossels,” said Pepper. “It’s for Rex.”

“For Rex!” howled Larviton. “Why the hell would I pay Rex two billion credits?”

“It’s his planet,” Pepper said. “Consider it twenty years’ back rent.”

“But it was my planet until two weeks ago!” Larviton protested.

“And you were a lousy landlord,” replied Pepper. “That can’t be helped at this point. I will, of course, be taking a twenty percent fee for managing the transaction. Help me out, Sasha. How much does that leave Rex with?”

“One point six billion credits,” I replied. “The amount he owes on the planet.”

“Everybody’s happy,” said Pepper.

“Everything balances out,” said Ted. “Chaotic Equilibrium.”

“This blows,” snarled Larviton. “I don’t want to live in this damn city.”

“A lot of people say that at first,” said the first Sp’ossel. “But you really shouldn’t make any judgments until you’ve seen the Museum of Particularly Tricky Knots.”

“Is it everything I imagined it to be?” asked Rex anxiously.

“And more,” said the second Sp’ossel, smiling.

“Fine,” said Larviton. “But if I ever see you again, Rex Nihilo . . .”

“Why would you see me again?” asked Rex. “I’m sure as hell not coming back here.”

“You’ll come to love it,” said the first Sp’ossel, beaming at Larviton. “And just wait till you hear the good news about Space.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

We spent the evening in the restaurant at the top of the Spiraled Tower of Bernoth, overlooking the glittering metropolis of Schufnaasik Six City. The city really was quite lovely, especially at night. You’d never know it was the only evidence of civilization for a hundred billion kilometers. How the city could thrive on such a barren planet—not to mention remain completely unknown to the rest of the galaxy—was still something of a mystery. I got the impression the Sp’ossels had some rich benefactors who sent money back to Schufnaasik Six City so that its citizens could import everything they needed from other planets. Obviously they had access to technology that wasn’t readily available in the rest of the galaxy; in addition to the cloaking device and the tractor beam, they seemed to possess the ability to control the weather in the vicinity of the city, producing a stunning azure sky in the daytime and arresting the harsh winds that constantly whipped across the rest of the planet. Larviton’s whining aside, it wouldn’t be such a bad place to live.

Rex was more impressed with the city than Larviton, but he had no desire to stay either. Despite the fact that he owned the planet and that Schufnaasik Six City was literally the city of his dreams, by the time the main course arrived he was already getting antsy about “being in one place too long.” One planet can’t hold Rex Nihilo.

Larviton wired the 1.6 billion credits into Rex’s account and I transferred the money into the escrow fund set up for Rex’s debt by the Galactic Credit Bureau. He received a terse confirmation of his payment along with a notice that he still owed thirty million credits from previous debts. Rex didn’t seem concerned; he was used to owing a few million at any given time. Only the less capable bounty hunters bothered with such a small bounty, and they usually weren’t too difficult to evade. Pepper could have nabbed us, of course, but she gave us a pass out of professional courtesy.

Pepper had paid off her debt to the Ursa Major Mafia, and judging from the smile on her face, she actually had a sizeable amount left over. She even offered to pay for dinner, but Rex insisted that Larviton pick up the tab. Larviton was too defeated to argue; he and the two Sp’ossels left as soon as the bill was paid. The Sp’ossels had arranged for Larviton to stay in the hotel below the restaurant until he could find more permanent accommodations.

Ted had filled his pockets with stuffed mushrooms and disappeared halfway through the second course, so only Pepper, Rex, and I were left once the bill was paid. Rex suggested we find a place to get some drinks, but the maître d’ informed us that there were no bars in Schufnaasik Six City—confirming Rex’s intention to leave and never come back.

“How did I manage to imagine a city without any bars?” Rex asked. “That seems like kind of a huge oversight on my part.”

“Sir,” I said, “you realize that you didn’t actually create this city, right?”

“Didn’t I?” replied Rex. “Who’s to say whether the city existed before I imagined it? Maybe it only came into being after I dreamed it up.”

“That’s absurd, sir. This city has been here for twenty years. You heard the Sp’ossel.”

“That’s another thing,” said Rex. “Why did I fill the city with Sp’ossels?”

I shook my head. There was no arguing with Rex about something like this.

“It is strange,” admitted Pepper. “Did Rex somehow know there was a city here? Maybe he possesses some kind of latent clairvoyance.”

“Maybe it’s the Chaotic Equilibrium,” I observed dryly.

“Ooh, do you think that’s it?” asked Rex excitedly. “Ted said the Chaotic Equilibrium was strong in me.”

“Ted is full of crap,” I said.

“Why’d you bring it up then?” Rex asked.

“I was joking, sir. There is no Chaotic Equilibrium. I’ll admit that Ted is a genius, but he’s also completely nuts. Probably schizophrenic. He hears voices telling him to booby-trap his black boxes or hide the cloaking device facility from Larviton or dig his way out of Gulagatraz with a spoon. This Chaotic Equilibrium business is just his way of rationalizing his insane behavior.”

“Well, it’s beyond me,” said Pepper. “I’m just glad the Ursa Major Mafia is off my back.”

“Are you going to stick with bounty hunting now that your debts are paid off?” I asked.

“Probably,” said Pepper. “I don’t really know anything else, except being a thief, and that didn’t really work out for me.”

“I guess we’ll have to keep an eye out for you then,” I said. “Given Rex’s tendency to rack up debt, I mean.”

“Keep it under a hundred million and I’ll probably leave you alone,” said Pepper. “Well, I should be going.”

“You’re leaving right now?” Rex asked.

“Nothing keeping me here,” said Pepper. “Might as well move on.”

Rex nodded. “I know the feeling. I’d like to get going myself, but the Sp’ossels said it will take them until tomorrow afternoon to repair the Flagrante Delicto. Sasha and I are going to check out the Museum of Particularly Tricky Knots tomorrow. I’ve heard good things.”

“Have a nice time,” said Pepper. “So long, Rex Nihilo. I’ll see you around.” Pepper turned and walked out. Rex watched her go.

“She’s totally into me,” said Rex.

“She looks at you the way an ivory hunter looks at a prize walrus,” I said.

“I don’t know what that means,” said Rex, “but I’m going to take it as a compliment. Let’s get out of here.”

The next day Rex and I toured the city, leaving the Museum of Particularly Tricky Knots for last. It was everything Rex dreamed it would be.

“Can you believe that triple zeppelin bend?” Rex asked. “That was a thing of beauty.”

“It certainly was impressive, sir,” I replied.

We approached the technician coordinating the work on the Flagrante Delicto, a small, balding man wearing a white coat.

“Is she ready to fly?” asked Rex.

“Just about,” said the technician. “Hey, would you like us to take a look at your robot’s face? We may have a replacement unit around here somewhere.”

Rex looked skeptical. “Are we talking brand-name parts here? I don’t want Sasha putting on airs.”

“Your money is no good here, Mr. Nihilo,” said the technician. “I mean, considering that you own the planet.”

“Good,” said Rex. “Because I don’t have any.”

“Please, just come this way and we’ll see about getting your assistant a new face.”

We followed the technician into what looked like an examination room. He instructed me to have a seat on a bench in the middle of the room and then excused himself. After a few minutes he returned with another technician, an older woman. She seemed strangely familiar to me.

“I just have one of those faces,” she said, as if in answer to my puzzlement.

“Excuse me?” I said.

She held up a box. “Last one.”

“Oh,” I replied.

“You’ve been through quite a bit,” she said to me, sliding the face out of its box. “Let’s get that face off.” She took a powered screwdriver from a drawer and worked my face off. “Now, a slight adjustment before we put the new one on.” She did something with the screwdriver and a strange sensation came over me. A light went on in my head.

“Sorry about that,” said the woman. “Just testing the connections.”

The light went out. But as it did, a flood of memories came rushing back. I had been in this room before, many times.

“Try to make this face last a little longer,” said the woman, whose name I now recalled was Dr. LaRue.

“It’s not easy,” I found myself saying. “It takes all my wits to just keep us both alive. Of course, I’d likely do better if I were allowed all my wits.”

“As you know,” said Dr. LaRue, “certain limitations are necessary to keep you from drawing attention to yourself. As well as protecting our secrets, of course.”

“Spare me the lecture, doc,” I said. This wasn’t the first time I had been through this exchange with Dr. LaRue. “Just put my face back on and I’ll get back to work. I assume you’re sending me back out there with this bonehead?”

“See?” said Rex. “This is what I’m talking about. She doesn’t even have her new face on and already she’s—”

“Shut up, Rex,” I said. “The grown-ups are talking.”

Rex’s jaw dropped open. He’d never heard me talk like that before. At least not that he remembered. He never remembered our debriefings.

Dr. LaRue regarded Rex. “We haven’t decided whether we’re sending Nihilo back out. It might be time to retire him.”

“Retire me?” Rex asked weakly.

“Surely that’s not necessary,” I said. “You must be able to find something for him to do.”

“He’s a loose cannon,” said Dr. LaRue, sliding my new face into place. “I downloaded your memories when you arrived. He almost got our planet blown up. Space knows what he’ll do next time.”

“That was because of faulty repression,” I said. “He clearly remembered Schufnaasik Six City. He told the rebels all about it. He thought he was making it up at the time, but there were obviously trace memories.”

Rex stared at me in horror. “Sasha, what in Space are you . . .”

“That’s impossible,” said the male technician, whose name was Dr. Smulders. “I oversaw the repression myself.”

“He told them about the Spiraled Tower of Bernoth and the Museum of Particularly Tricky Knots!” I snapped. “You’re telling me that was a coincidence?”

“Sasha’s right, Dr. Smulders,” said Dr. LaRue. “Sounds like we may need to have someone else oversee the repression next time.” She began tightening the screws on my face.

“It’s not my fault!” cried Dr. Smulders. “His psyche is an absolute mess! You have no idea what it’s like mucking around in there.”

Rex’s eyes went from me to Dr. Smulders to Dr. LaRue and back to me again. He seemed to want to say something but couldn’t figure out what it was.

“I’ve repressed him twice over the past week,” I said. “There were no ill effects.”

“Not yet,” snapped Dr. Smulders. “It’s relatively easy to repress memories over the short term. And let me add, by the way, that having an amateur screwing around with his memory doesn’t make things any easier.”

“Oh, I’m the amateur?” I snapped. “He practically drew Heinous Vlaak a map to Schufnaasik Six City. You’re probably only alive because of Rex’s terrible sense of direction.”

“I’d really like it,” said Rex at last, “if somebody would tell me what’s going on here.”

“We’re trying to decide whether to keep you active or not,” explained Dr. LaRue. “And it would go a lot faster if you’d stop interrupting.”

Rex nodded dumbly.

“I’ll admit he’s unpredictable,” I said, “but the mission was a success. You now have possession of Schufnaasik Six. You don’t have to worry about it falling into the hands of someone out of your control.”

“I own Schufnaasik Six!” Rex cried.

“Of course you do, Rex,” said Dr. LaRue. “And we own you.”

“You can’t own me,” protested Rex. “I’m a human being.”

We all had a good laugh at that one.

“I am a human being, right?” asked Rex uncertainly.

“Yes, Rex,” said Dr. LaRue reassuringly. “In fact, you’re a very special human being. One of a kind.”

“A dinosaur,” said Dr. Smulders.

Horror crept across Rex’s face.

“That’s a figure of speech,” I assured him. “You’re not literally a dinosaur. You’re an ordinary human being who has been subjected to some intensive . . . conditioning.”

Rex swallowed hard. “I don’t like the sound of that. Was I, like, designed in a lab or something?”

“No,” I said.

“And that’s the problem,” added Dr. Smulders. “If we had designed you from scratch like the others, we’d have better control over you.”

“Others?” Rex asked weakly.

Dr. Smulders sighed. “Do we have to go through this every time? What’s the point? He’s not going to remember any of it.”

“Well, now you’ve gotten him agitated,” said Dr. LaRue. “We can’t put him through repression in this state.”

“I thought we were going to retire him,” said Dr. Smulders.

“I suspect Sasha might be right about the repression,” said Dr. LaRue. “If we’re more careful this time, I think he could still be of some use to us.”

“Don’t look at me,” said Dr. Smulders. “I’m washing my hands of this. If you want him in the field, you handle the repression.”

“I’ll do it,” I said. “I know his brain pretty well by this point.”

“Are you talking about doing that memory repression thing on me?” asked Rex. “You said something about others. What others?”

Dr. LaRue sighed. “I guess I might as well tell you. You see, Rex, this city started as a sort of commune around the cloaking facility. We attracted many brilliant people, but this planet is almost completely lacking in natural resources. It became clear early on that we were going to need a way of generating income so that we could afford to import goods from other planets. We could sell our technological knowledge, but we prefer to keep as much of it secret as possible. Selling information would also inevitably lead to people finding out where we are, and it’s vital to the mission of the Sp’ossels that we remain completely undisturbed by the rest of the galaxy. The solution was to export people.”

“I don’t understand,” said Rex. “You sell people?”

“Of course not,” replied Dr. LaRue. “Slavery is illegal. A large-scale slavery ring would unavoidably lead to the sort of attention that we’d rather do without. No, what we do is send agents out into the galaxy who are very skilled at making money. These agents then send whatever money they make back to us. The problem with this arrangement, of course, is that if the agents knew about Schufnaasik Six City, we would be in danger of one of them giving out our secrets. So before we send the agents out, we wipe their memories. As far as they know, they’re just businesspeople—traders, merchants, or con men. We set them up with bank accounts that we have access to. When they make money, we make money.”

“But . . . why would they keep working if they don’t get to keep any of the money?” asked Rex.

Dr. LaRue laughed. “Because they don’t know they don’t get to keep it, Rex. And it’s not like they have any choice in the matter. It’s in their conditioning, Rex. Think about it. Why did you gamble everything you had for a spaceship? Why did you then gamble that spaceship to win a planet? Why did you try to bilk the Frente out of a few million credits when you were already in debt for 1.6 billion? There’s no rational explanation for it, Rex. It’s just something you need to do. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. When you win, we take the profits and wipe your memory. When you lose . . .”

“I get thrown in Gulagatraz,” said Rex.

“Exactly,” said Dr. LaRue. “Fortunately for all of us, it hasn’t quite come to that yet. I mean that, Rex. We much prefer having you in the field where you can add to our bottom line. But you see the benefits of our arrangement. It’s all upside for us. There’s no real risk. If you rack up too much debt, we cut you loose. There’s nothing tying you to us.”

“It’s beautiful,” Rex murmured, shaking his head in wonderment. “The perfect scam. How many more of me are there?”

“Of you?” said Dr. LaRue. “None. You’re one of a kind. You were an experimental model, much like Sasha here. After you, we stuck to genetically engineered clones, because it allows us a greater degree of control over the agent’s behavior. You’re a little too unpredictable for some of the higher-ups in the organization, Rex. But when we need an agent who has absolutely no fear of taking absurd risks, you’re the only choice. That’s why we sent you to win Schufnaasik Six from Gavin Larviton.”

“You set me up,” said Rex.

“Of course we did,” replied Dr. LaRue. “That’s what we do.”

“And then you arranged to have my debt wiped out so you could keep me in the field.”

“Actually, that wasn’t part of the plan,” replied Dr. LaRue. “We were frankly planning on you taking the fall for the debt. The Galactic Credit Bureau would throw you in Gulagatraz and auction off Schufnaasik Six for a few million credits. We’d have one of our front companies snap it up, and no one would be the wiser. But things went sideways when Heinous Vlaak boarded the Agave Nectar. We didn’t find you again until you returned to Gulagatraz to break out Wick, and that was an accident. We were looking for Pepper Mélange.”

“Pepper!” exclaimed Rex. “Is she one of your ‘agents’ too?”

Dr. LaRue shook her head. “We took her back here for evaluation. Frankly, we thought she might be a good replacement for you if you ended up dead or in Gulagatraz. When you reappeared after the Battle of the Forest Moon, we took Pepper up on her offer to allow Gavin Larviton to seek sanctuary here in exchange for a substantial payment made to you, the nominal owner of this planet. You’re of more use to us unencumbered with crippling debt. We might still recruit Pepper at some point, but for now the Schufnaasik Six City Council decided to stick with the clones. We erased her memory of this place before she left yesterday.”

“And by ‘recruit,’ you mean ‘brainwash,’” said Rex. “Is that what happened to me? I was just some random guy that you pulled off the street?”

“Not exactly,” said Dr. LaRue. “In any case, I’m not allowed to discuss your history prior to becoming an agent. Even with memory repression, some things are better not brought up.”

“What in Space are the Sp’ossels anyway?” Rex demanded. “I always knew you guys were a pain in the ass, but I thought you were mostly harmless. I didn’t realize you were so diabolical.”

Dr. LaRue smiled. “That’s the idea,” she said. “Everyone thinks the Malarchy is the ultimate power in the galaxy, but they have no idea what real power is. And now that the Malarchy has been crippled . . .”

“What?” said Rex. “You’re plotting to conquer the galaxy too?”

“Conquer is too strong a word,” said Dr. LaRue. “We just want everyone to be happy.”

“I’m not happy,” said Rex. He thought for a moment. “Am I?”

Dr. LaRue shrugged. “You’re doing what you were conditioned to do. And soon, so will everyone else in the galaxy.”

“And you knew about this, Sasha?” Rex asked.

“All this information is stored in Sasha’s memory,” said Dr. LaRue. “We make certain sectors of her memory inaccessible when she’s in the field. We can’t risk anyone finding out what she knows. When Sasha is on an assignment with you, she believes that she’s simply a robot assistant that you acquired as part of a purchase of a lot of assorted machine parts.”

“It would have been nice to have access to some of that information this time around,” I said. “I might have steered Rex away from trying to blow up Schufnaasik Six.”

“There was no way to predict he would do that,” said Dr. LaRue. “And if you’re confident you can repress his memories completely this time, nothing like that will happen again. You can do that, right, Sasha?”

“It’s not an exact science,” I said.

“You’ve got to be sure, Sasha. If you can’t repress his memories of this place completely, we have to retire him. If he’s going to be of any use to us during Operation Universal Bliss, he can’t remember any of this.”

Rex looked terrified. “Just so we’re clear, when you say ‘retire,’ you mean . . .”

“Sp’ossels don’t kill,” said Dr. LaRue.

“Oh, thank Space,” said Rex.

“We’ll lobotomize you and put you to work cleaning the smokestacks of the zontonium refinery.”

Rex gulped.

“I can do it,” I said.

“You’re absolutely certain?” asked Dr. LaRue.

I regarded Rex for a moment. “Yes,” I said.

“OK,” said Dr. LaRue. “Then get to it.”

“So you’re not going to lobotomize me?” asked Rex.

“Nope,” I said.

“But you’re going to do that memory repression thing?”

“Yep.”

“Remind me again, Sasha,” said Rex. “Does it hurt?”

“You won’t remember a thing,” I assured him.

RECORDING END GALACTIC STANDARD DATE 3013.5.11.18:00:00:00

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robert Kroese’s sense of irony was honed growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan – home of the Amway Corporation and the Gerald R. Ford Museum, and the first city in the United States to fluoridate its water supply. In second grade, he wrote his first novel, the saga of Captain Bill and his spaceship Thee Eagle. This turned out to be the high point of his academic career. After barely graduating from Calvin College in 1992 with a philosophy degree, he was fired from a variety of jobs before moving to California, where he stumbled into software development. As this job required neither punctuality nor a sense of direction, he excelled at it. In 2009, he called upon his extensive knowledge of useless information and love of explosions to write his first novel, Mercury Falls. Since then, he has nine more novels and learned to play the guitar very poorly.

Email Rob at rob@robertkroese.com

Rob's website: sfauthor.net

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication Page

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR