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

by Robert Kroese

  “Fruit?” said a voice behind me. I jumped. Turning around, I saw nothing but rows of plants.

  “Who said that?” I asked, not entirely certain my aural sensors weren’t malfunctioning.

  One of the plants raised a vine-like limb. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” said the voice again. “Just thought you might like some fruit. I’ve got plenty.” I saw now that hanging from its limbs were dozens of yellow, tear-drop-shaped fruit. Near the top of its main trunk were two whitish orbs resembling eyes that seemed to be looking directly at me. Below these was an opening that appeared to be a mouth.

  “You can talk,” I said, showcasing my impeccable understanding of the situation.

  “As can you,” said the plant. “So, fruit?”

  “Uh, sure,” I said, without thinking.

  “Help yourself,” said the plant-thing, extending its tentacle to dangle the fruit near my face. The creature was huge, at least twice my height, and had several long, vine-like appendages that seemed to function as arms and legs. It had no feet per se, but rather thick, trunk-like limbs that terminated in thinner, root-like extensions that penetrated the ground. It extracted these from the dirt, took two steps forward, and then sank them into the ground again. The teardrop-shaped fruits hung tantalizingly in front of me.

  I hesitated, unsure if this was some sort of ruse. “I, um, actually don’t eat fruit.”

  “Then why did you say yes?” the plant creature asked.

  “I was being polite.”

  “Then be polite and grab some of those ripe yellow ones on the end.” Its tone was calm, but I had no doubt it could pull me limb from limb with its tentacle-like appendages if it wanted to. I reached out slowly to take one of the fruits.

  “That’s it, take your time,” the thing said. “Oh yeah, that one right there. Put your hand around that one.”

  I stopped. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”

  “Sorry,” said the plant-thing. “Not another word, I promise.”

  “Okay,” I said, reaching tentatively for the fruit again.

  The plant-thing let out a long, low moan.

  “Stop that!” I snapped, and the plant-thing shrank back in fear.

  “Sorry,” the plant-thing said. “It’s just that it’s been a really long time since—”

  “You!” boomed a voice behind me. “Back away from the recruit!” I turned to see a white-haired man wearing green coveralls and mirrored sunglasses approaching with something that looked like a cattle prod in his hand. “And you, young man. Stop fraternizing with the crops!”

  I could only assume he was addressing me. I held up my hands and moved away from the plant-thing.

  The man waved the cattle prod thing at the plant-things. “You know better than to be offering your fruit to newbies. Now get back in your row!”

  The plant-thing shuffled quietly back into place in line with its fellows, which hadn’t moved—nor even taken any notice of the goings-on.

  “What are those things?” I asked.

  The man chuckled. “You signed up to be a soylent wrangler and you don’t even know what a shambler is?”

  “Shambler?”

  “Self-Harvesting Ambulatory Legume Resource. Genetically engineered to produce hybrid fruits combining the most nutritional aspects of soybeans and lentils.” He walked across the red line to one of the plants and plucked a ripe fruit from one of the plants, which let out a moan in response. The man marched back toward me, holding up the fruit. “A miracle of modern engineering. One hundred percent of your daily nutritional needs in a single fruit.” He took a bite of the fruit and began chewing. The flesh looked a bit like a leathery green pear. “Tastes like a muskrat’s butthole, but damned nutritious. I’m Dallas Webber. You must be Samson.”

  “Sasha,” I said. “Why do they… look like that?” I asked.

  “Like what?”

  “I mean, why are they so big? With eyes? And mouths? And tentacles?”

  Webber took another bite of the fruit. “The idea was to breed them to be self-harvesting. Think of it: plants that pick their own fruit and drop them right into a hopper to be pulverized into SLOP. Imagine the savings on labor!”

  “It does sound like a good idea,” I admitted.

  “Terrible,” the man replied, tossing the uneaten fruit on the ground. “Never worked the way it was planned. That’s why we’re here. Soylent wranglers. If the stupid things would just harvest their own fruit the way they were supposed to, Ubiqorp wouldn’t even need us. But here we are.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Those tentacles look like they’re capable of gripping the fruit. Why can’t they harvest it themselves?”

  “It’s not that they can’t. It’s that they won’t. And when they do… well, you’ll see. I don’t mind telling you, Samson, it’s humiliating work. There are days I can’t look at myself in the mirror.”

  Not sure how to respond to this, I remained silent.

  “But things are going to be better now that you’re here,” he went on. “I can feel it. As soon as I laid eyes on you, I thought to myself, ‘now there’s a young man who’s going places.’”

  “I’m actually a robot, sir.”

  “I know it seems that way right now, son,” Webber said, “but you gotta fight through it. Don’t let them take your humanity. You’ll end up just like Stubby Joe.”

  “Stubby Joe?”

  “My right-hand man. Been working here almost as long as I have. But he’s bitter, Samson. Don’t let them make you bitter.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Why do you call him Stubby Joe?”

  “He’s a little guy,” Webber said. “You’ll see. Let’s go for a walk, son.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the field of shamblers. There was barely enough room between them for us to walk side-by-side, but the shamblers seemed to lean away from us as we approached—probably in response to the cattle prod-like thing Webber was carrying. Other than that, though, they seemed to take no notice of us. It was impossible to tell if they were completely dormant or just uninterested.

  Webber dragged me through the field for some time, his long legs hurtling us toward some objective hidden by the thousands of huge plant-things. I wanted to protest, but it was all I could do to keep my footing in the loose, sandy soil. Then we stopped abruptly and I saw that we had reached the end of the shambler field. There was nothing beyond except barren ground.

  “Take a good long look, Samson,” Webber said, staring into the distance. “That’s your nemesis.”

  Unaware that I even had a nemesis, I stared into the distance, trying to pinpoint it. I realized after some time that Webber was referring to the energy barrier, barely visible a stone’s throw from the last row of shamblers.

  “My nemesis would seem relatively easy to avoid,” I ventured.

  “That’s what I thought at first,” Webber said. “Thirty years ago, I was just a young buck like you, not a care in the world. Hit a bad streak at Xanatopia one weekend and ended up here. Never been a stranger to hard work, so I figured I’d tough it out. But it gets in your head, Samson.”

  “The energy barrier?”

  “The energy barrier, Samson. It’s always there, just waiting. It never sleeps. You won’t be able to stop thinking about it. Soon enough, you’ll be dreaming about it. So you resist. Resist, Samson!”

  “Yes, sir. I’m resisting, sir.” It seemed pointless to continue correct him. I was becoming nostalgic for Rex’s malapropisms, which were at least of the correct gender.

  “Are you still resisting, Samson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you thinking about now?”

  “The energy barrier, sir.”

  “See? It’s no use. You try to resist, but you keep thinking about it. Some days I think I should just give in.”

  “Give in, sir?”

  “Just run right into the energy barrier. Get it over with.”

  I suddenly became uncomfortably aware of the fact that Webber w
as still holding my hand.

  “Running into the energy barrier sounds like a bad idea, sir,” I said.

  “Of course it’s a bad idea!” Webber cried. “That’s the whole point. Nobody in his right mind would even think about running into an energy barrier. And yet here we are, talking about it like it’s a perfectly reasonable option. It’s madness, Samson!”

  “Agreed, sir.”

  “Are we mad, Samson?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir.”

  “It went down once, you know. The energy barrier. A huge flock of geese flew right into it. Overwhelmed the barrier and it went down for three seconds. Three glorious seconds. Were those geese mad, Samson?”

  “I suspect not, sir.”

  “Exactly my point. They were perfectly sane geese, and yet they flew directly into an energy barrier. Why?”

  “Because geese are stupid creatures?” I offered.

  Webber shook his head. “Those geese had a plan. One goose flying into an energy barrier is mad, but a whole flock? No, Samson. There are greater powers at work here than you and I can understand. I had an idea, once, but they called me mad. Do you know what my idea was?”

  “I’m going to guess it has to do with running into the energy barrier.”

  “Yes! But not just me. Every worker on this plantation. We all run into the energy barrier simultaneously. You know what would happen?”

  “The same thing that happened to those geese, I suspect.”

  “But some of the geese got through, Samson! Don’t you see? They overwhelmed the barrier with sheer numbers.”

  “What happened to the geese that go through?”

  “Most died of severe burns and the rest starved to death. Nothing for geese to eat inside the barrier. But they proved a point, Samson! If every worker on this plantation ran into the energy barrier at once, a few of us would be able to escape! We’re only lacking one thing.”

  “The rampant obliviousness of a flock of birds?”

  “Exactly, Samson! This is what I’ve been trying to tell them! One man deliberately running into an energy barrier is mad. But a whole flock of men? That’s something else entirely. Are you ready?”

  “Ready, sir?”

  “We’re going to run into the energy barrier.”

  “I don’t think we should do that, sir. For your plan to work, we’d need a lot more people.”

  “You’re overthinking it. Birds don’t plan, they just do it. On the count of three. One, two…”

  I tried desperately to extract my hand from Webber’s, but the old wrangler was too strong. My only hope was that this was all an elaborate hazing ritual. At any moment, a bunch of workers were going to emerge from the field, pointing and guffawing at the rookie wrangler who seriously believed the foreman was going to drag him kicking and screaming into an energy field. Hardee har-har.

  “Three!” Webber lurched forward, pulling so hard he nearly tore my arm off. I tried to plant my feet, but the sandy ground gave no purchase and soon I was being dragged bodily across the ground by the burly man. I screamed and howled at him to stop, but it was no use. Webber’s madness was driving him toward the energy barrier with an inevitability I was powerless to impede. I was going to die.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  We were only a few steps away from certain death when I felt something grab my left ankle. Whoever it was, they were incredibly strong, because even with Webber’s insanity-fueled momentum, I came to a sudden halt. My hand slipped out of Webber’s and I slammed to the ground. Webber careened forward on his own. Spinning awkwardly around, he shot me a horrified look before stumbling backwards into the energy field and disintegrating in a flash. A section of the field lit up like orange lightning and then reverted to its former, near-invisible appearance. All that remained of Webber was a plume of white smoke and a cloud of ash that slowly settled to the ground.

  Turning to look behind me, I saw a green tentacle-like vine had attached itself to my ankle. My eyes followed the tentacle along the ground to a shambler, which stood placidly a few meters away, watching me. It let go of my ankle and withdrew its tentacle. Getting to my feet, I noticed that this shambler was much smaller than the others I’d seen. It was barely taller than I was.

  “Thank you,” I said, brushing the sand off my hips.

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” said the shambler.

  “Excuse me?”

  “About Webber. He was going to run into the energy barrier sooner or later. So are you it?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “We’re supposed to be getting a batch of new recruits today. Are there more, or are you it?”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m it. I was the only one on the transport.”

  “Wonderful,” it said without enthusiasm. “And a robot, too. Woohoo.”

  “Yes, well,” I said, “I’m excited to be here.”

  “Sure, sure,” it said. “I’m Stubby Joe. Guess I’m in charge now that Webber disintegrated himself. Come with me.”

  The shambler ducked between two of its fellows and I followed.

  “You’re Stubby Joe?” I asked.

  “That’s me. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “It’s just that Webber said you were a little guy. I assumed….”

  “I am a little guy. What else did he say?”

  “Uh… he said you were bitter.”

  “Yep, that too,” he said, stopping in the middle of the field and turning to face me. “Look, we might as well get this out of the way. Yes, I’m a shambler. Yes, I am also a soylent wrangler. Why? Because I’m a mutant. I’m a dwarf seedless shambler and my fruit is shriveled and bitter. I’m also smarter than any of these dolts, not to mention most of the humans working on this plantation. When the wranglers realized I was never going to produce any decent fruit, they decided to incinerate me, but I convinced Webber I’d earn my keep. These days, I’m widely known as the best wrangler on this plantation. Am I thrilled with this situation? No. Am I a misfit who is disliked and distrusted not only by my own kind but also by the other wranglers? Yes. Are there any others like me? Not that I know of. Do I want to talk about this again? Not particularly.” Stubby Joe turned and continued marching through the field. The other shamblers continued to pay us no mind.

  “I understand,” I said. “As a robot who is constantly surrounded by organic beings, I have some idea what—”

  “What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about this’ did you not understand?”

  “Sorry, I just thought….”

  “You thought you could ingratiate yourself with your new boss by suggesting that our situations are somehow similar. They are not. The only thing we have in common is that if we want to stay alive, we need to harvest as much soylent fruit as possible. So why don’t you keep your mouth shut and maybe you’ll learn how to do that.”

  We had emerged into a clearing where a group of men dressed in green coveralls stood, apparently waiting for us.

  “Why you so bitter, Stubby Joe?” said one of the men, who had evidently overheard part of our conversation.

  “Shut up, Ralph,” said Stubby Joe. “Everybody, this is the new guy. New guy, this is everybody.”

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Sasha.”

  Stubby Joe went on, “I had hoped to pair you guys off with new recruits, but apparently Sasha is it. So I’m going to train her while you guys harvest your sections.”

  “But Stubby Joe,” said another man, “we don’t have the manpower. We’re already behind for this week, and if you’re going to be training the new guy…”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Stubby Joe snapped. “I just watched Webber run into the energy barrier. Almost took new guy with him. So if we don’t make quotas, it’s my neck. Just do the best you can.”

  The men grumbled but did not protest. They scattered, disappearing into the rows of shamblers.

  “This way,” Stubby Joe said to me, and set off across the clearing. I followed, and soon we w
ere traipsing through the shambler fields again. We eventually came to another clearing, in the middle of which was a fenced-off area about twenty meters square. The pen was packed with shamblers. Unlike those we had passed, these didn’t seem to be rooted to the ground; they wandered about the pen aimlessly, like cattle. They were packed in pretty tight, and they writhed and pushed against each other in apparent agitation.

  “These guys are all ready to be harvested,” Stubby Joe said. “There are buckets by the opening on the other side. Get in there and get that fruit.” He turned to leave.

  “Um,” I said. “You’re leaving me?”

  “I’ve got ten more hectares to wrangle today. This isn’t rocket science. Just get in the pen and get the fruit. If we don’t get this bunch harvested in the next few hours, it’s going to get ugly. I’ll be back before sundown.”

  Stubby Joe returned the way we’d come.

  I sighed and went around to the other side of the pen, where I found a stack of large red buckets. I grabbed one of these and opened the gate to the pen. How difficult could it be? The shambler that had initially approached me had practically been begging me to take its fruit. If I was assertive and made sure the shamblers knew who was in charge, I shouldn’t have any trouble harvesting all the fruit by sundown. I’d show Stubby Joe to give me some respect.

  I pushed my way through the crowd of shamblers, trying to convince myself that they were just plants, not dangerous predators. Sure, they could tear my limbs off if they wanted to, but they had no reason to be hostile toward me. In fact, they seemed largely oblivious to my presence. They were essentially cattle, bred to produce soylent fruit rather than meat or milk. Several hundred gigantic head of cattle, packed into a tiny pen, shoving and jostling all around me.

  It occurred to me that if I didn’t make my presence known soon, I was going to be knocked down, trampled into the dirt and never heard from again.

  “Um, excuse me,” I said, in an effort to get their attention.

  The shamblers continued their shoving and jostling, unabated.

  “I understand that none of us really wants to be here,” I went on, “but I think we can agree that it’s in all of our interests to get this over with as quickly and efficiently as possible. To that end—”