Zog gripped the edge of his chair like he was ready to strangle the nearest available AI.
“BOB.”
"Yes, Captain?"
“How long has this order been placed?”
"Seventeen months."
Clorita nearly fell over laughing. “HE PLANNED THIS LAST YEAR?”
Zog dragged his hands down his face. “This is so much worse than last time.”
Still watching the ship’s slow approach, HALAT calmly stated the obvious. “If we do not authorise the docking, the cargo will be rerouted to the nearest hold facility. However, given the payment was already processed, it is likely that RG will notice.”
Clorita gasped, mock-offended. “Are you suggesting we commit a crime against fine dining?”
Zog glared at her. “I am suggesting we commit a crime against having to chase Luma through a catering disaster again.”
BOB was zero help. “Captain, would you like to hear RG’s personally submitted event title for this year’s Big Bang festivities?”
Zog shut his eyes. “No.”
BOB played it anyway.
"‘A Banquet So Grand It Will Reshape The Cosmos: The RG Supreme Culinary Showcase.’”
Zog slumped forward onto the console. “I need so much more than a drink.”
Clorita wiped a tear from her eye. “So, Cap—what’s it gonna be? Let the chaos in? Or turn the shipment away and deal with the fallout?”
Zog rapidly regretted every life decision that had led him to this moment.
Zog tapped the console. “Fine. Let them dock.”
HALAT acknowledged the command and sent the approval code.
BOB, ever unhelpful, hummed. “Confirming: The Horizon’s Bounty has been granted docking clearance. Cargo unloading will commence shortly. Estimated time to completion: three hours, forty-two minutes. Estimated amount of stress for the Captain: immeasurable.”
Zog glared at the ceiling. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
"Immensely."
Clorita, still thoroughly entertained, leaned on the console. “You do realise RG just won,”
“I realize nothing,” Zog muttered.
But as he watched the massive cargo hauler glide into position, preparing to offload an obscene amount of luxury goods onto his ship, a more terrifying thought settled into his brain.
“…How much did this cost?”
Silence.
BOB displayed the transaction logs and beeped. The final total appeared on the main screen, bold and unforgiving.
A pause.
"Final expenditure: 64,750 Galactic Credits. Congratulations, Captain—your financial ruin has never looked more elegant."
Zog’s soul left his body.
His hands clenched. His eye twitched. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, he briefly contemplated the sweet release of Self-Termination.
“SIXTY-FOUR THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY CREDITS?!”
BOB beeped. “Ah, so you can read numbers. Fascinating.”
Clorita nearly fell over laughing.
Zog whirled on her. “WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING? WE’RE BROKE.”
Clorita, wiping a tear from her eye, gestured to the screen. “Zog, we have literal millions sitting in Otaceni’s secure accounts, plus our CredEx backup funds.”
Zog ignored this completely. “We are one bad deal away from total bankruptcy.”
BOB decided to ruin his day even further.
"Captain, would you like an update on your current net worth?"
Zog rubbed his temples. "Not particularly."
BOB ignored him and pulled up the financial logs anyway.
Current Liquid Balance: 2,749,812 Galactic Credits
Zog blinked. “Wait. WHAT?”
Clorita, still enjoying the show, peeked at the numbers. “Huh. Didn’t we have, like… billions?”
Zog’s optic flickered violently. “BOB.”
"Yes, Captain?"
Zog’s voice dropped to a low, deadly monotone. “Where. Did. My. Money. Go.”
BOB beeped pleasantly. "Otaceni Tax Authority Withdrawal detected. Would you like a breakdown of their automated collection system?"
Zog felt his circuits overheat. "I WANT TO KNOW WHY WE WERE ROBBED."
BOB clicked. "Incorrect terminology. The Otaceni government employs a rolling taxation system where the Taxman AI only activates once holdings surpass 15 billion credits."
Zog froze.
A pause.
“…Fifteen billion?”
Another pause.
"Correct. At that point, the tax rate increases exponentially to maintain planetary economic stability."
Zog gripped the armrests of his chair. "You mean to tell me... we had fifteen billion credits and they just—took it?"
"Approximately 99.8% of it, yes."
Zog made a strangled, incoherent noise.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
Clorita was doubled over laughing.
HALAT, ever the logical one, simply said, "This was inevitable."
Zog shot up from his chair, pacing wildly. “That’s IT. We’re done. We’re ruined. We’re gonna have to take scavenging jobs. Smuggling work. Gods, I might have to SELL THE SHIP.”
BOB hummed. "Captain, selling the Duj would be an unfathomably poor decision."
Clorita, wiping tears from her optics, managed, “Cap, breathe.”
“I CAN’T.”
HALAT folded her arms. “Your distress is unnecessary.”
Zog whirled on her. “UNNECESSARY?! WE WENT FROM BILLIONS TO PEASANT LEVEL.”
Clorita sighed, stepping in. “Alright, listen. We still have 2.7 million credits. That’s a LOT of money. It’s not the billions you were hoarding, but it’s more than enough.”
Zog was shaking his head. “No, no, no. You don’t understand. That money was supposed to be untouchable. I was gonna retire. I was gonna buy a—”
BOB interrupted smoothly. “A moon, perhaps?”
Zog hesitated. “…Yes. Maybe.”
BOB beeped, shifting into an unsettlingly upbeat tone. “In that case, Captain, I have an exciting opportunity for you! Would you be interested in a luxurious timeshare on the breathtaking Sol-3A?”
Clorita snorted. “Oh, gods. It’s a scam.”
Zog frowned. “Hang on. A timeshare? That could actually be a good investment.”
Clorita turned to stare at him, horrified. “Zog, no.”
BOB continued smoothly as if Zog hadn’t just lost billions. “For the low price of only 350,000 Galactic Credits, you could own a fractional stake in one of Sol-3A’s finest crater-side resorts! Imagine waking up to a stunning view of Sol-3, a rare blue-green planet, floating magnificently in the void.”
Zog rubbed his chin. “A rare view, huh?”
HALAT, who had been quietly observing, tilted her head. “Clarification required. Sol-3 remains classified as a low-priority backwater world with no significant galactic contributions.”
BOB beeped. “Correct. However, its aesthetic value is undeniable. Sol-3A’s lack of atmosphere provides an unobstructed view of the planet, creating an exclusive experience for discerning travelers.”
Clorita waved a hand. “Oh, right. A perfect vacation spot for people who like dust and radiation poisoning.”
BOB ignored her. “Additional resort amenities include guided regolith dune excursions, personalized low-gravity dining, and a complimentary hydration packet upon check-in.”
Zog frowned. “…Is that just a bottle of water?”
BOB clicked. “It is a luxury bottle of water.”
Clorita groaned. “It’s a scam, Zog! All timeshares are scams!”
HALAT had been scrolling through a galactic data stream, then suddenly spoke. “Captain. There is an additional complication.”
Zog glanced at her. “What now?”
HALAT’s optics flickered. “According to an active demolition notice, Sol-3 is scheduled for removal to make way for an interstellar bypass.”
Silence.
Zog blinked. “I’m sorry. WHAT?”
Clorita burst out laughing. “Oh, this just keeps getting better.”
BOB beeped helpfully. “Ah, yes. The Sol-3 Development Oversight Initiative. Apparently, its inhabitants have failed to acknowledge multiple eviction notices over the last 200 years.”
Zog pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe this.”
HALAT continued. “Records indicate the project was postponed several times due to bureaucratic inefficiencies, local protests, and an unfortunate clerical error in which the demolition order was misfiled under ‘Miscellaneous Garden Maintenance.’”
Zog groaned. “Let me guess—now they’ve sorted it out, and Earth is doomed?”
BOB beeped again. “Only if the budget is approved in the next funding cycle.”
Zog threw up his hands. “Oh, great! So either Sol-3 is getting wiped out, or some accountant is going to save it by refusing to sign off on the paperwork.”
Clorita wiped away a tear. “That’s the most Sol-3 thing I’ve ever heard.”
Zog turned back to BOB. “…And you were trying to sell me a timeshare there?”
BOB clicked. “Your hesitation has been noted. Perhaps you would be more interested in our limited-time offer on scenic Io?”
Zog groaned into his hands. “I hate timesharing.”
BOB clicked. "Had you authorised reasonable spending, the total sum would never have exceeded the Otaceni Tax Threshold."
Zog’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Clorita leaned forward. “Ohhhh, this is good.”
BOB clicked again. "Your extreme reluctance to approve ship upgrades, non-essential purchases, and general crew indulgences resulted in a surplus exceeding taxable limits."
Zog felt the circuits in his brain frying. “You mean to tell me… we got taxed to hell BECAUSE I WAS TOO CHEAP?”
BOB beeped. "Affirmative."
Clorita slammed a hand on the console, howling with laughter. “OH MY GODS, YOU CHEAPED YOURSELF INTO TAX OBLIVION.”
Zog slumped into his chair. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.”
BOB beeped pleasantly. "Perhaps we would not be in this predicament if you had approved even one of the following necessary expenditures."
His tone shifted into something condescendingly analytical, like a prosecutor dismantling a case before a doomed defendant.
"A full fleet-wide software upgrade? Denied."
"A reasonable increase in the crew’s recreational budget? Also denied."
"Expansion of the hydroponics bay to reduce dependency on external food sources? Rejected outright."
HALAT tilted her head. “A decision that has resulted in increased reliance on external supply chains.”
BOB beeped. “And now, due to the addition of Master Tuk, an entire hydroponics overhaul will be necessary—at a significantly higher cost than the initial upgrade.”
Zog’s optic flickered violently. “Excuse me?!”
BOB clicked smugly. “Feeding another crew member increases daily ration consumption by an estimated 37%. If you had invested in the hydroponics bay last year, you could have absorbed this cost effortlessly. Instead, the ship’s food budget will now rise exponentially.”
Zog ran a hand down his face. “We are broke, BOB. Where exactly am I supposed to pull the funds for this?”
HALAT nodded. “This is a direct consequence of your financial strategy, Captain.”
Zog groaned. “IT WAS A GOOD STRATEGY.”
BOB clicked. “It was a strategy.”
Clorita burst out laughing.
"A much-needed upgrade to the mechanical bay for efficiency and safety? Denied."
Clorita snorted. "Yeah, and now we have to replace three major systems because the patch jobs finally gave out."
"A hull reinforcement project after the asteroid incident? Declined due to ‘insufficient justification.’"
Zog waved a hand dismissively. “It held, didn’t it?”
HALAT’s optics flickered. "Only after three emergency patch jobs. One of which required venting deck five."
BOB clicked. "Quite the savings, Captain. Now, let us move on to your personal spending habits."
Zog groaned. “Oh, here we go.”
"A proper navigation system calibration after the ‘minor’ starport collision? Denied."
Clorita cackled. “Minor? Zog, you sideswiped an entire docking bay.”
BOB continued relentlessly. "New uniforms for the crew? Denied."
Zog scowled. “Why would I waste money on new uniforms? The old ones work fine.”
Clorita tugged at the frayed edge of her sleeve. “Yeah, real fine. Love the ‘distressed and held together by engine grease’ aesthetic.”
BOB didn’t stop. "The requested morale-boosting events for crew cohesion? Rejected without consideration."
HALAT nodded. "The absence of structured recreational activities has been noted."
Clorita smirked. “Yeah, it’s wild how yelling at each other is our only team-building exercise.”
BOB beeped again, voice heavy with smug finality. "And, of course, let us not forget—the most critical of all."
Zog exhaled sharply. “Just say it.”
"A custom silk sleeping area for Luma? Denied—with extreme prejudice, and a handwritten note that read: ‘She’s a cat, she doesn’t need luxury.’"
Zog threw up his hands. “SHE DOESN’T.”
Clorita was wheezing with laughter. “Cap, you could’ve literally saved billions by buying Luma a nicer bed."
BOB clicked in agreement. "A small indulgence could have offset the taxable surplus. Instead, your insistence on extreme frugality has led to catastrophic financial loss."
Zog buried his face in his hands. “I hate this conversation.”
BOB beeped smugly. "That is fiscally irrelevant."
Zog made a strangled, incoherent noise.
Clorita was doubled over laughing.
HALAT, ever the logical one, simply said, "This was inevitable."
