Privately, Renn couldn't picture himself as a gambler but kept his own counsel.
As Fesker headed for the door he warned the party outside of dire consequences should even one drop of their blood fall onto his brand new rug. He needn't have worried. The patient was more than a little drunk, and was suffering from a self-inflicted blaster wound. Like many blaster wounds this one was self-cauterizing and the rug was spared.
Retiring to his bed, Renn listened to the ping of water in the recently emptied metal pan, and wondered where Marla was, and if she was all right. Why would she go to the trouble of saving him, only to disappear without so much as a goodbye? It didn't make sense.
Eventually sleep came, and with it a dream. It centered around a beautiful brunette with a slim figure. She ran across a field of wild flowers with him close behind. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't catch her. Finally she tripped, and as she fell he caught her, eager to cover her lips with his. But as he pulled her into his arms, she seemed to wiggle, and suddenly became a dog. The dog smiled, and then laughed a barking laugh, which went on and on and on.
Chapter Four
As Renn left Doc Fesker's place, he felt a strange combination of fear and elation. The fear was easy enough to understand. For the first time in his life he had nothing more than the clothes on his back. The elation was harder to explain, but after a little reflection, he decided it came from the same source as the fear. His situation was frightening, but it was exciting too, and much to his own surprise he was almost looking forward to it.
So as he stepped out onto the boardwalk, he did so with a light spirit, and only a small rock riding in the pit of his stomach. Taking a moment to look around, he saw the town was organized along one main street, now invisible under a foot of water. And, judging from the rain, the water would get even deeper. All of which explained why the buildings were built on pilings. Most were one or two stories tall, and constructed of roughly-milled wood. Elevated boardwalks served to keep pedestrians up and out of the water. And there were plenty of them—people came and went all around him.
Most were a rough and ready lot, dressed in skins and carrying a variety of weapons. A few, however, wore finer attire, and had the look of shopkeepers, prostitutes, and gamblers. Nearly everyone managed to look right through him, except for the prostitutes, who met his eyes with bold smiles. Renn wasn't surprised. From his business trips out along the frontier he knew outsiders were always excluded. If he wanted a place here, he'd have to earn it.
Suddenly he heard a strange coughing sound. At first he didn't recognize it, but then it settled down into the steady roar of an internal combustion engine. Sure enough, a few seconds later a large flat-bottomed scow emerged from between two buildings, and cruised down the main street. In it, one man leaned on a long steering oar, while two more sat under a makeshift canopy. As the boat passed, the helmsman said something to the other two and laughed. Renn had the uncomfortable feeling they were talking about him.
Nevertheless, he continued to watch, fascinated by the boat, and how it worked. The noise seemed to come from a metal box located towards the stern. From the sound, Renn guessed it was a large two-cylinder engine, and a crude one at that. He'd seen similar engines on a variety of frontier planets. They'd been outlawed on Terra for hundreds of years due to the pollution they caused. However, some worlds couldn't afford anything better, and if they happened to have large oil reserves, found gasoline engines irresistible. Though noisy and dirty they were also quite effective. As if to prove his point, the scow had already reached the other end of town, and disappeared from sight.
Interesting, Renn reflected as he started down the boardwalk. Gasoline engines. So Swamp had at least one oil well and a refinery. Plus a foundry and machine shop. The engine had to come from somewhere. All facts to add to his growing hoard.
“Well,” he told himself, “enough sight-seeing. It's time to choose a suitable profession.” He smiled at the thought. Apparently there weren't many choices. In spite of Doc Fesker's advice, Renn had no intention of becoming a gambler. He'd never enjoyed gambling, and besides, why wait for the money to come to you, when you could go to it? Yes, hunting was for him. On this planet the hunters were in control. Plus, they knew how to deal with Swamp on its own terms, and that appealed to him. His mind was made up. Somehow he'd become a hunter.
And beyond that, he had a second larger goal. Somehow he'd get off Swamp, find Shinto, and clear his name. He didn't know how. But he'd do it or die trying. It felt good to have goals and a purpose, no matter how impossible they might seem. There was a spring in his step as he moved down the boardwalk.
The sign said “SALOON". He had no money, or whatever served as money, but perhaps he could get some information for free. Stepping inside, Renn found a large open room, which, though filled with a clutter of mismatched furniture, was almost empty of people. There was a man kneeling in front of the bar, a scattering of tools and wood chips all around him, two bored looking prostitutes sharing a corner table, and a gambler, who sat with his back against the wall, endlessly shuffling his cards. The customers would come in later. It was a bit early for serious drinking, even on Swamp.
The bar ran the length of one wall. It was actually a single tree trunk, which had been squared off and planed smooth. The wood was jade green all the way through, and had a fine texture with no sign of grain. A carved mural decorated a third of its length. It was beautifully done, and seemed to depict the history of the planet, starting with the first survey ship to touch down, then showing subsequent confrontations with hideous looking swamp creatures, and the construction of a town.
As Renn walked the length of the bar, he realized the man kneeling before it was actually the artist, hard at work, adding still more detail to his masterpiece. His back was turned, and he was down on hands and knees, using a small chisel to detail the foliage behind some kind of monster. He worked quickly, his left hand scooping out delicate scallops of green, while his right swept constantly back and forth over the mural's surface. His long greasy hair swung this way and that and he mumbled while he worked. Stopping to peek over the artist's shoulder, Renn was impressed. It was wonderful work. There was a restrained energy in the monster's corded muscle and sinewy grace, which threatened to spring off the wood and into the room. Remembering his decision to become a hunter, Renn sincerely hoped the monster was a product of the artist's imagination, and not a portrait of the real thing.
“You do wonderful work,” Renn said.
“I'm glad to hear it,” the artist answered without turning around. “Tell me, does the texture of the foliage seem consistent to you?”
Renn eyed the section in question. The foliage had been carved with an almost machine-like precision, so that it took nothing from the monster in the foreground, yet added depth. “It looks perfect.”
“Excellent,” the artist replied, getting to his feet. “That means it's time for a drink. Oh, garçon!”
“My name ain't ‘garçon', booze brain,” a wizened little man said, appearing from a back room. “What do you want now?”
“Some of your despicable swill would do nicely.”
“Did you finish the section?”
“I did,” the artist replied indignantly, “as my friend will attest.” So saying the artist turned towards Renn.
With a sense of shock, Renn found himself staring into a whorl of ridged scar tissue. He could see no sign of the eyes which had once been there. A single black hole marked the man's remaining nostril, and when he spoke, it was through a lipless slit.
“Well, tell the man. Is the foliage complete or not?”
“It's complete,” Renn managed to answer.
“All right then,” the barkeep replied reluctantly, starting to turn away.
“And something for my friend,” the artist said.
The barkeep stopped, and looked Renn up and down. He smiled. “You the one who tried to kill Cyclops with his own gun?”
Renn nodded. Like in any s
mall town news traveled fast.
The barkeep laughed. “Musta been something to see. Have a seat. This'll be your first and last free drink in the Payout Saloon.”
As the barkeep poured two drinks, the artist stuck out a callused hand. “This is an honor indeed. A man who not only has an eye for fine art, but the heart of a lion as well. My name is Maxwell.”
“Jonathan Renn. What? No nickname?”
Maxwell chuckled. His laugh made a dry, rasping sound. “No, I am among the few spared that particular indignity. No one can bring themselves to call me ‘scarface,’ or something equally obvious. Would you be kind enough to bring the drinks?”
Renn said he would, accepted the drinks from the bartender, and followed Maxwell to a corner table. From the confident manner in which the artist moved through the maze of tables Renn knew he did it often.
“Now,” Maxwell said, taking a seat, “to taste the fruit of my labors.” Picking up his drink the artist took a careful sip. “Ahhhh, repulsive as always.”
Renn took a sip of his own drink. It was strong and had the faint taste of mint. At a guess, it consisted of about eighty percent alcohol. After burning a trail down his throat, the stuff hit his empty stomach like a sledgehammer. “Whew! Why drink this stuff if you don't like it?”
Maxwell's mouth formed a twisted smile. “Because I am an alcoholic, and disgusting though this tipple is, it packs a wallop. As soon as we finish our conversation I will return to work. In half an hour or so the garçon will grudgingly give me another drink. I will consume it, and the cycle will begin anew. If all goes well, the effects of this slop will be cumulative, and I will pass out at about ten or eleven tonight. Doing so is my only ambition.”
“Well you're certainly the most organized alcoholic I've ever met,” Renn said evenly.
“Thank you.”
“The mural,” Renn said, “imagination, or the real thing?
Maxwell took another sip, careful not to spill a drop. “The real thing, friend Jonathan. Just as my eyes saw it.”
“You were a hunter?”
Maxwell paused for a moment, and nodded slowly. “Aye, I was a hunter. One of the best. But that was before the battle, and before this.” A hand went up to touch the scar tissue which covered Maxwell's face.
“Battle?”
“Aye. It was a stupid thing to do, but a few years ago, many of us banded together to ambush a shuttle. We hoped to capture it, and then use it to get aboard the supply ship.” He shrugged. “Needless to say, we didn't succeed. The lucky ones died. I survived.”
“I'm sorry.” Renn thought of his own hopes to get off Swamp. All right. The shuttle was out ... but he'd find another way.
Maxwell drained his glass and set it gently on the table. “Thank you, friend Jonathan. I sense your sorrow holds no pity ... and for that I thank you doubly. But enough of my troubles. Unless I miss my guess, you have problems of your own.”
“Not really,” Renn replied. “I'm completely broke ... but otherwise fine. You wouldn't know where I could get a job, would you?”
“No special skills?”
“No, but I'd like to become a hunter.”
Maxwell nodded sagely. “Are you going to finish that drink, friend Jonathan? If not I would happily dispose of it for you.”
Renn pushed his glass across. “Please, help yourself.”
Maxwell did, draining the glass to the very last drop, and licking thin lips. “Thank you. Now if you really wish to become a hunter, and have no resources, there is only one solution. Did you notice the large building at the north end of town?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that is the Hunter's Association warehouse. That is where they sell their skins. It is also where they pick up indentured assistants.”
“Indentured? As in near slavery?”
Maxwell laughed his dry laugh. “Aye. But it is not as bad as it sounds. In return for a one-year indenture, most hunters provide a full set of gear, food and lodging, and a first-class course in monster hunting. If you really wish to become a hunter, it would be the best way to learn, even if you had funds.”
“It sounds like the way to go,” Renn replied as he got to his feet. “I'll check it out. Thanks.”
Maxwell stood and extended his hand. As Renn shook it, the artist said, “It was my pleasure, friend Jonathan. You meant what you said? About the mural?”
“It's beautiful, Maxwell,” Renn answered sincerely. “The best I've ever seen.”
Maxwell nodded. “Good. Kill lots of monsters, and after you do, remember to buy me a drink.” Then, with head up, and back straight, the artist returned to his work.
Outside it was raining harder than ever. Although most of the buildings had extended eaves, which covered the boardwalks, there were gaps and numerous leaks. While his suit kept him dry, Renn's hair was soaked by the time he made it to the other end of town, and crossed the plank bridge which connected the boardwalk to the warehouse.
The first thing he noticed as he stepped into the warehouse was the smell. It wasn't unpleasant—just strange. An acidic mustiness filled the air. A chemical smell. Something to do with monster skins, perhaps.
He looked around but there was no one in sight. Although it was dim, he could make out the angular shapes of two large crawlers parked towards the rear of the building, and in front of them, rows of pallets, some empty, and some piled high with skins.
Following the sound of distant voices, he wound his way between the piles of skins and stepped into an open area. Three men and a woman sat around a rickety wooden table playing rockets and stars. Beyond them were rows of backless benches, empty now, but clearly used for meetings. A single light dangled over their heads fixing them in a cone of yellow light. At the sound of his footsteps they turned as a group. All were dressed in skins, and all wore sidearms. The woman spoke first. She had piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones, and wore her hair in a crew cut. “I'm about to clean these jokers out, so keep it short.”
“That'll be the day,” one of the men replied, eyes twinkling. “We cheat better than she does.” He was short, barrel chested, and unless Renn missed his guess, strong as an ox. He had an open face and a friendly smile.
“I'm looking for work. I'm willing to accept indenture.”
The woman looked him up and down. “Kinda chubby for monster hunting, aren't ya?”
Renn found himself blushing in embarrassment.
“Who sent ya?” The question came from another one of the men. He had one arm and a belligerent thrust to his chin.
“A man named Maxwell.”
The first man nodded. “All right then. We'll see what we can do. As usual, there's a good many hunters who need an assistant. Deal me out ... and I'll show the lad around.”
“Sure, Slim,” the woman said, pushing a pile of metal stars his way. “The minute you start losing it's ‘deal me out.'”
“I'll tell you what, lass,” Slim said mischievously, “if you'll spend the night with me, I'll give you all that's on the table.”
“It'll take a lot more than that to get me in bed with you,” she replied with a snort. “Like a brigade of Imperial marines.”
“Cut the crap and deal,” the belligerent man said, glowering from under bushy brows. The third man, almost invisible behind the smoke from his huge pipe, nodded in agreement.
Slim shook his head in mock sorrow, scooped up his winnings, and dumped them into a pocket of his monster hide jacket. Renn saw it shift to match the dark wood on the wall behind him. Turning, Slim held out his hand. “The name's Slim.”
“Jonathan Renn. Pleased to meet you.”
“Well, Jon my lad, follow me back to my office and we'll fix you up.”
Renn followed him back to a corner office, which boasted a makeshift desk, a host of odds and ends, and a sheet metal stove. A wonderful warmth suffused the room. As Slim opened a crudely made door, and threw in another chunk of wood, Renn held out his hands and enjoyed the heat.
Turning to his d
esk, Slim sorted through the tools, weapons, maps, clothes and other junk which covered its surface. Finally he uttered a grunt of satisfaction, and pulled out a keyboard. “She ain't fancy ... but she sets the job done,” he said, brushing aside some more debris to reveal a battered screen and console.
“What do you use for power?” Renn asked, somewhat surprised.
“Got a generator out back,” Slim replied, his blunt fingers already tapping away at the keyboard. “Maybe we're nothing more than a pimple on the empire's backside, but we've got our rules. Rules on buying, selling and making rules. So many we can't remember ’em all unless we write them down. And that's where the computer comes in.” Slim sighed. “It gets worse all the time. Well, let's start with your full name.”
Renn's name was only the beginning. By the time Slim declared himself through, his battered computer had consumed information about Renn's parents, his education, his profession on Terra, his medical history, and a good deal more. Everything in fact which Renn knew about himself, with one notable exception. There hadn't been one single question about his criminal record. Why?
He was still wondering about that a half hour later, when, armed with some durasteel coins advanced by Slim, he entered the town's only restaurant and ordered a sandwich. It came with a bowl of hot vegetable soup and a cup of imitation coffee. It tasted wonderful.
Without conscious thought he lapsed into the kind of business analysis which always accompanied expansion into a new market. First, a complex economic system was evolving on Swamp. The population had already moved out of the hunting and gathering stage, and into something more specialized. A small number of people hunted, while a larger number performed tasks which directly, or indirectly, supported hunting. Included were activities like refining oil, building engines, shopkeeping, and prostitution. All were part of a growing service economy. Technology in the form of the gasoline engine was being used to counteract a chronic labor shortage, and as a result of all these factors, the wealthier members of society had begun to enjoy a small surplus—like Doc Fesker's precious rug. And, in order to keep their increasingly complex economy running, the locals had been forced to create some rudimentary civil law, plus a system of records to back it up. Given that, could a criminal justice system be far behind? Due to the fact that all the current citizens were criminals, they might resist such an idea at first. However, that would change over time. Eventually they'd tire of people like Cyclops and clamor for law and order. All this, Renn realized, explained why Slim hadn't inquired about his criminal record. Either consciously or unconsciously, the citizens of Swamp were starting a brand new society. A record was assumed, but not considered important. In fifty or a hundred years, society would probably be just like that found on most frontier planets. The majority of the people would be good law-abiding citizens, hardy folk, who complained about the small number of criminals in their midst, and built new prisons to house them. He smiled at the thought. Self-reforming prison planets! Had the emperor foreseen such a possibility? Or was it entirely fortuitous? There was no way to tell.
Prison Planet Page 5
