Prison Planet

by William C. Dietz

  Hours passed, and once again the light had begun to fade when he saw the column of smoke. From its dark color Renn knew the fire was still burning. Once again he cut the engine and allowed Fred to coast into the bank. With a tight feeling in his gut he tied the boat up and slipped into the dense undergrowth. Using every bit of bush craft he knew, Renn slowly closed on the smoke, every nerve, every fiber of his body tense with a heady mixture of fear, anticipation, and adrenaline. Sweaty hands gripped the blast rifle, air passed in and out of a dry throat, and tight nerves screamed for release.

  There was a sudden clatter of sound as someone opened up with an auto slug thrower. Renn dived forward as a hail of lead ripped through the foliage around him. Rolling behind a fallen log, Renn came up on his elbows. He searched for a target and saw none. Just as suddenly as it started the firing stopped, and a hoarse voice called out, “That'll show you bastards. I know you're out there. I seen you creepin’ all around. You want the Blaster? Well you just come and get him.” The sentence was punctuated with another barrage of automatic fire, this time off to Renn's right.

  Renn peered over the log but couldn't see a thing. What the hell was going on? Who was Blaster talking to? And where were his friends? On the theory that if he couldn't see Blaster, then Blaster couldn't see him, Renn ripped a large leaf off a nearby plant and waved it in the air. Nothing happened. Thus encouraged, he elbowed his way ahead, timing Blaster's fire, moving during the short intervals in between.

  A short time later, he was peering through the crotch of a large tree at a very strange sight. A fire had been built in the center of a small clearing. Blaster sat in front of it, his back propped up against one of Boater's equipment bags, jamming a new magazine into his auto slug thrower. His right leg was thrust stiffly out before him, and there was a dirty looking bandage wrapped around his thigh. Renn remembered his red hair and tattooed face from the confrontation at the LZ. Not far away was a second figure, this one curled up in the fetal position, apparently asleep. So Blaster was the wounded man. But if so, who was the other guy, and why was he just laying there? And how could he sleep with all that noise? Just then Blaster yelled something unintelligible towards the sky, and ripped off another twenty rounds straight up.

  Renn ducked behind the tree to think things over. Blaster was delirious. As he'd feared, Cyclops had left him behind in order to travel lighter and faster. So much for nailing all of them in the Swamp. Still one, and maybe two, was a lot better than none.

  Renn poked his head up, and saw that Blaster's attention was on the other side of the clearing. Resting the barrel of his blast rifle in the crotch of the tree, Renn took careful aim, and squeezed the trigger. Due to the angle, the energy beam sliced through Blaster's left arm near me elbow, and his right arm at the wrist. His hands still gripped the slug thrower as it fell into his lap. Blaster stared at the mess in his lap for a full second before he started to scream.

  Holding his blast rifle at the ready, Renn stood, and strolled into the clearing. Blaster had pulled his stumps against his chest and sobbed as he rocked back and forth.

  To Renn's surprise the second man hadn't budged an inch. He was still curled up in the fetal position. Wary of a trap Renn approached from behind. Then he placed the barrel of his rifle in the man's ear, and said, “Good morning sweet cakes ... time to get up.”

  Nothing. Walking around to the other side, Renn placed a boot against the man's chest, and pushed. It was like turning a rock over and looking underneath. The man had an empty booze bottle clutched to his chest. His clothes were filthy. Hair crawled all over his face, spit drooled from the corner of his mouth, and he stank. Scuz. Lost in an alcoholic stupor and living up to his name. Renn eyed the handgun Scuz wore in a cross-draw holster, and decided to leave it alone. Removing his foot Renn allowed Scuz to fall face down in the dirt.

  Keeping a careful eye on Scuz, Renn walked over, and sat down next to Blaster. The red-haired man was still staring down at his lap and moaning. “Gee, Blaster ... that looks real painful ... I sure hope it is.”

  For a moment Blaster made no response. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, his head came up and Renn found himself looking into bewildered bloodshot eyes. The moaning stopped, and when Blaster spoke, it was with the mystified voice of a child, punished for something he couldn't understand. “You hurt me ... you shot my hands off.”

  “True,” Renn agreed.

  “But why? I never did nothin’ to you. I don't even know you.”

  Blaster didn't recognize him. Not too surprising considering how much he'd changed since that day at the LZ. Renn smiled. “I'm afraid you're wrong about that, Blaster. The day I landed, you and the rest of your gang stole my gear, and left me for dead. But that's not the reason I came after you.”

  “It's not?” Blaster asked pitifully, looking at each stump in turn. “Why then?”

  “Because you killed my friend.”

  “Boater? The fat man? You shot my hands off for an old geez?”

  Renn nodded. “Yup.”

  “You gonna kill me?”

  Renn looked him up and down. “Don't you think I should?”

  Blaster looked at his stumps, and then down to his leg. It smelled to high heaven. When his eyes came back up, there was a trace of humor in them, and a half smile twisted one corner of his mouth. “Shit. Maybe you're right. Even Doc Fesker couldn't put me right now. Not on this slime ball. Do me a favor though.”

  “What's that?”

  “Do it from behind. I don't wanta see it comin.'”

  Renn nodded and got to his feet. Moving behind Blaster, he tilted the blast rifle up and squeezed the trigger. The bolt of energy went right through and hit the ground beyond. As Renn released the trigger a cloud of steam rose from the ground and floated gently upwards. Slowly, almost deliberately, Blaster's body toppled over sideways.

  Scuz awoke two hours later. It was pitch dark except for the flickering firelight which came from behind him. Uncurling, he discovered the empty bottle in his arms, swore, and threw it away. Turning towards the fire, Scuz squinted his eyes against the light, and said, “Blaster ... Blaster you worthless bastard ... where the hell are you?”

  On the other side of the fire a man stepped into the light. There was something familiar about him, but Scuz couldn't quite remember what.

  “Blaster's dead.”

  “Dead?” Scuz asked, looking this way and that, “How'd he die? And who the hell are you anyway?”

  Renn smiled. “The first answer is that I killed him. The second answer is that I'm a friend of Boater's.”

  It took Scuz a moment to process the words and make sense of them. Then his hand dived for the slug gun in the cross-draw holster. At one time he'd been very fast indeed, and now, even though his reactions were slowed by alcohol, he was still faster than most. So fast he actually managed to get his gun clear of the holster before the first slug from Renn's .75 hit his chest and nearly blew him in half. The second slug made the mess even messier.

  Renn extracted the clip, fed it two new rounds of ammunition, and searched his emotions for some sign of remorse. He found none. Nor was there pleasure. All he felt was relief. Sliding the magazine into the butt of the .75 he felt it click home. Two down, three to go.

  An insect landed on Trap's cheek and he slapped it. Wiping the goo off with his right index finger he looked at it, laughed, and flicked it over the side.

  [Break?]

  From his vantage point a few feet away, Doc Fesker groaned silently, and cursed the slight irregularity in his tax return which had caused his present state of medical servitude. Why him? Plenty of other people underestimated their income without ending up on a prison planet. It wasn't fair. And his present situation just added insult to injury. Here he was, sitting on a filthy scow, in the company of a congenital idiot, who would soon force him to treat a homicidal maniac. It was obscene. His time was valuable. For one brief moment he considered outright rebellion. He could order Trap to turn the boat around and return to
Payout. He rejected the thought as quickly as it came. The request for his services had been made with a blaster pointed at his head. He sighed. No, he'd just have to see it through. At least there wasn't any income tax on Swamp. The thought made him feel better. He found a roll of his latest tobacco prototype in a shirt pocket and lit it up.

  Unlike his passenger, Trap was a happy man. The sun was warm, his stomach was full, and he wasn't horny. The first was a matter of good luck, the second stemmed from a good lunch, and the third flowed from the efforts of two homely but cooperative prostitutes the night before. So life was good. Hauling the doc into the swamp was a pain in the ass, but what the hell, Blaster was a buddy, and you gotta take care of your own. In fact, the clearing should be right around the next bend.

  Squinting against the glare, Trap cut the power, and edged in towards shore. As the boat lost way, Trap scanned his surroundings for signs of danger. Everything seemed just fine. His long, sharp nose picked up the faint smell of wood smoke, that was to be expected, his sensitive ears heard only the normal sounds of the swamp, and his sharp eyes found no signs of visitors. Scuz should be standing guard, but had most likely passed out, and unless he'd gone belly up, Blaster would be sleeping in. What a pair. Trap grinned, baring two durasteel incisors. Just for the fun of it, he'd give them a little scare.

  Mooring the boat to some convenient trees, Trap removed the rotor from the distributor, tucked it into his pocket, and told Fesker to stay put. Waving a negligent hand, the doctor pretended disinterest, but groaned internally. Damn! Without the rotor, the engine wouldn't start. He watched resentfully as Trap disappeared into the jungle.

  The jungle was Trap's element. Unlike most of the people confined on Swamp he liked it. He liked the rain, the lush vegetation, everything. Maybe it was because he came from a planet where it was hot and dry, or maybe it was the freedom, but whatever the reason, Trap looked forward to that magic moment when he stepped into the warm humid guts of the swamp. He liked the smell of rotting vegetation, the water dripping from leaf to leaf, the danger lurking just out of sight. It was exciting and comforting at the same time.

  Prior to hunting people, Trap had made a living hunting monsters, skins mostly, and unlike other hunters, he used traps. Most people didn't use traps because they must be tended, and tending them required frequent trips into the jungle, and too many trips into the jungle could be fatal. But not for Trap. Somehow the swamp seemed to know him, seemed to sense his love, and sheltered him from harm. Oh he'd had plenty of close calls, but always come out fine and, to his mind, always would.

  So, as Trap drifted through the jungle, he seemed more a primal force than a man. As he moved, a part of him reached out to touch the many life forms surrounding him, and somehow sensed an imbalance in the total flow of things. He smiled. Not too surprising, since both Blaster and Scuz were as imbalanced as you could get. Still, there was something else, something he couldn't quite put this finger on, but didn't like. As he neared the perimeter of the clearing, he checked the action on his needle gun, and carefully peered around the trunk of a tree.

  There was the clearing, a fire in the middle, barely burning now, garbage scattered around as always, and two sleeping forms, both huddled under blankets. One had an empty bottle only inches from outstretched fingers. The other had one leg slightly elevated on a half empty equipment bag. How sweet. His premonition forgotten, Trap chuckled in anticipation. Tiptoeing across the clearing, he approached Scuz first, the bastard deserved it for sleeping on guard duty, and prepared his canteen. Nothing like a little shower first thing in the morning! He had just started to pour, when the blanket was suddenly whipped aside, and Trap found himself looking down the business end of Renn's .75.

  “Surprise!”

  To his credit Trap almost pulled it off. He threw the canteen in Renn's face and did his best to whip the needle gun around in time. But fast as he was, the slug from the .75 was even faster, and literally blew his head off. He fell with a soft thump.

  Wiping water off of his face, Renn remembered Boater's coffee cup bouncing off his face, and smiled. He tried to stand, but found his legs unwilling to move. He'd been lying there for about six hours and they were very stiff. So he sat and exercised his legs. Finally, when everything was working again, he stood.

  “Well, I see you ignored my advice and opted for the life of a hunter.”

  Renn whirled, the .75 coming up in a two-handed grip, his finger already starting to squeeze, when he recognized Doc Fesker. The doctor was leaning against a tree with his arms crossed in front of him. “And it seems you're good at it, too.” Fesker shrugged. “Even I'm wrong once in a while.”

  A few hours later they were aboard Fred, headed for Payout, with Trap's boat bobbing along behind. Renn had just finished telling Fesker about Boater's death, and the events which followed. “So now I've got to find Cyclops and Knife.”

  Both men were silent for a moment, and then Fesker said, “Three for one is a pretty good tradeoff. Why not just leave it at that?”

  Renn shrugged. “I can't. Not after what they did to Boater. Besides, if I don't go after the Clops, he'll come after me.”

  “Maybe,” Fesker agreed reluctantly. “But killing him won't be easy.”

  “No,” Renn said grimly. “It won't be easy.”

  Meanwhile, many miles behind them, dusk gradually edged into night, and brought with it the small things which eat the dead. Like respectful mourners, they gathered around Trap's body, and then little by little, the swamp took back one of its own.

  One rotation later, Fred sat bobbing at the rear of Fesker's house as the two men shook hands. “I hope you win,” the doctor said simply.

  Renn grinned, accepting the other man's outstretched hand. “I do too.”

  Fesker turned, climbed the short ladder, and disappeared into his house.

  Renn double-checked Fred's mooring lines and went inside the cabin. Spreading a blanket on the table, he laid out the .75, the hand blaster, and the little hide-out gun. A rifle would be a hindrance in the close quarters of the Payout Saloon. And that's where Cyclops and Knife would be. According to Fesker, they arrived at the same time each night, drank steadily for three or four hours, and staggered out. With that in mind Renn planned to arrive towards the end of the evening. If they were drunk, so much the better. He needed any edge he could get.

  He cleaned and loaded each weapon, making sure he had a back-up energy pak for the blaster, and extra magazines for the .75. Even so it was still early when he finished. He tucked each weapon into its holster, killed the lights, and forced himself to wait. Suddenly time slowed to a crawl, his belly began to fill with cold lead, and his palms began to sweat.

  It was noisy and crowded inside the Payout Saloon. People argued and swore in loud voices, waiters shouted orders towards the bar, and a tired looking whore stood on a tiny stage and tried to sing. No one bothered to listen.

  From Marla's vantage point on the floor, the room was a forest of human and wooden legs. Above and beside her sat Skunk. As usual, she was preparing to sucker a couple of hunters just in from the bush. It always worked the same way. They'd see Marla, pet her with clumsy hands, and ask Skunk where the dog came from. Skunk would tell them one of three or four lies, and mention Marla's amazing ability to do tricks. Naturally they'd clamor to see the tricks, and Skunk would agree, slyly suggesting a modest fee for each trick. More than a little drunk, and starved for any sort of entertainment, the hunters would agree, and Marla would perform.

  The whole process made her sick, but she did it anyway, primarily because of the additional freedom it allowed her. Most of the tricks were things like sitting up, rolling over, and fetching Skunk a beer from the bar. However, some tricks required her to make noise, barking three times when Skunk held up three fingers, and so forth. This meant freedom from the durasteel wire Skunk had previously wound around her muzzle. And, by unspoken agreement, the wire stayed off so long as Marla refrained from speech. The sight of Marla talking drove
Skunk crazy, since some part of her burned-out brain thought Marla was an animal, and believed animals shouldn't speak. Also, if anyone saw Marla speak, they'd soon realize she wasn't a dog, and would no longer pay to see her do tricks. Of course, some of the saloon's regulars had caught on long ago, but they weren't about to tell the suckers anything, so Skunk was living better than she ever had before.

  So Marla endured. She had little choice. There was still some time left to serve on her one-year contract, and Skunk had used some of her new-found wealth to place an explosive collar around Marla's neck. Any time Skunk wished, she could open the little black box strapped to her fight wrist, touch the button inside, and blow Marla's head off.

  Needless to say Marla planned to kill Skunk at the first opportunity. Skunk knew this, and was very careful. She used an elaborate system of safeguards to make sure it didn't happen. The ironic part was that the attention to detail had forced Skunk off the bottle. Marla hadn't seen her take a drink in months.

  There was a sudden flurry of activity by the door, and from the hoarse laughter and crude jokes, Marla knew Cyclops and his cronies had just arrived. The one-eyed man thrived on his notoriety and loved to make an entrance. He often came dressed in some outlandish manner, or in at least one case, dressed in nothing at all. Everyone would laugh, Cyclops would take a bow, and then settle down to some serious drinking.

  Of course there were other evenings too. Evenings when Cyclops arrived in a foul mood, his good eye sweeping the crowd like a laser, searching for someone to kill. But from the sound of it Cyclops was in a good mood so everyone else was, too.