Prison Planet

by William C. Dietz

  “I agree,” Vanessa put in. It was a simple statement, and one which suggested a truce. But Honcho simply nodded, apparently taking her comment at face value. Renn wondered if the Finthian scientist had noticed her recent unhappiness. As Honcho had explained earlier, Finthians considered withdrawal to be a completely normal and routine behavior. Renn smiled to himself. All that drama wasted!

  The next five days were a lot of hard work. It took ten trips to transport people, supplies, and sculptures back to the LZ. Then there was the effort involved in setting up a new camp near the LZ. Fred was too small to house the entire party, and Renn insisted they build a new camp for reasons of security. Jumo backed him up. Both knew that the longer you use a camp, the longer traces of it will remain. So far they'd been lucky, and escaped notice by Swamp's less pleasant citizens. It was a trend they hoped to continue.

  So by the time the shuttle arrived they were bone-tired. They groaned in unison as Lt. Fitz misjudged the landing, and thumped in hard. Then it was more work unloading new supplies and loading artifacts. The moment the artifacts were strapped down, and the hatches sealed, the shuttle blasted upwards. As usual, Fitz heaved a giant sigh of relief as the ship entered space.

  Meanwhile, far below, a shifty set of eyes watched the shuttle disappear, and fed that information to a crafty brain. He was a little man, only partly sane, quivering with the intensity of his thoughts. A filthy hand came up to scratch a grizzled chin, and a rasping chuckle issued forth from a toothless mouth.

  “My, my. What have we here? Funny business that's what. And where there's business there's profit. Oh my yes. And where there's profit there's crazy Dan. Crazy like a fox, I am. My, my, yes. Come, my darlings. Take Daddy to dinner.”

  With a strong shove the old man pushed off from shore and felt the current grab the hull of his flat bottomed boat. As the boat started down the channel there was a great flapping of leathery wings and two lifters launched themselves from nearby trees. As their massive shadows swept over him, Dan looked up with considerable pride. Where others saw ugliness in their long curving necks and predatory talons Dan saw beauty. They were his friends, his confidants, his children. He'd painstakingly reared them from chicks, protected them from predators, fed their endless appetites, and conditioned them to do his bidding. Now they were his eyes in the sky. His allies. His only friends. They would guide him to the feast, and then, when all was ready, help him consume it.

  Another rainy season had started. The big, fat rain drops hit Fred's windows like tiny bombs and splattered in every direction. The cabin was too small to accommodate everyone at once, so half sat inside drying out, while the rest waited their turn in the huddled misery of the open cockpit. It made little difference to Renn. As the only qualified helmsman he stayed outside all day.

  Fifteen days passed in a never ending succession of channels, lakes and jungle. What were now officially named “Boater's Ruins,” had been designated as “Red Zone Two” on the orbital survey maps. That left “Red Zone One,” and “Red Zone three,” for investigation. They reached Red Zone One five days after the shuttle lifted. It was nothing more than an extensive rock formation. Some sort of volcanic upheaval, maybe the same one which created the swamps, had upthrust a huge slab of rock honeycombed with countless passageways. As a result it had the same density, reflectivity, and ambient temperature as Boater's Ruins. While interesting in its own right, the rock formation had nothing to do with the Builders, so they departed for Zone Three. Ten days later Zone Three lay just ahead, and Renn was glad, since both supplies and tempers were starting to run short.

  Marla was standing in the bow, the rain running in rivulets off her synthetic fur, the breeze filling her olfactory sensors with swamp smells. It smelled no better or worse than any other part of the swamp, but for some reason Marla couldn't explain, she didn't like it. Perhaps because it was a part of her original self, and not an electronic component, Marla had come to trust her intuition a great deal. And as Renn guided Fred in towards the bank, her intuition screamed, “Get the hell out of here!” But as usual, her inner voice went unheeded, like her, a victim of circumstance.

  As soon as Fred was secured, Renn and Marla went ashore looking for a campsite. One was soon found, a small clearing sheltered by a stand of enormous trees, and backed by a jumble of rock. Some of the marines went to work setting up collapsible shelters, while the rest set up a defensive perimeter, and the scientists sorted out their gear. Night fell just as these activities were completed, and with the exception of the sentries, they all fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Feeling refreshed in spite of a two-hour turn at guard duty, Renn finished his breakfast quickly, and suggested a quick recon of the area. “Marla and I will just take a quick look around just to make sure we aren't camped in the middle of a roo monster picnic area or something.

  “Fine,” Jumo agreed, “providing you wear radios, and stay in contact.”

  “Of course,” Renn replied innocently. “We're always careful, aren't we Marla?”

  “Always,” Marla said with a wolfish grin.

  “Shit.” Jumo turned away shaking his head in disgust.

  They slid into the jungle fifty yards apart, close enough to see each other, but far enough apart so they wouldn't fall victim to the same ambush. Seeing each other was a sometimes-thing. Renn caught glimpses of Marla every now and then when she passed through a small clearing, or paused on top of a rotting log to scan ahead. It felt like their old hunting days all over again.

  As she loped along Marla's sensors told her that everything was all right and her intuition told her it wasn't. It said there was danger lurking out there. She sighed. Of course there was danger. The whole damn planet was dangerous. At least the rain had stopped for awhile.

  A lone roo monster broke from cover up ahead and scurried off to the right. Renn let it go. This seemed like good country. No one had hunted here for a long time, if ever. Then he saw it, a change in the texture of the jungle up ahead. “Something ahead, Marla,” Renn said softly, knowing Marla would hear via her radio.

  “Trouble?” The voice was Jumo's.

  “Nope. At least I don't think so. Just something up ahead. A clearing maybe.”

  “OK, but be careful.”

  Renn scrambled up a slight incline, jumped a small stream, and passed between the last of the trees. As he emerged into the clearing Marla did likewise about fifty feet to his left. The open area was about three hundred feet across and perfectly level. Nothing grew on its surface larger than small plants, which had a withered sickly look. That in itself was strange, since the plant life of swamp was locked into an eternal battle for space, and here was a large patch of ground going largely unused. “You circle left, I'll circle right.”

  Marla nodded and loped off to the left. Renn moved to the right, observing as he did so that the clearing seemed to be a perfect circle.

  “Got something'?” Jumo again.

  “Just a clearing,” Renn answered. “But a strange clearing.”

  “How so?” Honcho's voice this time.

  “Well, for one thing, it seems to be in the shape of a perfect circle.”

  “And for another, plants seem to avoid it,” Marla added, padding along the opposite edge of the clearing from Renn.

  Honcho said, “I'll be there in a few minutes.”

  “No you won't,” Jumo said sternly. “Not until Renn and Marla say it's safe.”

  A few minutes later, Renn and Marla met on the far side of the circle from where they'd started. Both had seen signs that the area was frequented by various kinds of monsters, but nothing unusual. Renn felt a shadow slide across his face. His right hand dipped and came up with the .75. High above two huge lifters circled. He fired twice, more to scare them off than anything, and saw one jerk slightly. A hit! The huge creature screeched in pain, recovered, and headed east. The other monster did likewise, flying alongside the first as if offering protection and comfort. Renn had never seen anything like it. Like roos, lift
ers were usually antisocial, and didn't spent much time worrying about each other.

  “Report!” The demanding voice belonged to Jumo.

  “Nothing,” Renn answered. “Just a couple of lifters. I wounded one and they took off. The clearing seems safe enough if Honcho still wants to take a look.”

  When Honcho arrived Vanessa was with him. Together they circled the clearing and then ordered the marines to dig a slit trench. Griping and grumbling, a couple of marines went to work under Jumo's supervision. Though messy the task wasn't hard. The water-saturated ground was quite soft. Each shovel full made a sucking noise as it came up and out of the trench. Water soon ran in to fill the bottom of the ditch, and before long the marines were standing ankle deep in the stuff. A few minutes later, Ford's shovel made a clanging sound as it hit something hard. “What the hell?”

  Moments later Issacs hit something hard as well. For the next few minutes the marines worked like demons. Finally they managed to clear out most of the mud, although the bottom of the trench was still invisible under three or four inches of water.

  Honcho's huge feet made a big splash as he jumped down into the trench and felt around under the water. By scooping it away he was able to obtain brief glimpses of a hard gray surface. When Honcho emerged from the ditch he was covered with mud and a big grin split his face.

  “We'll have to analyze it to be sure, but I'd swear it's more of that duracrete-type stuff the builders used for everything. One thing's for sure, it isn't rock, so onwards slaves! Let's have another trench over there!” Honcho pointed dramatically towards the other side of the clearing. The marines groaned in disgust, picked up their shovels, and trudged towards the far side of the clearing. Later they would find out it was only the first of many trenches yet to come.

  That evening, long after the scientists had finished dinner and gone to bed, Dan was still up. Firelight danced over his face and reflected back from the lifter's eyes. They glowed like red coals in the dark. “Poor, poor baby,” Dan crooned softly, running grimy fingers down along the neck of the wounded lifter. “Don't worry baby. Daddy loves you, and Daddy will punish the bad people.” Grabbing a leathery wing, Dan pulled it gently outwards. The lifter gave a squawk of protest. “There, there, Daddy's sorry.”

  Fortunately, the slug had passed through without exploding. There wasn't much bleeding since a lifter's wings aren't very vascular, and what there was Dan had managed to stop. He'd disinfected the wound, sutured it up, and briefly wondered when he'd learned to do things like that. Maybe he'd been a doctor once. He wasn't sure. There were lots of memories all jumbled together. It made his head hurt to think about them. The lifter could fly, that was the main thing. He released the wing and watched the lifter tuck it back into place. Outside of the gunshot wound things had gone very well indeed.

  Using the lifters as scouts, Dan had located and tracked the scientists with surprising ease. For the last ten days he'd been following them, watching, and waiting for the proper killing ground. Now the time was right. Their camp was well chosen but not impregnable. He'd proved that by entering and leaving it during broad daylight. Slipping between the sentries as though they weren't even there a tiny corner of Dan's disturbed mind saw their uniforms and wondered what marines were doing on Swamp.

  But it was an unimportant detail, hardly central to the task at hand, and therefore unworthy of his consideration. First, Dan tallied the weapons and supplies, a rich haul indeed, and complete with a fancy boat to carry it away in. Then he listened as a talking bird thing spoke to a human woman about things he couldn't understand. The woman stirred memories between his legs. He made a note to save her for last. He'd use her and then feed her to his pets. Forcing himself to concentrate, Dan counted the people in the camp, assigned them places on his death list, and slipped away unnoticed.

  Chuckling to himself, Dan opened a waterproof case, and withdrew a long-barreled rifle. It was more than three hundred years old. An antique, but a deadly one, since Dan had spent endless hours crafting new parts to replace old, and adding small improvements of his own design. The once plain stock was now an intricate work of art, carved into fanciful shapes, and perfectly shaped to his liking. There was a satisfying click as the powerful scope snapped into place. The action made a snicking sound as he worked it a couple of times.

  Then with the love of a father for a child, Dan laid the rifle on its case, and selected a twenty round magazine. He opened a box of hand loaded ammo and selected bullets one at a time. They were designed for long distance killing. Solid slugs with plenty of chemical propellant behind them. Dan chuckled as he thought about the clearing the scientific party liked so well. What a perfect killing ground. Open, outside the defensive perimeter, and surrounded by natural cover. A sniper's dream.

  The bullets were slick with their individual coatings of silicon. Each had a name and a personality provided by its creator at the moment of birth. To Dan they were tiny warriors awaiting his orders. One by one he inserted them into the empty magazine. “You first Hercules, and then you Rommel, and you Napoleon, and you Geronimo...” The bullets made a clicking noise as he slipped them into the magazine, and gradually the droning of his voice lulled the lifters to sleep.

  The second, third, and fourth trenches were just like the first. The marines started right after breakfast on the third day, and soon ran into the same pattern as before. They'd dig down and run into something hard. Then they'd clear the mud away. Honcho would jump in, feel around, and promptly order another ditch. Finally he called a halt. By now it was obvious that the duracrete-like material underlay the entire clearing. “Thanks slaves. You dig a mean ditch.”

  Unamused, Ford and Issacs mumbled things which though mostly unintelligible, seemed to cast aspersions on Honcho's ancestry, intelligence, and probable future.

  Honcho, Renn, Marla, and Vanessa were about to head for camp, when Chin emerged from the jungle waving a black box over his head. He was flushed with excitement. He skidded to a stop in front of them and said, “A signal! I picked up a signal!”

  Vanessa raised an eyebrow. “So?”

  Chin shook his head. “No, you don't understand. Not a regular signal. An extremely low frequency signal coming from right here!” He pointed at his feet.

  “From here?” Honcho asked in amazement. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Yes! I mean no! The signal's coming from right around us. That's what's so weird. Here, listen to this.” Chin did something to the dials on the black box and they heard a steady tone. He motioned. “Follow me.”

  They did as the scientist requested, following him towards camp. As Chin left the clearing, the tone began to drop in volume. Twenty feet from the clearing it was hard to hear, and by the time they reached camp the tone was barely audible. Turning Chin marched back, and as he did so, the tone gradually increased in volume until it was loud and strong once more. “I found it entirely by accident while setting up my equipment,” Chin said. “As you just saw, the signal's too weak to pick up more than a quarter mile from the clearing.”

  The next hour was spent trying to figure out where it came from. The signal was confined to the clearing, and a short distance beyond. It occupied an ultra-low frequency occasionally used by the empire for military purposes, but otherwise largely ignored. What's more, all attempts to locate the transmitter itself had failed. The signal seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

  Having run out of ideas they gathered around Honcho waiting to see what he'd say. “Well?” Renn asked. “What is it? And please don't give us that ‘it's too early to tell’ stuff. Go ahead and leap to some unscientific conclusions.”

  “It's always a mistake to tell members of your race anything,” Honcho complained good naturedly. “When you do, it always comes back to haunt you. And it is too early to tell.” He pretended to examine a filthy talon. “Still ... one possibility does come to mind.”

  “Which is?” Vanessa asked patiently.

  Honcho gestured broadly. “A l
anding zone. Complete with some sort of low-frequency homing signal. A signal designed for the final phase of landing. That would account for its limited range.”

  “Not bad,” Jumo said looking around. “In fact, it seems incredibly obvious now.”

  “Thanks,” Honcho said dryly. “I appreciate the compliment.” It was the last thing he ever said, because the bullet named “Hercules” entered his head through the center of his right eye, and exited through the back of his skull along with most of his brains.

  As Honcho's body fell, different people did different things. Ford died as Rommel punched through his light body armor and severed his spine.

  Marla became a blur as she ran a zig-zag course for the trees.

  Jumo spun, and ran the opposite way, instinctively dividing the enemy fire.

  Renn pushed Vanessa into the nearest trench.

  Issacs opened up with his auto slug thrower and collapsed in a fountain of blood as Napoleon severed his jugular vein.

  Renn fell on top of Vanessa as the bullet named “Geronimo” slid along his ribs creasing his armor but doing no damage.

  “Damn!” Dan looked up from the telescopic sight. He shouldn't have missed that one. The black marine had escaped, too. The dog didn't matter. “Nice doggie. Pet the nice doggie, Dan.”

  A female voice drifted back to him from long ago. Confusing memories welled up to fill his mind. A jumble of love and pain. No, he must concentrate. The black marine would bring help. “Now, my darlings!” From above and behind there was a mighty flapping of wings as both lifters took to the sky.

  Jumo's voice snapped over the radio. “Condition Red. Incoming sniper fire ... one, two, three friendlies down and two questionable. Report.”

  “Nothing here Section ... we're coming your way.” It was Red. He and the rest of the marines were in and around the camp.

  “Negative,” Jumo said. “Stay where you are. I repeat, stay where you are and dig in.” Jumo was lying just inside the tree line. Working from left to right he scanned the opposite side of the clearing for some sign of the sniper. Nothing.