Prison Planet

by William C. Dietz

  “Now listen up. We've got one, possibly more snipers out here, and the worst thing you could do is come to our rescue. They'll nail anything that enters the clearing. Their objective is the camp and everything in it. Dig in and don't let ’em have it.”

  “Roger. We understand and will obey,” Red said formally.

  “All right. Doc, you read me?”

  “It's hard not to. You never stop talking.”

  “Cut the crap and listen up. Get your shit together and be ready to move when I give the word. We've got people down and some may still be alive.”

  “I'm ready, Section. On your command.”

  Marla heard the radio conversation only dimly. She was concentrating on a tiny red infrared dot. It had started as a pin prick of heat against the vast backdrop of the jungle. Now the pin prick had become a dot, and as she got closer would soon become a blob. And that blob was going to die.

  “What the hell are you doing? If this is your idea of a joke...”

  “Shut up.” Renn was peeking up and over the lip of the trench. Vanessa was beneath him, almost submerged in the water and mud. His knee guaranteed that she'd stay there. She didn't know what was going on, and he didn't have time to explain it to her.

  The .75 felt puny in his hand. The sniper—and Renn was pretty sure there was only one had a large-caliber, scope-mounted rifle and the whole jungle to hide in. If he stood he was dead. But Marla was in the jungle. She'd find the bastard, and when she did, God help him. Renn smiled and Vanessa screamed. She pointed up and behind him. He turned as something huge blotted out the sun.

  Time to move. Dan didn't think it, he felt it, and scrambled down from his leafy perch. While his children attacked he would move a hundred yards to the right. From there he could nail them entering or leaving camp. Eventually they'd have to do one or the other. Wait a minute, what was that? A moving shadow. But shadows don't move, at least not that fast, oh, a doggie! Nice doggie!

  “Always fire two rounds, not just one.” Boater's voice rang in Renn's ears as he squeezed the trigger. The .75 roared six times, three sets of two, blowing big holes in the lifter's body. What remained fell on him and Vanessa with a dull thump.

  Chin eyed the table full of electronics from the safety of the bunker. Red had shoved him into it and ordered him to stay. But what if some bozo put a round through their radio? The back-up had a bad case of swamp rot. How the hell would they call the shuttle? He wanted to tell someone, but the marines were manning the perimeter defenses, and he wasn't wearing a radio. Chin heaved himself up and out of the bunker. He took a quick look around and ran. Just as he reached the table Doc yelled, “Above you!” Looking up, Chin saw a horrible winged monster diving straight at him.

  Marla was a living weapon. The target was a man, a blob of guilty red, holding his confession in his hands. He'd killed, and she was judge, jury, and executioner. She was a blur as she traveled the last twenty yards, and unstoppable wolf thing, its entire beingness centered on the sniper. She didn't understand his outstretched hand, or hear his voice calling, “Here doggie! Come to Dan, doggie!”

  Grabbing something off the table Chin threw it at the descending monster. The object didn't even come close, but it did cause the lifter to throw out its wings like giant air brakes, and gave Doc the additional half second she needed. She squeezed the trigger and held on. Doc didn't like auto slug throwers. Even with dampers they tend to ride up. Energy weapons don't do that. Still the slug thrower was doing one helluva job. At first tiny pieces of the monster seemed to fly off, then it staggered, and fell like a rock. Doc followed it down until the slug thrower clicked empty. It hit the middle of the compound with a meaty thud. She smiled. Not bad for a pecker checker.

  Jumo and Renn helped Vanessa out of the trench. She looked at the dead bodies and threw up. Politely turning their backs the two men saw Marla emerge from the tree line. As she approached the blood on her muzzle and chest spoke more eloquently than words.

  Chin was staring at the dead lifter and shaking like a man with swamp fever. Doc patted him gently on the arm. In her view, he was a jerk, but she felt sorry for him. “Scary, aren't they.”

  Chin looked up and nodded. “But what's even scarier is that I might have thrown this at the lifter.” He held up the radio.

  For a long time they just stood there grinning at each other. Doc finally broke the silence. “You know what? I'm just a grunt, but if I were you, I'd use that thing while it still works.” Chin smiled. “You know what? I think you're right.”

  PART THREE

  Citizen

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shinto flipped a switch and waited while two sets of armored duraplast doors whirred open. Stepping out onto the veranda, he took a deep breath of night air. It had a slightly salty taste picked up from the Pacific Ocean some fifty miles to the west. Behind him one of the twins whimpered. Broken bones most likely. No matter, he'd summon medical attention in a few minutes. First, however, he'd savor the moment. As always, the massive sexual release had left him relaxed. A rare thing in Shinto's life.

  In spite of his name, Shinto was not Asian. He was in fact of mostly European ancestry. His name was taken from the Shinto shrine where his mother abandoned him just outside Osaka. He was about three months old at the time. No one knew for sure, but it was assumed she'd left him for a better life among the stars, lifting with other indentured colonists to settle some distant planet. If so, she departed during the very end of the three-hundred-year-long mass exodus which drained off most of Terra's excess population.

  Denied a family, Shinto raised himself within the cutthroat subculture of state run orphanages. There he learned to steal, to hate, and to kill. Once released he used those skills to good effect, combining them with the single legacy left him by his mother, a natural presentience. He didn't understand his gift, but knew it was real. It had saved his life many times. On the most recent occasion he'd stepped out of a nightclub and into the sights of a legal assassin. Sensing something was wrong, he pulled Donna in front of him, and felt her jerk as the flechettes hit. His bodyguards killed the assassin, and a few days later, her employer as well. That was two months ago. He still missed Donna. It takes a long time to train a good mistress. Enjoyable though they were, the twins were a poor substitute.

  So, thanks to his ruthlessness and presentience, Shinto was a wealthy man. And it took a wealthy man to live in a modern replica of a sixteenth century castle, high in North America's Olympic Mountains. After a childhood spent in the crowded misery of orphanages Shinto needed lots of personal space. And he had it. A hundred square miles of primordial rain forests surrounded him, providing both privacy and a natural barrier between him and his many enemies. He didn't own the forests of course, they were the property of the Imperial government, but he had a long-term lease on them, and that was just as good. He thought of the huge genidogs which prowled the woods below and smiled. Yes, his privacy was assured.

  Looking up at the vast canopy of stars that hung overhead, Shinto wondered if his mother was out there somewhere. Would she be proud of him? Happy that her flesh and blood had risen so far? He hoped so. The stars seemed to shimmer for a second before regaining their clarity. He shivered. Others might have dismissed the phenomenon as a momentary change in the atmosphere. But not Shinto. He knew better. Something bad was out there and coming his way. It would destroy him if it could. Suddenly tense and troubled, he stepped into his bedroom and closed the doors behind him.

  Renn watched Terra grow larger on the viewscreen. She was blue, frosted with white clouds, and very beautiful. Freedom. It seemed anticlimactic somehow. After the sniper attack, they radioed for the shuttle and broke camp for the last time. While the marines packed, Renn took Fred out into the main channel and dropped anchor. Renn used an axe to cut a large hole in Fred's hull. As the water gushed in, he jumped into the sniper's boat and poled towards shore. In a surprisingly short time Fred slipped below the muddy surface and disappeared. It hurt to see him go but there
was no other way. The ruins and the expedition would have to remain a secret until the scientists could return. Afterwards it was a simple matter to sink the smaller boat along with the sniper's gear. As for the sniper himself, he went into one of Honcho's slit trenches, while his pet lifters made a nice snack for a variety of scavengers.

  Shortly thereafter a nervous Lt. Fitz put his shuttle down in the ancient LZ, the first pilot to do so in thousands of years, but probably not the last.

  Once aboard the space station, tears were shed, toasts were drunk, and speeches were given. But when all was said and done, Ford, Issacs, and Honcho were still dead. Honcho's body was sealed for delivery to his people and interment beneath his family's sacred tree. Ford and Issacs were buried in space, their bodies placed in eternal orbit around the planet Swamp. All would be missed.

  As second in command Vanessa quickly took charge. Her eyes gleamed with excitement as she contemplated things to come. Their discoveries would be front page news, and with Honcho dead, she'd be the center of attention. No wonder then that she seemed somewhat distant during the trip from Swamp to Luna Prime.

  A small army of reporters showed up to meet their ship, all clamoring for interviews—interviews Vanessa was only too happy to give. Though careful to credit both Honcho and Chin, Vanessa somehow emerged as the driving force behind the expedition, and the press ate it up. What could be better? An attractive young female scientist lands on a mysterious prison planet, wades through monster-filled swamps, and scores the archaeological discovery of the year! The story dominated the holos and tabs for two weeks before gradually dying away.

  By now official wheels were already turning towards a new expedition, and thanks to Vanessa's recommendations, early plans called for cooperation with Swamp's convict population. Renn was glad. Maybe some of the people who deserved a break would get one.

  Meanwhile Renn and Marla had managed to stay out of the limelight. Both were mentioned in passing a few times, and even interviewed once or twice, but were largely ignored. And that was good because the last thing Renn wanted to do was warn Shinto. He hoped that Shinto had better—or in his case, worse—things to do than watch junk holo reports.

  A hearing was convened to consider their pardons, and, true to her word, Vanessa stood by them throughout the entire process. Just as Renn had feared, there were no clear precedents for such a pardon, and the authorities were somewhat doubtful at first. There were questions as to whether Honcho had sufficient authority to pardon Imperial prisoners, and should the whole matter be referred to a higher court? Based on his previous experience with higher courts Renn almost panicked. Fortunately, however, there was Vanessa's testimony, plus written depositions from Jumo and Chin, all of which argued strongly in their behalf.

  And the glare of publicity didn't hurt either. It caused Sir Lucius Griswold, Governor of Luna, and first cousin to the emperor himself, to intercede on their behalf. After listening to their case he pardoned them by executive decree, awarded each the sum of one thousand Imperials, and took Vanessa to dinner. Which was, Renn strongly suspected, the Governor's goal all along.

  That night Renn and Marla went out to celebrate their new-found freedom. Their party was a quiet affair, more conversation than celebration. Each felt a need to clarify their relationship. Although Swamp had forced them together initially, a friendship had developed, and then evolved into something more. Something so tenuous and fragile that neither wanted to discuss it. So they steered around the future, discussing the present instead, and agreeing to continue their partnership for a while longer. First they'd solve Renn's problem, then Marla's. Actually they didn't have much choice, since Marla's new body would cost a quarter of a million Imperials, and they were two hundred and forty eight thousand short.

  Not that clearing Renn's name would be exactly easy. Assuming Shinto was guilty, and Renn felt certain he was, then the other man would have all the advantages. Included were his wealth, his power, and his small army of personal retainers.

  On the other hand, Renn had a few advantages of his own. The first was a matter of attitude. Renn saw Shinto through the eyes of a hunter. A monster like any other monster. A skin who could change his appearance to match the society around him, who could disappear into a jungle of laws and customs, and then strike from ambush at any moment.

  But Renn knew Shinto's jungle, knew the weapons which would kill him, and had the guts to use them. As the hunter he'd have the advantage of surprise, initiative, and desperation. Yes the odds were at least 50/50. But first he needed information. Lots of it. The shuttle shuddered slightly as it hit a new layer of air. Well first things first. Renn leaned back, allowed his seat to recline, and sent a thought Shinto's way. “Enjoy it while you've got it, Shinto ... because you won't have it much longer.”

  Their first week on earth was spent getting organized and finding a place to live. For the first few days Renn practically lived in public access booths, catching up on all the economic and political news, and reading countless articles about Shinto and his various business dealings. A company acquired here, a company sold there, the guy was everywhere. And while not an accepted member of the upper crust, his origins were too humble for that, he had managed to purchase some respectability. His donations to charitable causes, mostly ones associated with children, were well publicized. But after days of reading, Renn knew little more than when he began. By blending in with the background the monster had managed to disguise itself as something friendly, something good.

  So he went to work for Shinto Enterprises. It was risky, but every hunter knows that audacity often pays off, and chances were that no one would check. After all he was ancient history by now. So he applied one day and was hired the next. Shinto Enterprises was the largest and best known of Shinto's companies, and Renn assumed, largely legit. It wasn't much of a job, Assistant Warehouse Manager, still it was a step closer to the man and his affairs, and the fact that Shinto was paying him to do it made the whole thing that much better.

  Renn didn't expect to find incriminating evidence laying around the warehouse, that would be naive, but by checking company records he might be able to identify pieces of what had once been his business. If so, that would be good enough. It wouldn't stand up in court but so what, he had no intention of taking legal action against Shinto anyway. No, that's the way the old Renn would have done it, the soft, fat Renn who'd allowed himself to be framed. This was the new Renn, the survivor, the monster-killer. He didn't need courts, honest or otherwise, he needed information. And once he had it, Renn would serve as judge, jury, and if necessary, executioner.

  So as Renn went off to work for Shinto Enterprises, Marla headed for Silicon Alley, a run-down area near the Westerplex spaceport. Dragging along behind her was an old drunk who called himself “Cap.” Renn had hired him for protective coloration. Otherwise Marla would spend the whole day answering stupid questions like, “No kidding? You were human once?” That sort of stuff.

  So while Marla understood the necessity, she wished Renn could've found someone a little bit more presentable. Cap had bloodshot eyes, a large red nose, and a bad case of body odor. His personality wasn't much better. Cap swore he'd once commanded a deep-space freighter. And although he wore the ragged remains of an old spacer rig, and told hair-raising tales of his adventures in space, Marla was convinced Cap didn't know a hyperdrive from a cup of coffee. Still he was cheap, a bottle of whiskey a day, and she needed an escort. So off they went, Marla urging Cap to greater speed, while he mumbled and grumbled along behind.

  They used a variety of public transportation to reach the spaceport. A hover bus, an autocab, and then the most public transportation of all, their feet. Renn referred to it as “revenge on a budget.” While Marla didn't think it was funny, she knew Renn was right. Their bare bones single room cost a hundred Imperials a day. Life might be cheap on Terra ... but living wasn't.

  The area around the spaceport was an ugly mess which the local police referred to as the “combat zone.”
This, however, was not typical of the planet as a whole. Most of the industrial ugliness and squalor had been exported to other planets long ago. Imperial earth had been cleansed, sculpted, and brought under man's control. Now vast parks rolled across the land, rain fell during carefully chosen hours, and nothing offended the eye. Nothing, that is, except the sleazy areas which surrounded the spaceports.

  Westerplex was a good example. Like the ancient seaports which preceded them, spaceports were centers of commerce, places where goods were bought and sold and little thought given to beauty. Spaceports were necessary evils. Entry points for the wealth of the empire. Exits for the debris of earth. Here spacers paused momentarily between ships, and like all sailors before them, ventured out to buy a moment or two of happiness. So in the combat zone there were pleasures of all sorts, legal and illegal, safe and dangerous. There were spacer bars, gaming parlors, navy bars, brothels, drug emporiums, restaurants, aid stations, marine bars, weapons stores and just about anything else a fun-loving human could hope for—including Silicon Alley. A refuge for cyborgs.

  As they entered the sleazy ambience of the combat zone, Marla felt she was coming home. She'd spent a lot of time down here in the bad old days. It was a place where she could be herself, where people didn't treat her like a freak, because they were freaks themselves. Off-duty cyberdogs aren't welcome at Terra's more refined entertainments, so she'd come here, determined to find what little pleasure she could. Things hadn't changed much since she'd been away.

  Oh, a few of the old bars had been replaced by new ones, and half a block had been leveled by a shuttle crash a few weeks before, but on the whole it was the same old zone. The lights still flashed with the same old urgency, the cops still looked paranoid as hell, the robo hawkers still pitched their goods with monotonous enthusiasm, and the place still smelled like the bottom of a recycling vat. But a part of her still liked it. For some perverse reason she was attracted to the forced gaiety, the hidden dangers and the squalor. Unlike the geosculpted symmetry she saw everywhere else, the zone throbbed with life and hidden possibilities.